For this trail jockey, the theme of the 2010 Mount Cheaha 50K was eating dirt.

Chasing goals again

I just can’t help it.

I can tell myself, “I’m just gonna chill, and enjoy this one” – but a few days before a race, I become laser-focused and usually decide that “dammit, I want to go out hard, and PR this race.”

I just can’t help it.

I truly love all the ultra camaraderie, the time in the woods, the spiritual this-n-that, …but as I race more and more, I feel such a strong urge to do better than last time. If for no other reason than to give me feedback that my training is working.

If I can keep chipping away at that clock like this, someday I can honestly  say I’m a competitive athlete, and I’ll like that.

Progress is the best personal award.

Especially when I look at where my fat ass came from.

Montrail brings out the speedsters

Being a Montrail series race this year, the Cheaha 50K brought out some fast runners. 24 Hour National Team runners Annette Bednosky and Jill Perry were in attendance, and from what I understand, battled it out to the finish.

The usual Alabama/Georgia hotshots, Dink Taylor, Dwayne Satterfield, John Dove, John Nevels, Sally Brooking, Spurg, Dana Overton, etc… were all in attendance.

I was in town with Atlanta locals “little sleezy weezy” and “SeanO”, and a new pal Paul Carrington from Bradenton, Florida. All first-timers on this course (but me).

I was wondering if I could possibly be ready to run the Cheaha 50K in under  six hours. When I started running ultras three years ago, I ran the 2008 race in 7:20, then last year I ran it in 6:40, so it only seemed natural that in 2010, I should shoot for a better time.

I decided I’d be happy with 6:30, but if it was a good day, I was going after a sub-6 (or, under six hours)

Having completed that goal at both my other trail 50Ks this year, I was hoping for a three-peat, but realized it would take a REALLY good day for me to get it at Cheaha since it’s quite a bit more difficult than the other two.

Race to aid station 1

I started too fast.

The first 3 miles is rolling, pine-covered heavenly single-track trail that begs for a little opening up. It’s not my fault, blame the nice, mellow trail.

I felt fantastic.

Ran every hill to aid station 1, passed a lot of people, and most likely was running in the top 25 pack.

Just who did I think I was?

Visions of grandeur.

Jeep road+single track+jeep road to aid station 2

The stretch to aid station 2 is definitely where I made my mistakes. I was running with runners I had no business being in the same race hemisphere.

But, when you feel good, you tend to disregard the stupid, I suppose.

This stretch of the Cheaha is .25 mile jeep road, which dumps runners into a significant climb on the Pinhoti trail, and lots of up-n-down single-track that I would have walked much of back in the day – but this year, “I ran mos’ta dat sh*t!”

Hill training works.

I found myself in the company of Sally Brooking, and ahead of last year’s female winner, all of which is a HUGE mistake. Not belonging anywhere near these women, I knew the fatigue foreshadowing was painting an ugly picture for me later in the race.

After the miles of single-track, Sally blasted past me on the long jeep road. I found myself pushing hard down that stretch, but watching her widen the gap continuously.

By the time I hit the 9-ish mile aid station, I began to wonder if it was going to be possible for me to stay anywhere near Sally. I knew if I did, I was guaranteed a sub-6 …but if not, it would be because I fell apart.

I fell apart.

Halfway home

The stretch to the halfway point (aid station 3), feels really long.

The initial climb is pretty rough, but man, I kept those eyes on Sally.

“Just keep her in your sights, dude.”

No chance.

By the time I crested and looked down the trail, I could no longer see her – AND – I got passed by someone else.

“damn.”

It went downhill from there – literally and figuratively.

This section, after that initial climb, is very challenging. There are really no brutal ups-n-downs, but the loose rocks, hidden under leaves, force a slow grindy rock-dance and makes for a flurry of cuss words.

I took a series of five falls back in this section.

Bottles-flyin’, knees-skidin’, thorn-ripping falls that took a lot of the fight out of me during that technical stretch.

Unable to take advantage and Schicked Again

After the halfway point, the trail becomes very runnable.

The ridge terrain clears up (except for lots of blow-down), taking runners along creeks and small falls, and if you have some gas, you make up some time in these sections. It’s really nice trail running and is easily one of my favorite parts of the course.

But I just couldn’t take advantage.

My legs were dead.

And all the people I had no business running ahead of started passing me – Dana O., Jason Spruill and of course, that dirty dog Rich Schick.

I got Schicked again.

Ten miles to go

By the time I hit the infamous water crossing, I was at my low.

“Manly men are jumping from rock-to-rock”, says the volunteer.

I lowered myself into thigh-deep, freezing cold water, in 35 degree temps anyway, and as more of a safety thing than anything else. My head was swimming, my legs were dead, and if I jumped, I may of just slipped, banged my head and floated on down to Florida somewhere.

I was out of gas.

As true illustration of such, five feet from the aid station, I fell again – “bottles-a’flyin’…”

I think they felt sorry for me groveling around in the sand.

The trail after the water crossing is rugged, with gorgeous waterfalls, and rolling single-track. I started to come back to life here, passed a dude, and slowly started to pick it back up when the terrain smoothed out to leafy ridges again.

But, I still lost a lot of time on the trail before that water crossing.

E’rebody hates the road

I usually HATE the road in trail ultras.

In the past, I have been known to dislike this particular dirt road+paved road combination to the final aid station, but this time, it felt great.

Relief.

I could run brain-dead now.

I could close my eyes even.

I was hurting pretty bad.

I ran that road with what-felt-like a little zest, and hoped I was making up for my dreadful sloth on the ridges miles back.

Could I still make it?

Blue Hell

It’s just hard.

I thought about the Barkley course and wondered, “man, if it’s harder than this climb, over twenty miles, I’m gonna get slaughtered.”

It’s one of those climbs that you don’t want to talk on. You don’t think. You certainly don’t look up.

You just watch your feet.

Step up.

Step up.

Step up, again.

You know you’ll get there so you just keep going, focusing on your breathing, trying to keep the heart rate at an acceptable level, and just marching on.

It’s just plain hard.

Finding that finish line

A challenge for my buddy “little sleezy weezy”, but I’ll let him tell that story on his own blog.

But if you follow the flags, you find yourself on more road, a bit more climb, and then some more fun single-track that carries ya back to the lodge, and an awaiting clock…

…that in my case, read 6:07:51 as I rounded the corner to the finish.

“Rats.”

I didn’t get it.

Not the dream goal anyway, but I did get a Cheaha course personal best by shaving 32 minutes off last year’s time, and a little validation that my hard work is paying off.

All my close buddies and GUTS friends all came in, and I sat outside and waited for all of ‘em (except Jason, sorry dude).

I knew 90% of them were Cheaha first-timers and I was eager to see their “finish faces”.

Thanks to…

• The course volunteers
• The aid station folks
• Todd and Jamie Henderson
• Our great southeastern running community for all your support and encouragement as I stumble through the sport.
• Sean O for driving
• Little Weezy for being my constant source of entertainment
• Paul for being a cool stranger – turned friend.
• My wife for managing the family while I travel around doing fun stuff
• My boss for all the support and flexibility he doesn’t have to offer, but does with a smile.

Ultrarunning is the best sport in the world.

…next to surfing.

Addendum: Blister Fun

…or, watch the video:

Mount Cheaha 50K race results

2010 mt. cheaha 50K race results

I wonder if my race reports are going to suck in 2010?

This year marks my 4th year running ultramarathons – in fact, Mountain Mist is my first three-peat race – and the fourth year since I made the choice to give up the fat ass way of life and start lacing up the kicks to try to shed some pounds.

After almost 40 ultras now, how can I possibly have anything else interesting to say about this sport?

I dunno, but if you keep reading, I ’spose I’ll keep trying to share the stoke.

What are friends for?

photo: Pre-race with all my peeps.

The 2010 Mountain Mist was going to be special for me:

• I was introducing a triathlete friend to the crazy world of ultrarunning.
• I was running the race using a new, and disruptive nutrition approach.
• I had some pretty lofty “personal best” goals, wanting to shave at least 20 minutes off of my 2009 Mountain Mist finish time of 6:19.

Naturally, with the third goal constantly on my mind leading into the race, I was a little bummed to get emails from the RD stating the course conditions would be very muddy, and thus slower, than some previous years.

Rats.

Just gotta work harder and smarter, I guess.

Pre-race matters

Races are becoming reunions for me, with the runners like family members.

photo: GUTS group photo

I put a lot of stock in my mental and emotional state as it relates to athletic performance, so it was very special for me to show up at packet pick-up and catch up with many of the other Southeastern ultrarunners – many of whom have been my personal heroes since I started running trail ultras – Jim Musselman, Rob & Kathy Youngren, Dink & Suzanne, as well as the many of other runners I see more regularly at races and in training.

One highlight was sharing my pre-race meal with a whole group of GUTS friends including: ‘Kena, “cold water dude”, “three-kids-tony”, “four-kids-kim” and “J-dog the Hammer pimp.”

Lots of pre-race laughing and cutting-up which erased the jitters and sent me to bed feeling like one happy dude.

It’s a reggae race morning

I knew I was in for a good race day when we stumbled upon some reggae music on our way up the mountain to the Monte Sano lodge. I mean, “who’d a thunk it?” – certainly not me since everything else on the radio was “kill your dog”-country …but at the last minute, digging down into those stations where you usually find NPR all the other boring stuff, there it was – Spongy Reggae!

Sorry to go on and on about the reggae, but if you know me, you know how much I dig the I-life, so it was a good sign that I might just have a good race day after all …mud be damned.

POW!

Dammit.

The race started with another one of those heart-stopping musket shots just like Landsford Canal. It was so loud, it literally shook your guts around.

The beginning of Mountain Mist starts with about 1/2 mile of road to thin the herd and create less of a log jam at the entrance to the trail.

Since I had time goals, I tried to hang somewhere around the front of the mid-pack with two goals in mind:

• hit the trails before the massive crowd.
• stay as far ahead as possible to avoid too much churned-up mud.

This went well, but by the time I hit the first aid station, I felt my heart rate slamming, my quads pumping and a strong need to settle into a more comfortable pace.

Did Dink sell out to Muddy Buddy?

Seriously. That was a lot of mud.

Whenever you hear “lotsa mud”, you usually think “cool, that’s what mountain trail ultras are all about!”

But, then you start running in it, and yeah, it’s cool at first — but miles and miles and miles of mud can really test an ultraunner’s resolve.

The path to mud acceptance is kinda humorous, and for many people, goes like this:

1. First, runners try to avoid mud acceptance by running around it, usually making custom paths around the various mud pits in an attempt to either preserve the shoes, or prevent all the slipping and sliding around.
2. Then, comes selective mud acceptance. This is when runners pick smaller muddy sections to run through, perhaps only avoiding the ones that are completely full of brown water.
3. Eventually though, usually after about 15-20 miles, mud acceptance is reached. Runners just plow through the mud like a five year old on the kindergarten playground, realizing that “nope, it ain’t gonna get any better out here.”

As I slogged through the powerlines section, just before the K2 climb, I was still running in mud avoidance mode, which in retrospect was most likely less energy efficient than just charging through it.

Training matters too

Since my acceptance into the Barkley and Western States this year, all I care about is nasty training – all hills, all the time – and I’ve really been focused on putting in the mountain climbing work.

With this being said, by the time I hit K2 I found it much easier than any of the other previous years. It felt short to me. All the climbs felt short to me this year – but, before I sound too cocky, I did walk most of each of K2, waterline and rest shelter.

It’s just that I could power-hike them much faster than before with more torque and stamina, and better yet, wasn’t wasted at the top, allowing me to set into a decent paced run at each individual summit.

Lesson: Hill training works.

Humbling deer

I really enjoy the sections between K2 and the infamous waterline climb. These sections are moderately rolling, with some hella’ rocky terrain, and it seems these are the sections that can expose your true level of training and your ability to navigate some insane footing.

If you haven’t been training on rocky trails, these miles can chew you up.

As I trotted along through an area of wide open forest, about a mile or so from aid station #3, I was taking a personal inventory.

“Ok, how’s this going…?”

“Legs still strong?” -check.

“Heart rate mellow?” -check.

“On pace for a sub-6?” – who freakin’ knows… but I hoped so.

I felt great (due in part by Vespa, I’m convinced) and I started to speed up a little; and just as I started feeling like I was moving really well, I heard all kinds of crazy-loud c r a s h i n g.

“Whoa!”

Three crazed deer were ripping through the forest, towards my direction. I mean RIPPING. Nothing got in the way as they tore through small trees and bushes, sprinting up the rocky hills like every step was memorized. Heads-down, antlers pointed, they flew across the trail so fast it was almost surreal.

…and just when I thought it was over, 2 more smaller ones came out of nowhere behind them, doing their best to imitate the style, grace and power of the first two.

Wow.

Dude behind me let’s out a scream as he obviously was stoked by the encounter too.

And all of sudden, I didn’t feel so graceful anymore.

It reminded me of the many times I’ve said to myself, “this trail isn’t so tough,” – only to end up, ten seconds later, with my face in the dirt and blood exiting from some sort of wound somewhere on my body.

Nature has a way humbling us quickly and succinctly.

Good ol’ waterline

Every year people dread this climb.

It’s sort of a love/hate thing because the Mist wouldn’t be “the Mist” without it; but, I gotta be honest ’cause “hey, it’s my report”, and state that I did not find this climb nearly as difficult as I have in the past.

Again, must be all that hill training.

It’s tough, and it’s steep, but it’s very short and after my 6-mile-climbing “beat-down” in Central America, waterline just wasn’t gonna shake me this year.

Mud boggin’

Laughing was pretty much all I could do after waterline.

Once I left that aid station, it was nothing but light brown, deep, slippery, cambered mud.

Everywhere.

The entire approach to McKay’s Hollow was just a slip-n-slide fest and I couldn’t help but wonder what those in the back were going to have to endure after the front and middle packs came through and shredded up the already-nasty terrain.

But, I LOVE the McKay’s section and there’s a lot of technical descent here, so I took advantage implementing my best Andrew Hackett imitation on the drops and running as hard as I could muster on the muddy flats.

…and man, was it ever muddy. Like, ankle-deep muddy.

Chasing the clock causes stress

I’m all for time goals.

I don’t live and die by it, but obviously it’s a great way to gauge improvement. I mean, if you constantly improve, you’ll eventually get up there with the big dogs, right?

I can only hope.

But, honestly, I suffered a lot of stress in McKay’s which took a little bit away from the experience. By the time I bottomed out in the hollow, I only had about 40 minutes to run that rolling ridge that crosses the creek a couple o’ times, get through the flat muddy approach to Rest Shelter, complete that long climb, and then sprint the last 1.8 flat & fast stretch to the finish line.

I feel super lame saying this, but I gotta tell the true story — I cried like a big baby.

I was running through that mud to rest shelter, and crying like a spoiled  jackass because I really wanted to get there, and I just didn’t think I had enough time to get all that work done – so I just kept pushing, harder and harder and harder.

It was hurting, my lungs were maxing out, I was mostly alone so had no way to gauge pace, and all I could think was getting to that DAMN rest shelter sign that starts the final climb.

“Uh-oh, there’s someone, I better wipe my eyes…”

I’m such a wimp.

There was some dude obviously still in “mud avoidance” mode, so I passed him without as much as a glance, running through the giant swaths of deep mud every bit the same as I was running on dry land; and although it hurt like Hell, I was running with some fierce determination.

“I want that sub-6 dammit”

I did the whole cheesy talking to yourself thing. Typical “I think I can”-stuff I probably learned from some progressive teacher back in private school, …and I just kept pushing on.

A “5″ is a beautiful thing

I was so happy to get to the rest shelter climb, you’d think I had just finished.

I bellowed out a “yes!”, and shuffled up as long as I could before I was forced to power-hike. And power-hike I did! I was swinging my arms like Sally, and taking strides like John Dove.

I kept chanting the whole time.

…and staring at my watch.

At the top of the climb, I blew right on by the aid station, yelling out my number and screaming, “thanks for being here”, “we couldn’t do it without y’all” …etc etc etc.

I was on a mission.

I can’t wait to see the splits, because I’m pretty sure I pulled 7-minute-ish miles on that last 1.8 mile stretch.

At least it felt like it.

And when I could hear that crowd yelling for other runners ahead of me, I knew I was going to make it sub-6.

Rounding the corner, I could see the clock in the distance. It had just flipped to 5:54:10

And I crossed at 5:54:18

There’s something about the Mist

I don’t know what it is. Maybe a combination of a lot things:

• the people
• the varied terrain and beauty of the course
• the challenge
• the camaraderie
• the volunteers
• …I know it isn’t the HEED (that crap sucks)

My third Mountain Mist was everything I’d hoped and more.

Would I still say that if I had missed my goal? I dunno, maybe not – but I did hit my goal and not only am I proud to have done that, but I’m most proud of turning my life around, finding a sport I truly love, and getting to share it with some of the coolest people on the planet.

Boo Ya!

First off, I must warn you.

This “race report” will be long.

In fact, it’s much more than a race report – it’s my attempt at bringing you along to Nicaragua.

I want to put you in the taxi to Rivas, and to take you along for the ferry ride from San Jorge to the Isle de Ometepe.

I want you by my side as I share my personal experiences with the Nicaraguan people, and I want you in my head and in my heart while I explain many of the the interactions that went on during those eight days in Central America.

And “oh yea”, I want to tell you about the greatest race in the world. Fuego Y Agua was the most challenging ultrarunning experience I have endured thus far in my running career, and I want to carry you down those hot and humid dusty roads, the cloud-covered, damp and rugged trails of the volcanoes, and throughout the many itty-bitty Nica villages I experienced as I fought my way across 64 miles of pure pleasure and pain.

Once again, my life has been forever changed by a race experience – Hopefully, I’ll do a good job of explaining why.

Tuesday, Day 1: Pigs on a plane

So, the trip did not start out as pleasant as I’d hoped.

After believing the seat next to me was empty, here stumbles a 300lb sweating gorilla, asking me, “is this 16B?”

“Damn.”

There was no way, I was sitting next to this dude. He stunk to high-heaven, and his flesh was oozing over the hand rests, right into my lap. I handled it for about three minutes before finally getting up and begging the stewardess to move me. I even offered to pay an upgrade to business class, but there was no way I was sitting next to King Kong for four hours.

I’m not trying to be mean, but really? People like that should be forced to purchase two side-by-side seats.

To make matters worse, the weather was horrible and the plane was trying to take off before all the flights at the airport were temporarily grounded. I didn’t exactly love the sound of that, but I did want to get going, so I just blasphemously prayed to whomever would listen, closed my eyes on the take-off, and endured a shake-a-thon up into the storming clouds.

Finally, we burst through the clouds at about 10,000 feet, and the remainder of the flight was a smooth cruise all the way to Managua, Nicaragua.

Crisis averted – and I even got to watch a movie.

Ok, now what?

Interesting thing traveling alone in a foreign country without a plan – I made it through the passport check, stumbled my way through customs, and fought through the big crowd outside the airport – but then found myself just standing there…

“Ummm, ok, what now?”

I had no plan, I couldn’t speak the language, and I had no idea where to go – but I did know I had scheduled a room at the Best Western – but where was it? I could hear my wife in the back of my head yelling at me for being irresponsible and not planning and just running around half-cocked in a unknown country.

Taxi drivers were ascending upon me in droves, tugging on my bags, and trying desperately to get my business.

But luckily, across the street from the airport, I saw it -  The “Best Western” sign.

Nice.

I walked over, stumbled through some broken Spanish, and ended up with a humble, but nice and cozy room.

Josue Stephens, the race director, arranged for a taxi to pick me up at 8:00 a.m. the next morning, so I dumped my stuff in the ‘casita’ and rambled around some Managua nightlife for awhile with the hotel bell-hop whom I befriended rather quickly upon arrival - (thanks, Christopher).

Day 2: Making my way to Ometepe

The taxi arrived an hour early, so I rushed outta bed, gathered my crap and met Jose. Jose would driving me almost two hours to the small port community of San Jorge, just outside Rivas.

In San Jorge, I will take a one-hour ferry ride to the Isle de Ometepe where I can meet up with some of the other racers.

The taxi ride with Jose was awesome. He spoke very little English, and of course my Spanish was even worse, but we somehow made it work and shared a lot of laughs as we rolled along through tiny, little Nicaraguan towns.

He threw in some music and started singing along to old 70’s disco music and Elvis tunes, and I found this very funny. If you watch the video, notice the music in the background. We were singing, yellin’ and cuttin’ up all the way to the port.

And of course, classic to Central America, we passed carts being pulled by horses, lots of ox-driven “vehicles”, and a comical pickup truck filled with at least 25 Nicas – maybe more – and along with the people, there were some chickens, pigs, and goats along for the ride.

The ferry at San Jorge

After paying Jose (and floating a pretty big tip since he “didn’t have any change”), I was sorta left to fend for myself – but luckily, another local guy who spoke good English, helped me to get some food at San Jorge and told me which ferry I needed and when.

Cool.

But that’s not as easy as it sounds.

Imagine you have no idea where you are. You are walking to the end of dock as locals are pouring off a big, old ferry with everything from bags of produce, to live animals (most likely headed to slaughter) along with the occasional stinky, dirty hippy from Europe.

(Funny, that by the end of the week, I’d be that same stinky, dirty hippy)

There was no order to the ferry process. People just pile on with whatever they are taking to the island. I had no idea if I was to pay first or not, and if so, who?

So, I just got on, climbed to the top deck of the boat, and waited to start the next leg of the journey.

Making my peace with Concepcion

The ferry ride was a trip.

As we approached the Island, I felt like I was in the movie King Kong. Volcan Concepcion, the active one of the two volcanoes on the Island, dominated the skyline. It’s was really cool and ominous and intimidating all at once.

The water was very rough and choppy and I saw some Canadian tourists hurling over the side of the boat onto the deck below.  I found it best to stand as that made me less nauseous and allowed me to get some great views of the oncoming Island and “Volcan Concepcion”.

“I’m coming for ya, big boy” I said out loud. “It’s you and me, kid”

The American Cafe: Restaurante Y Casitas

Once we arrived at the Isle de Ometepe, I again found myself wondering what to do next. I knew I had made arrangements for a “casita” (a small room) at American Cafe, but where was it? …did I need a Taxi? Everyone sure was trying to get me into one…

But I just started walking.

And sure enough, my luck kicked in and not more than 100 yards from port was, …you guessed it, the American Cafe.

phew…

Meet Simone and Bob

As a walked into the American Cafe, I was immediately surprised by how open and clean it seemed to be. There were a couple of lazy dogs lying about and a shy little tabby kitty on the ledge in the corner.

I was looking around, taking in my surroundings, when I heard, “well, who are you?”

“Hi, I’m Christian Griffith and I’m running the Fuego Y Agua 100K race.”

“Ahhh… Christian, Christian…” she said as she seemed to be organizing things in her head. “Atlanta, right?”

“yes, ma’am, Gaw’ga in the house!”

She introduced herself as Simone, and I immediately felt comfortable with her. She was wearing an apron, and I could tell she had been busy cooking. She just ooozed “mom” and although this was not the kind of person I expected, I really liked her.

She led me to my casita, explained to me that I’d have to turn in my key whenever I left because if it got lost, she’d have to go all the way to town (Managua) and have another one made and it was expensive and she never goes to town and… well, you get the point.

There was no air conditioning, but she provided a ceiling fan in the room + a small, free-standing fan which ended making things bearable in the end. …sort of. {wink}

I set my stuff down, tested out the humble “facilities” and headed back to the main area to get to know Simone a little better.

As a sat on the floor petting the dogs, Simone introduced me to Bob, her husband, and told me their whole story of how they ended up in Nicaragua.

They were a late bloomer couple that met in New York after previous marriages, and hopped around the Carribean for awhile before settling in Nicaragua where they had heard it was beautiful and inexpensive.

That was five years ago, and they never left.

They were cute. Bob sat in the dining area most of the day and smoked Marlboros and chatted with guests, while Simone was constantly busy in the kitchen preparing meals and cleaning and keeping up with who owed what. She made the best food on the Island and I ate a majority of my meals with them – as did many of the other runners.

Off to meet Josue and Paula

I was excited to meet the race directors, Josue Stephens and his fiance Paula Ring. I had much correspondence with them both as I helped a little with some Internet marketing and passed around some race flyers to help them get the word out pre-race.

And, as usual, I had no idea where I was, nor where I was going, nor what to look for – but I did know what Josue kinda looked like.

So, I just started running …in flip-flops. I figured if another runner saw an American dude running, they might stop me and introduce themselves.

Sure enough, after 15 minutes or so I saw a short, stocky dude that resembled Josue and chased him down.

It was him, and we took a moment to greet and shake hands, and he told me to head up to race headquarters where people were sort of milling around, and meet some of the other runners and race staff.

So, I did.

Meeting a future supa’star

Remember this name – Abigail Stephens – because she is going to burn up the ultramarathon scene in the years to come.

Abi was the first person I met, along with Justin and Danielle, a young couple from illinois that came to run the 25K. Seemed like a long way to come to run a 25K, but as I was to learn throughout the week, this event wasn’t just about racing – it was about a whole, whole lot more than that.

Josue appeared again with Brad Quinn, another 100K runner, and I met Brad, his family, and Josue’s fiance, Paula. We talked for awhile about the course, time predictions and the difficulty of the volcanoes.

They asked me if I wanted to participate in trash pickup day where we would walk the town together, picking up garbage, doing our part to give back to the Island that was providing us a spectacular race venue.

Easy decision.

“sure!”

We all planned to meet early the next morning (6:00 a.m.), and after spending some more time talking with Abi, the future superstar, I headed back out to comb the Island via some more solo flip-flop running.

Day 3: Gettin’ trashy with the locals

Ok, silly title but that’s pretty much what we did.

I met Josue at the restaurant and for awhile it was just us. We chatted a little about races and ultrarunning in general and I shared some of my surfing experiences in Costa Rica and Hawaii as it seems Josue is a fan of the water as well.

After awhile others showed up – much of whom were somehow related to Josue. We had his sisters Abigail (supa’star), Charity and Gabi, plus Gabi’s family including her boyfriend Dave and her two sons Andrew and Brendon. …phew… and then there was Josue’s brother Jonathon, a cool 17 year-old dude who I really liked a lot. In fact, I liked every single member of his family – they were all hella’ cool and fun to be around.

25kers Danielle and Justin showed up for the morning’s activity, along with 50K runner Jason Simmons, and before long, we occupied every table available in the little cafe.

After woofing down a plate of gallo pinto con heuvos, and giving my toast to the kids, we met up with a philanthropic medical group that was to provide us with the garbage bags and participate in the clean up along with us.

This is when I met Stephanie and Tabatha, two American doctors that were on the Island helping with the medical needs of the Ometepe people. Stephanie was also entered in the 25K race – her first at that distance.

Holy moly, thats a lot of trash

We started down the main street of Moyogalpa (race headquarters) and started filling bags with trash.

This was a humbling experience for me as I found myself grossed-out completely more than once, but man, this Island was so pretty, so gorgeous and so damn abundant, and I felt really good doing my part to help keep it that way.

The locals would ride by and yell, “bueno!”, and seemed to really appreciate what we were out here doing.

After a couple of VERY HOT, tropical sun-filled hours, we had filled a medium sized cargo truck full of trash bags; but what really made it worthwhile was the little local boy who, after a subtle urging from his parents, brought us a watermelon, with a big ol’ smile, as a token of friendship and thanks for a job well done.

That might have been some of the best watermelon I’ve ever had and we all shared in a slab of it. (except Paula – sorry, Paula.)

A job well done and great feeling of accomplishment.

Room’a zoom zoom

Those motorcycles sure looked like fun. Ragged, haggered 125cc Chinese dirt bikes were the preferred method of travel for most of the locals.

You know what comes next…

I had to have one.

At $25 for 24 hours, it was a no-brainer, so I jumped on one towards the later afternoon and headed a couple kilometers south to a neat little spot called Punta Jesus Maria, a cool little point that is a popular swimming spot with the Island locals.

As an experienced motorcyclist, let’s just say I had a BLAST riding in that soft sand on the road to the point {hehe} …(don’t worry Robinson, I was careful, …sorta)

As the sun began to set on day 3, I parked the motorcycle in front of American Cafe, crawled, all sun burnt and battered, into my casita and cranked up the fan to max speed and slept for hours and hours.

Then BANG! …BANG! …BANG!

“What the Hell?!?!”

All night long this went on.

It seems the locals have this little strange fascination with homemade firecrackers and cherry bombs. They shoot them off for holiday reasons, religious reasons, or simply for the pure joy of “blowing shit up.”

It’s weird, but harmless – and goes on all day and night for seemingly no reason at all.

…kinda like the spontaneous parades that seem to happen in the middle of the night, but that’s another story.

Day 4: Shaking off the pre-race jitters

I started day four waking early, skarfing a huge breakfast at the American Cafe, and cranking up the motorcycle for the long haul to the other side of the Island.

Today, I was headed to Ojo de Agua, a natural, cold-water mineral spring that locals believe is a sort of fountain of youth.

I don’t know about all that, but it was gorgeous spot, with incredible water, and I hung out there all morning just swimming, chilling and relaxing in the many hammocks strung about the tropical trees and huts.

With the race starting at 4:00 a.m. the next day, I spent a few lazy hours resting up and reflecting upon my upcoming adventure.

Introducing Gordon, kindred spirit and instant friend

As I returned from Ojo de Agua, I stopped by race headquarters to meet more runners and see who was arriving to pick-up their race packets.

Just then, I heard, “Christian, meet Gordon, your new roommate!”

I looked up to find a 6′2 Irishman with a goofy grin and over-excited mannerisms, not too much unlike myself.

We hit it off immediately! …which is a good thing since Gordon was given the other bed in my casita at the American Cafe.

Gordon was hella’ cool, y’all. We both work in technology, both like attention, both like to cut-up, act up and generally display all kinds of personal foolishness. If I had to take it deep for minute, I’d like to think that because we are both “thinkers”, we both recognized that personality trait in one another and it made it easy to relate – whether having deep conversations about technology, psychology and communication, or simply joking on anyone within 100 yards of us.

I liked Gordon a lot. Cutting up with him reminded me of being in high school and pestering the teachers and other students. We had a lot of fun just being goofy.

I apologize in retrospect if we annoyed anyone else.

Pre-race meeting and meal

As we walked to the pre-race briefing and dinner, we heard a little excitement as people were pointing at Volcan Concepcion.

It appears it was spitting some ash.

“Oh, great!”, I thought. “It’s going to erupt as I’m climbing it, tomorrow.”

(but it didn’t – obviously.)

The pre-race briefing and meal was pretty damn cool. This is where I got to meet many more of the runners from all three events – 25K, 50K and 100K races.

Below is a snippet from the race briefing where Josue explains a segment of the course to us in English – and then again, in Spanish for the Spanish-speaking runners. Notice how well he speaks the language. I’m jealous.

Another unique element of the pre-race meal was a special cultural dance by a couple of young local girls. The song, appropriately titled, “Ometepe”, would become stuck in my head for the remainder of the trip. (listen below – you’ll love it!)

	Luis Enrique Mejía Godoy – Ometepe .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Rather download it? Here ya go – Download Ometepe by Luis Enrique Mejía Godoy.

Hell, it’s still stuck in my head.

And after a little meal of pollo (y pescado), ensalade, and arroz y patatas, I set the iPhone alarm for 3:00 a.m., retreated to my bed, and did my very best to try to get some sleep.

Little did I know I was five hours away from the craziest running adventure of my life.

Day 5: Fuego Y Agua Race Day!

Naturally, and like most races, I awoke way before the actual alarm went off.

My approach to ultras is pretty minimalist, so there really wasn’t a lot to prepare. A pair of shorts, a 2008 Stump Jump 50K shirt, a headlamp, some Scaps, two hand-held water bottles, a Nathan water pack and my New Balance MT100 trail shoes.

Done. I’m ready to go.

“30 seconds!”

It’s always strange hearing that, “30 seconds.”

It always makes my mind race like crazy…

“Do I have everything?”

“Is my head lamp on?”

“Did I remember Scaps?”

“Do I have to go to the bathroom?”

“How far is this thing again?”, and “when am I planning on finishing this race?”

This race had me especially stressed out as I pretty much knew that although I was starting in the dark, I most likely would be running throughout the morning, afternoon and evening, and finishing yet again – …in the dark.

Sometimes, that can be as daunting and as overwhelming as 100-mile races where you know your going to spend at least an entire 24 hours running through all kinds of crazy sh*t.

And the start goes BOOM!

Everyone wished each other good luck, shook hands and lined up for the start – and true to Nicaragua style, the start was decorated with some local, 4:00 a.m. fireworks.

We were off into the night.

…well, all of us except Abigail Stephens, who missed the official start and had to dart out of the bathroom in a mad dash to grab a spot in the front of the pack.

…and just as I settled into a nice little pace, one of those spent fireworks dropped out of the sky and missed my head by inches.

“Yikes!”

Moyogalpa to Urbaite: Dodging the soft sand

We started the race on 1/4 mile of road, before ducking into a rolling section of wide, sandy horse trail. This was a tough way to start the race as the sand, coupled with the black of night, made for a challenging obstacle right off the bat.

We found ourselves shifting from side to side in an attempt to find harder sand for better footing. A gradual climb, turned into this crazy, tunnel-like stretch with 8-10 foot dirt walls on both sides of us, with soft sand and rocky dirt as footing, and thick tropical trees blocking out any possible view of the sky and stars above. A “Nicaraguan island alley”, if ya will…

Not knowing where I was, nor where I was going made this just a wee little bit creepy, so I watched the runners ahead of me like a hawk to ensure I didn’t miss any turns.

Josh, a cool dude I met first at the pre-race dinner, rolled up on me just as I bite the dust hard – smashed water bottles, knees in the dirt, mouthful of sand – lovely.

He helped me up and we ran together through this seemingly long section …mostly silent.

Happy to see the road?

As one who always digs the trails over the road, I have to admit that dumping out onto the road felt good at this point. I’d guess we had run only about four miles or so on that sand, but it was tough and it was eating me up quickly. Once we hit the road, we had a little bit of familiarity and an easy running surface that required no thought nor crafty navigational techniques.

Here’s where Josh told me all about being in Iraq, and how there was great business opportunity there and he was going back to start a business, and well… it was just cool. I liked the dude. For one, he was running in a kilt, which I found cool and mildly entertaining. He also had a sort of ballsy approach to things that was inspirational and refreshing.

Josh, if you’re out there, ping me up brutha’ …and that goes for your crew from the surf camp, too.

The road section was easy. Even the long hills felt really easy compared to that sand and I started to speed up more and more. As a chatty pair, Josh and I started picking off different little groups of runners – not on purpose – but just feeling good.

We ran through various little Island towns, greeting the locals walking or riding by on horseback; and before long we had chalked up 17.4K, hitting the first aid station, Urbaite, in a little under two hours.

At each aid station, runners must get a uniquely colored wrist band to prove they hit that particular checkpoint – no wrist band, no credit for that segment – so, I was careful to secure my first band, yellow, and refill those water bottles for another 14K-ish run to El Porvenir.

Urbaite to El Porvenir: Making the way to Volcan Maderas

I ran this section completely alone; and enjoyed every step.

I flew out of the first aid station, unintentionally leaving Josh, but feeling great and wanting to push the pace a little since we were cruising paved roads.

After logging a few more kilometers on the road, we turned down a very, very rocky dirt road in which I was actually a little familiar. This is the same road in which I rode my rented motorcycle the day before on my way to Ojo de Agua.

This road was flat-out scraggly and damn tough to run on, but I found myself sorta dancing around the rocks, side-to-side with a sort of rhythm that became kinda fun.

I was just’a singin’ the local “Ometepe” song, stuck in my head from the pre-race dinner, and dancin’ across the deep dirt pits and jagged rocks, and MAN, I WAS HAVING A BLAST!

This was pretty much the running surface for the entire 14K; but the scenery got really cool. I passed ranchers moving large herds of HUGE cattle, had a couple of dogs follow along with me, and all the while, had a straight-shot view of Volcan Maderas.

I ran through banana plantations, small livestock farms, and tiny communities of lazy-looking locals napping in porch hammocks and on old picnic tables. (napping already at 7:00 a.m.?)

During a significant portion of this section, we were running along the water. Even though Lake Nicaragua is considered a lake, it looks and feels like the ocean, complete with rough choppy surf, and a nice breeze. I remember taking a moment to reflect how lucky I was…

“Man, this is incredible!”, I thought. “Here I am. Alone. Running along the water in Nicaragua, with banana trees and quaint little casitas to my right, and wavy ol’ Lake Nicaragua to my left. There’s a gnarly volcano straight up ahead, monkeys raising Hell in the trees, crazy-looking blue-birds, smiling locals…”

“This just rocks! – I am so lucky right now!”

And before I knew it, there was the sign for the Volcano.

Took a sharp left just past a small local shack, and headed up into the thick, dense jungle to the second aid station, El Porvenir, where Gabi Stephens (one of the RD’s super cool sisters and owner of some of these photos) was waiting with a fully stocked aid station and my first taste of Pinole*.

*Pinhole is made of ground, roasted corn and carries with it a heaping helping of nutrients and a decent level of carbohydrates. It’s popular amongst cultures where food is necessary for survival during long periods of minimalist traveling – like running a long ways {wink}

El Porvenir to Volcan Maderas: The most difficult ultra challenge ever

It’s important to fuel up at El Porvenir, and even take some food with you, because you are in for a very challenging, and very long section of the race.

This is hands-down, the most difficult section of any ultra I have experienced yet, and if anyone has done this before, AND done something MORE difficult, please share, because I’ll be signing up for that, too.

This stretch is 100% climbing, for 10K (6+ miles), at grades that many times are beyond comprehension, for 4,500 feet.

I simply had no frame of reference for this level of difficulty.

No joke.

No exaggeration.

For Southeastern runners, one comparison I can make is imagine that steep section at waterline at Mountain Mist.

You know how, after you tip-toe across the mini waterfall, you have to climb hand over hand up an embankment, and then climb steeply out to that gravel road? …well, imagine, if you can, that grade and that terrain (but even harder) and instead of going on for the .3 of a mile that it does, imagine it going on for six miles!

Or Blue Hell. For those of you that know about Blue Hell at Mount Cheaha. This grade is far steeper than that, and again, goes for six times as long as Blue Hell’s one measly mile.

Brutal kids, …a flat-out crazy, gnarly brutal beast of a climb that will truly test your abilities.

4500 feet.

But …BUT …BUT…

As brutal as it is, it is an incredibly beautiful and serene experience. The sh*t you experience during that climb will leave you slack-jaw time and time again.

The  incredible, expansive panoramic views of the isthmus, the far off view of Volcan Concepcion (your #2 major race challenge), the forever lake views …and all that framed around your head in deep, dark thick jungle.

dude…

Throughout the climb, the monkeys are making all kinds of racket, the wind is beginning to howl as you ascend higher and deeper into the cloud forest, and all of sudden everything is wet.

And, we aren’t just climbing up a section of groomed trail, mind you. To borrow from Guns ‘N Roses, “You’re in the jungle. baby!” – we’re talking lush, thick tropical trees with big ol’ thick roots, old stumps, and lots of rocks – and the higher you go, the gnarlier it gets.

Mud puddles turn into full-on, shoe-sucking, knee-deep mud “caverns”.

(no sound – I screwed sumin’ up somehow)

Steep climb turns into hands-and-knees crawling, through thin mazes of head-high walled-in dirt.

And looking up a couple of miles into the climb, desperate for some signal that I was getting close to the top, I saw a Nicaraguan 100K runner, resting on a rock.

His name was Julio Alvarado Obando, and when we looked at each other, I knew we were both thinking the same thing – there was no need for translation at this point and time.

Pain and suffering is universal.

When I passed, he continued to climb behind me, and between my broken Spanish and his “at least, better” English, we were able to communicate in jagged, one-word sentences.

Soon, he was trying to tell me he was injured and it seemed he wanted me to stop and rest just because he was stopping to rest, but I wasn’t hearin’ it, man.

For one, that’s just not something I’m used to and plus, I had my own struggles, and mentally I was really taking a beating myself.

Six miles straight up is a very long way, y’all and I was near my breaking point fo’ sho’…

…but just as I almost allowed my negative side to show to this guy, I stepped in a knee deep mud hole that sucked off my right shoe and left it two feet deep in the slop.

“@#$%#!”

And I immediately started cussing and digging for my shoe.

After about a minute, I found it, pulled it up out of the mud, cussed like crazy because you have no idea how much fun it is to put on a shoe that is 100% completely caked in wet mud, onto feet that are now also, 100% caked in mud, and tried to collect myself.

But then I looked up, and guess who was standing there waiting for me?

Yup, Julio.

I felt like an asshole.

The Nicaraguan people were really genuine people with huge hearts and that particular moment was special to me.

I chilled with him the rest of the climb to the top.

After cresting the volcano, we had to negotiate a very foreshadowy, steep and wild descent into the crater of the dormant volcano. This descent required the use of ropes and was hella’ scary, but super fun. I yelled and hooted and hollered, mostly in eager anticipation of the aid station, but also because this was really raw, wild stuff and I think I was half-batty and crazy by now.

I jumped off this big ol’ rock, into a sloppy section of trail, and there was the aid station, right next to the lake in the middle of the Volcano’s crater, and three freezing cold aid station volunteers huddled under a tarp writing down times and handing out wrist bands.

“We made it, dude!”, I yelled out to Julio.

But, sadly, Julio was not there.

Volcan Maderas to Hacienda Merida: Oh, it ain’t over yet…

It took me three hours to make that 6-mile climb up the volcano, so I wasted no time.

I thanked the aid station dudes, got my third wrist band, and made my way back to the trail, now headed to the “jungle gym”.

What’s the jungle gym? Check it, out…

Climbing back out of the crater, the trail gets really crazy. Runners first enter a thin trail section that is very tight, almost visibly non-existent, and heavily dense with low-hanging canopy trees, thick roots and sharp branches; and after getting through that gnarliness, we found ourselves in one of the most unique situations I can ever remember, so I’m going to do my best to explain it…

It was a huge, flat, sorta lava-like rock surface with small, scraggly tropical flora growing on it. The trail was very thin, very steep, and many times required us to crawl, sorta-crab-like …almost like rock climbers. The air was very thick with fog as I was deep into the clouds and couldn’t really see anything at all.

To add to the craziness, it was steep, and so “open” at this point, that if I slipped, there would be nothing to grab hold of or break my fall, and there’s no telling how far into the crater I’d end up. One of the runners later told me that he almost started crying through this section out of pure disbelief.

I believe it.

But, thankfully, that uncomfortable stretch is short and I again found myself back in “the jungle gym”.

(notice the blue ribbon designating the way to go – thank God!)

It’s called the “jungle gym” because the trail contains hundreds and thousands of thick roots and mini-climbs and descents that all require the use of your upper body. To all those people who think CrossFit is useless for running, come run Fuego Y Agua and perhaps you’ll modify your opinion.

Put it this way, I’m glad I’m a strong boy because I needed it and it helped me a lot. Lots of pull-up type movements using trees and overhead roots to catapult me up and over drop-offs and wash-outs. Hand-over-hand crawling over and around sketchy drop-offs and blow-downs.

I’m telling you, man – this is some wild, wild stuff. I can’t imagine that anyone truly has frame of reference for it, but maybe I’m just naive and still inexperienced.

And once I had crawled out of the crater… yup, you guessed it …I had to now descend the volcano, 4,500 feet back down to sea level.

Here’s my suggestion for anyone running next year: Leave the water bottles at home. You don’t need them. A decent-sized Nathan bladder pack, or something similar, is enough for in between aid stations, and you really need your hands for the volcano sections – up and down.

Seriously.

I had to slid my water bottles up my wrists as I swung like a monkey from tree to tree during that obstacle-filled descent. Many times, when it got hairy, and my momentum caused me to grab a tree for safety, my water bottles would fly out of the holders and drop 50 feet below me and land nipple-down in the deep mud.

That’s not happy stuff.

Muddy mouthfuls of water are not refreshing.

But I made my way down that volcanic mountain pretty briskly, and surprisingly, still feeling pretty good. I think I was so happy to have made it down, and happy to be running again, that I didn’t yet allow myself to feel wiped out.

After all, once I get to Hacienda Merida, that’s only 50K in the bank – and of course, only halfway through the race.

Once I hit the cattle pastures, I began hearing a concert of  screaming howler monkeys and moo-ing steers and chirping birds. It was noon now, and the sun was out in full tropical Nicaraguan force, baking my brain and slowing my run to a dusty shuffle through the rocky pastures.

The heat was coming on strong and I went from feeling pretty good at the base of the mountain, to barely shuffling by the time I saw a sign for Hacienda Merida, and entered the gates to the aid station.

50K done in a whopping 8:40

I’m so hot I can barely breath. I know I have a drop bag here, but I don’t see it and can’t find the energy to ask for it. The entire scene at this aid station was weird as there really was no one running it, very limited refueling options, and all kinds of people hanging around not associated with the race and just staring at me like I was some kind of crazy man that just ran out of the jungle and was standing around confused.

Actually, I guess that’s what I was.

Something tells me Josue will be changing this aid station next year {wink, wink} as if I had to find one thing wrong with this race, it was that aid station. It really might as well have not even been there. Worse, the dude that was kinda-sorta running it gave me some sketchy directions that ended up causing me to re-think my route, back-track unnecessarily, and gobble up heat-filled bonus miles and lots of lost time.

But hey, that’s if I had to find something wrong. In the grand scheme of things, it hardly really mattered to me in the end.

Hacienda Merida to Altagracia: Screaming at turkeys

If the first 50K was all about that chilly, wet windy volcano, the next challenge was surely the heat.

Leaving Hacienda Merida, I decided I was gonna lie in the lake for awhile to cool off. Shirt, shoes, pack, everything stayed on and I just laid there, in the lake, and soaked; but I didn’t stay long because the water was pretty warm and I knew I had better get moving.

The last thing the sketchy aid station dude said to me was, “Remember, stay along the water. Don’t go on the road.”

Well that jacked me all up, because about a mile or so after leaving that station, I noticed I was both on a road, and NOT along the water. I mean, I could see the water, but I wasn’t along it.

I started second-guessing where I was.

Then, I noticed that I wasn’t seeing any more blue ribbons.

Oh man, here comes the flurry of cuss words, again.

I turned around and ran almost all the way back to the aid station before I realized there simply was no other way for me to go. The blue ribbons took me around the bend I originally followed, and there was simply no other way to go.

This was the first of my three, significant “getting lost” episodes, and it was by far the worst because of the heat. It was between 1 and 2 p.m.  with overhead, tropical sun baking me, dude.

BAKING ME.

Zero shade to hide under on either side of the dirt road, so I shuffle.

…and shuffle.

…and shuffle.

Head down, pouring sweat and still worried I’m lost, but at a point where I just don’t care.

A couple of young kids ran by my side, chatting away in Spanish, and this picked up my spirits immediately.

“blah blah blah”, they’d ramble and yell in Spanish.

“no comprende”, I say back.

But I guess they didn’t much care, because they just keep on ramblin’.

I’d just smile and keep running. Eventually so did they; and just about the time the kids tire out, more dogs join in the trot, so for a short while it’s me, two local boys and three mangy mutts, all sweatin’ it out in the tropical afternoon sun.

But, probably the most helpful incident along this long 17K stretch of thermal beat down was seeing Patrick Gaines, from Colorado, who was running the 100K but dropped at the 50K aid station, and was now cruising by in what sure looked like a comfortable, air conditioned mini-bus.

Boy was I glad to see him!

“You’re doing great Christian, keep it up!”

“Am I going the right way?”

“yup, good luck!”

and with that, he was gone.

A fleeting visit, but at least I knew I was going the right way.

Now, keep in mind, this was a very long stretch of sandy, rocky dirt road that ate me for lunch, so things were getting a little weird in my head.

For one, I kept seeing the other volcano, Volcan Concepcion, but never felt like I was getting any closer. Two, I was barely running, and many times would be whittled to a fast power-hike trying to keep myself together.

I found myself yelling at these giant birds with red heads. To me, they looked like vultures, so I started screaming, “Not now you @#$#ers!”

“Get out of here, I’m not giving up that easy!”

“Maybe you know something that I don’t, but I a’int dead yet!”

I found out later they were just turkeys.

{sigh}

Wow. I was really falling apart mentally. Looking back at it, I can’t believe how hot I was.

I thought I was hallucinating when a I heard a HUGE fiesta going on up ahead. Loud music, people dancing, vehicles everywhere, and lots of dust gettin’ kicked up making it look like a monster cock fight in the distance.

I have no idea what all that was, but I somehow stumbled right into a town festival of some sort and it was really kinda cool.

Drunk dudes were dancing and drinking while kids were running all over the place chasing each other. The women all chatted off to the side preparing food and primping their daughters, for who-knows-what, in beautiful colored clothes. It was such a strange thing to stumble upon, and I’m sure I was just as odd to them as I rolled through all caked with old, dried mud, sweaty and grimy, with the look of hot death on my face.

And just then, I see this Nico dude, hosing off this wild-colored school bus, and I ran up to him and just stretched out my arms and legs as if to say, “hit me with all ya got!”

He did.

And he hosed me down good.

I even spun around 360 and he kept the hose on me the whole time.

Nice.

But time to keep moving.

As I continued to roll along, making my way to Altagracia, I stopped along the way at one of the many little haciendas that sold snacks and supplies and stuff – and scored me a huge Coke.

That coke was like crack, y’all. (see the vid)

But as good as it was, the sugar puffed me up in a matter of seconds and I threw most of it up.

…and as a couple of local kids passed by, I offered it to them and you’d think I was offering them a pony and a trip to see Santa Claus.

I could hear them fighting madly over it as they disappeared behind me.

More banana plantations, more dusty dirt roads, a bit of familiar territory and before long I found myself back on the main road that circles the Island, and then a few more little towns after that, and I’m sitting in a chair at aid station 5 with 68K in the bank, happily eating peanut butter and bread, and…

…realizing that I most likely will be doing the last volcano in the dark.

Bring it on!

Altagracia to La Flor: Dropping like flies

Remember my race buddy Josh from way back before the first aid station? Well, rumor had it he had been found sitting at a roadside bar, half-drunk, half-crazed and seemingly done with the race. Gordon, my new Irish buddy, was still back behind me somewhere, but other than that, there weren’t many runners left still running.

Peeps were dropping.

…but there were four people up ahead of me.

The two front runners were long finished, and speedy Abigail Stephens was about an hour from finishing as the 1st female, so all I could do was put the feet in motion and continue to grind out the final miles to that last volcano.

It was tough to think about – so I didn’t really.

As if it really could get any more remote than a volcanic Island in Nicaragua, this stretch was incredibly remote. Nothing but the occasional – and I mean occasional – little shack, tons of banana plantations, a handful of howler monkeys, …and that’s it.

Oh, except for Jose, the drunk cowboy, who rode up next to me on a horse telling me all about how this was HIS land, he owns it, and “he’s a farmer”; but what really made it weird was his young son running behind me with a machete, and grinning ear-to-ear. My brain was way too mangled for all this and I really didn’t wanna deal with it – but the dude was nice enough, and his kid was just being a typical Nico kid with a machete, and in the end I was happy for the experience.

But I was also glad when Robinson, a local guy and race staff member, rolled by in pickup truck.

“Aid station up ahead!”

…which was a bold-face lie. I’ll get that kid next year.

It’s now starting to get dark, and I must have been fumbling with my headlamp when I passed it, but somehow, I missed the turn that would take me to the town of La Flor, and the final aid station before Volcan Concepcion.

This sucked.

I just ran right by it, …and  ran …and ran …and “oh sh*t! — there’s no where else to go…”

I ran to the water’s edge and the trail just stopped in front of some rancher’s fence where he was sitting talking to another local on a horse. They spoke zero English, and since my Spanish sucks, it was a total waste of time trying to figure out what to do. They had no idea about any race, nor where I should be going, nor did they really seem to care – to them, I was just some crazy looking Gringo who was waaaay lost in the dark.

Yikes.

I managed to get them to understand when I said, “La Flor?”, and pointed to the ground.

They laughed and said, “No no no, La Flor”, and they pointed back the way I came.

Now this is when I almost lost it, kids.

But I kept it together. I had to, man – I was lost in a foreign country, in the dark, and I needed to be strong and keep my sh*t together. (sorry about all the cussing, but I’m telling my story as I feel it.)

I started running back the way I came, and as luck would have it, Robinson was driving to La Flor with Emily, a Peace Corps volunteer, and they saw my headlamp and started yelling at me.

“Thank God!”

They got on the walkie-talkie and reported my location and that I would be headed to La Flor.

Kids, I almost dropped right then and there. I almost got in that truck and let the mental torture of getting lost get the best of me. I was so torn down, and my body was a wreck and I still had those lingering effects from the heat, and it really was all I could do to continue the race at that point.

Lesson!

…but that’s not the end of my “getting lost”

Lastly, as I stumbled into the town of La Flor, I was really a mess mentally. I made the turn, over the bridge, as directed by the blue chalk arrow, but I somehow became confused after that. All I had to do was keep running up the hill, but for some reason I was trying to take unnecessary turns.

For the life of me, I think I was delirious.

A few of the locals had been drinking and were heckling me a little – not in a dangerous way – but more in an inquisitive kind of way, but once they saw I couldn’t speak the language and that I was lost, they started messing with me and pointing me in the wrong direction, and well, …it was a little crazy and chaotic.

It’s so weird – It was a little scary, but also a severe rush, all at the same time.

It was a challenge to keep myself together and not get intimidated and just deal with the situation as intelligently as my brain would allow.

It didn’t help that every time I tried to communicate I blinded them with my headlamp, but I kept at it, trying to find a way to communicate with someone who had some empathy, and trying to figure out how to find the aid station.

Enter, Daniel – my Nicaraguan savior.

He jumped out of local bar, and he could speak OK English, and he said, “you looking for the other runner people?”

“si, por favor”

“I take you”

And with that we walked up a hill about 1/4 mile and there was Jonathon Stephens, the RDs brother, and one of the Peace Corps girls. A beautiful sight for very sore eyes …and sore legs …and sore body.

La Flor to Volcan Concepcion: Quite possibly the toughest decision of my life

That might sound pretty strong, but it most likely was the most difficult decision I have ever made in my life.

(no pics for this section because it’s now dark – black-ass dark)

You just can’t imagine. Or, maybe you can, but after all I had been through, I couldn’t believe that in order to continue, and finish this race, I’d have to climb 1000 meters (3,500 feet) of very difficult terrain, similar to Volcan Maderas but just not as long – two hour climb instead of three.

I was fresh, though, for Maderas.

But here I was close to death before Concepcion.

It didn’t help that I learned that the other runners behind me were calling it quits. I was going to be the only guy left in the race. Left to climb that damn volcano, in the dark, all by myself.

And then of course, I gotta come back down and crank out that final 10K to the finish.

Tough head games, man. Tough head games.

Once again though, I fought through it. I have had an unbelievable 2009 in ultrarunning and I wasn’t about to cap it off with a DNF, so I thanked Jonathon and struggled out of the chair and made my way towards the base of Concepcion.

But I forgot my wrist band!

“$%#$@!”

I ran back yelling the whole way that I had forgotten my wrist band, in fear that they might not be there when I ran back, but luckily they were still there.

“How much torture can I inflict upon myself, anyway?”

Believe it or not, there’s not much to say about the climb up Concepcion other than:

• It was dark - Black, night jungle dark, but the stars looked cool.
• It was hard – Like Maderas, it was straight-up, hand-over-hand steep, excruciatingly slow, and still requiring a lot, if not more, upper body work than Volcan Maderas.
• It was cold – The wind really kicked up on that volcano and coupled with the dark and my sweat-soaked duds, I started to get really cold.

But, even in the dark, I found it truly beautiful, serene and very pleasant – even as I suffered.

For the first time since stumbling upon Julio, that local runner I found halfway up Maderas, I finally saw another Fuego Y Agua participant. It was Brad Quinn, who ended up finishing in the 4th slot, a couple of hours ahead of me.

He was making his way down the volcano as I was grinding up.

“Dude, am I glad to see you, how are you?”

He bent over, hands on his knees, and said, “I’m just trying to survive.”

“I feel that”, I said, all happy to have made contact with someone else in the race finally.

“Hey”, I asked, thinking I was closer than I was to the top, “Am I almost to the top?”

His face sunk a little and being as nice as he could be, he said, “Christian, I wish I could tell you that you were, but you’re probably not even halfway”

Ouch.

I should’a never asked.

And after that episode of seeing Brad, I was a broken-spirited man. I took period breaks in the climb where I’d lie down on the trail, turn off the headlamp, stare at the stars and try to once again collect myself.

It was such a rush of mixed emotions hitting me. ‘Confusion’ as to why I put myself through all this – but at the same time feeling so ‘alive’ because I was.

Each time I plopped down, I got back up with renewed energy and excitement, only to point my headlamp further up the climb and see more steep trail, more ragged roots and more tough terrain to negotiate, and I’d wallow once again.

When I arrived at the top of the climb, I couldn’t believe it. Even though I had to go back down, and then run a rolling 10K back to the finish, the toughest stuff was behind me.

I WAS GOING TO FINISH THIS THING!

…but before I get too big for my britches, I really want to make note of the two dudes that waited for me up there. It was FREEZING up on that volcano, and they had been there a long time throughout the day, and for them to wait for me like that so that I could get my last wrist band, and some water and gels, was extra special. Thanks dudes. It means a lot.

Volcan Concepcion to Moyogalpa: A greeting fit for a DFL

As I popped out of the jungle at the base of Volcan Concepcion, I knew I was home free. I ran as pleasantly as I could down the dirt road headed towards the finish line at Moyogalpa. Since it was getting close to 11:00 p.m., I was expecting a very uneventful finish.

I imagined myself running under the banner all alone, with little fanfare, and knocking on the door of race headquarters to wake Josue and Paula to let them know I made it back and that I had finally finished.

But, when I made that turn onto the straight-away that lead to the finish, I could see them all there. Josue, Paula, speedy Abi (3rd finisher), Gabi, Gordon, Jonathon, Danielle, Justin, Robinson, Sydney, and man I sure hope I didn’t forget anyone else because that crowd being there meant the absolute world to me and turned an expected mellow finish, into a tape-breaking, post-race-beer-chuggin’ fiesta.

Ok, not really a fiesta, since I just collapsed in a chair and answered everyone’s questions, but TO ME it was a “party”.

I love you guys – every single one of you – that extra special touch made my race complete.

Want to run the 2010 Fuego Y Agua next year?

Me too. In fact, I’m already registered for the 2010 Fuego Y Agua.

Next year though, I get to come at the race from a completely different perspective since I will have some sort of frame of reference and course knowledge. Here is my advice for runners joining in the fun:

1. Spend as many days as possible in Nicaragua pre-race – not only is it a beautiful country, with super nice people, but it’s also smart to heat acclimate a bit.
2. Which leads to, BE PREPARED for HEAT and “tropical” sun.
3. Participate in the other race-related events like trash pickup day and the Kid’s race – both are great ways to experience the people and integrate into the fabric of the Island.
4. Bring shoes to donate to the local kids (I screwed up here – but not next time)
5. Leave the hand-helds at home – you need your hands a lot in this race, and you’ll thank me a thousand times over if you take this advice – utilize a bladder backpack for the most hydration security and convenience.
6. The volcanoes are hard. Harder than hard. Be mentally prepared for very long, difficult climbs.
7. You most likely will get lost – or second guess yourself – at least once. Don’t worry, the race is run well and you will be safe, but still come mentally strong and emotionally flexible.
8. Don’t try to keep up with, nor anywhere near, Abigail Stephens. She will beat you.
9. While not “mandatory”, a modest amount of upper body strength training will serve you well and improve your performance on the volcanoes.
10. Be prepared for the experience of a lifetime. Savor it. Absorb it. Live it.

Day 6: No rest for the weary – Kids Race!

After I “chillaxed” for a few minutes at the finish with all my new Fuego friends, we all separated to get some sleep for the upcoming Kid’s race the following morning.

In bed by 12:30 a.m., up by 5:45 for race day preparations.

Josue (RD) and Paula had arranged for shoe donation and, I think, every single kid that showed up to the race got some running shoes.

There were almost 400 kids!

The kids race was AWESOME. It felt so good to give back and absorb the race experience form a Nicaraguan child’s perspective.

Jonathon Stephens and I manned the final aid station for the Kid’s race.

One interesting observation was that at first, none of the kids drank any water. We didn’t understand this …until we realized they had no idea to even expect it. We started yelling, “agua, aqui!”, and then they started to catch on.

Then, when the kids would take water, they would almost NEVER toss the cups. Instead, they would hand them back to us politely before continuing on. I found this very interesting …and very cool!

Some kids wore shoes, some barefoot, …some just socks. Some were serious, some were just smiling and poking their friends, some were running with older family members and some were even being coached along the way by friends or family on motorcycles.

Funny.

The whole experience really felt good and I applaud Josue for making sure this event coincided with the Ultramarathon experience.

Crowning the winners at the awards dinner and ceremony

Later that afternoon, all the ultramarathon participants, their families and local volunteers gathered for a Nicaraguan feast of beef, chicken, potato-salad, cole slaw and plantains …and some of the best fresh fruit juice I have ever tasted – cantaloupe juice.

Yummy.

Josue and Paula stood at the front and gave away beautiful, locally-made award statues to the first place winners of each race.

And I even got a trophy!

Since there were no relay participants, they turned the relay trophy into an award for the runner who spent the most amount of time on the course and still finished. (read: DFL)

That was me. And, I’m PROUD, …I think.

I guess since half the 100K field ended up dropping, I feel pretty good for being one of only five to complete the course in its entirety.

Watch out for my buddy Gordon next year, though – he’s already strategizing for 2K10.

After some crazy pinata bashing, merengue dancing and cervecas, the whole event started catching up to me quickly – in fact, after finishing the 100K, coupled with sleeping very little, helping with the kids race, and partying at the post race fiesta, the fatigue began to steam roll me.

I sat my beer down and walked back to my Casita to lie down.

Later that night, I had a nice dinner with 50K finisher, Jason Simmons. He had this favorite little joint that he just raved about, so I figured I had to check it out.

He was a good judge of culinary excellence – especially when it came to plantains.

I had an excellent dinner, with great conversation and a couple of local hounds at my feet, and it was a nice way to cap off a perfect day of Island life in Nicaragua.

That night I stayed up talking away with Gordon into the wee hours like we were at summer camp.

Gordon’s a cool dude – and a chatty-cathy like me (Hell, just look how long this report is…)

Day 7: Half day of chill / Half day o’ travel

I don’t think I was the only one experiencing delayed onset fatigue. Speedy beans Abigail Stephens was also crushed …even into the next morning.

But we all had the perfect plan – A full day at Ojo de Agua – with, once again, all of us hanging out together as a group.

One day at lunch, Josue mentioned how stoked he was that all the race participants, for the most part, were all hanging out together. He was right – It made it feel special and even more so since that’s always how he’s envisioned this event to be.

That’s just killer. I felt good and I was especially happy for my new friend.

Both Abi and I found individual hammocks, at different times in the day, and used them to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Shoots, she even slept on a rock wall for awhile – Hardcore chick that Abigail Stephens.

Before long, a group of us found ourselves making our way to ferry, as Josue, Paula, Gordon, Jason and I would be flying back to the states in the morning.

We all said goodbye to the locals with whom we befriended over our individual periods on the Island, as well as the lucky few who were staying for a few more days.

I’m not scared to say it – I almost cried.

You know how you have those experiences that just mean so much to you? Every minute is something new and exciting and stimulating …and then – eeeerd! – the brakes get put on and everything rushes to you at once. Emotions, thoughts, experiences, what-ifs… and I knew goodbye meant, well…, “goodbye”; and I wasn’t quite ready to break from my relationship-building with all these great people. Punk ass fools like me don’t deserve to hang out with such a special group so I felt really lucky …yet at the same time, very sad to leave everyone.

All we talked about during the one-hour ferry ride back to mainland was the race and ways we could help Josue promote it better and get people down to experience all that is FUEGO Y AGUA.

I really hope some of my favorite ultrarunners trust my judgment enough to check this race out in 2010.

::: I’m already registered for next year :::

Day 8:  Bye bye Nicaragua

And, ladies and gentlemen, this is the end of my story.

I sat on the plane back to the United States wondering how in the Hell I was going to go back to my normal life of computers, mortgage payments, big bills and typical American overkill-ism. Just like my previous years of surfing trips to Costa Rica, I was ready to cash in, like so many other ex-pats, and sell my soul to the tropics.

But, I have a lovely family who needs me, a career that depends on me, and a life that may not be sunny tropics, smooth surf, and plentiful plantains, but is still damn good and makes me feel wanted and needed.

Someday, though, kids…

Someday…

Someday, you’ll all wonder whatever happened to that loud-mouth, verbose, egotistical ultrarunning phreak who wrote and wrote and wrote – and ran and ran and ran – and now, somehow seems to have dropped off the planet.

I’ll still be here …well, not here but “there” – and “there” won’t be here.

{wink}

Here’s hoping we’re all slothing through the mud together, in 2010, as we make our way up Volcan Maderas on the Isle de Ometepe.

Nicaragua.

Thanks for reading my story.

Put me in a button-down and khakis, and I’ll command a room preaching web development, Internet marketing and social networking like I know what I’m talking about.

Throw a vintage Falcons jersey on me, and I can hang in the Georgia Dome with the loudest and proudest of screaming football fans.

A pair of surf trunks, a hat-backwards and flip-flops? well, shoots, that’s just me being me.

But when I put on those running shorts… that same ol’ tattered pair of cheap-ass, Champion brand running shorts that I bought at Target in 2007, I feel ready to rip through those woods like an angry lion.

Add a couple of handheld water bottles, my hat slanted back, and a pair of rugged trail shoes and get out of the way because in my mind, kids, I’m about to tear sh!t up!

“Woo-Hoo”-ing from the back

I started the Pinhoti 100 from the very back of the back. I purposely wanted to be the very last runner across the starting line with a goal of trying to see how far I could move up the pack throughout the 100-mile race.

Chillin’ in orange, back-of-the-pack ::: photo by: Vikena Yutz

Standing there, waiting to start, I was bubbling and bursting at the seams. I couldn’t wait to get started. The Pinhoti promised everything I love about trail running – heaps and loads of tough climbing, fun hills to bomb, and lots of rocky, gnarly single-track with rugged terrain.

Now throw in some stunning fall colors, the occasional time-friendly hard-packed jeep roads, and lots of aid stations and it’s easy to see why I was antsy to get started, right?

Yep, that was me screaming “WOO HOO” at the top of my lungs before the start of the race.

…and after aid station one.

…and multiple times during the nasty climb to the 75-mile aid station.

…and at the finish, and…

Lord of the Flies Pinhoti

I tried my best to start out really, really slowly.

Being one of those inexperienced numb-skulls who goes out too fast and ends up death-marching the last 25 miles, I really wanted to take the advice of the veterans and at least TRY going out easier and building throughout the race.

Didn’t work.

Before I even got 5 miles in, I became aggravated and broke away from a 12-person pack with “Three-kids”-Tony Gonzalez.

And while trying to chase down Tony, instantly took a nasty fall, tearing a dime-sized chunk of flesh from my hand.

Maaaan, it bled like crazy, but I didn’t realize it until I felt sticky hands against my bottles.

Photo by: David Grant

“geeez, that’s a lot of blood”

And because I was constantly wiping the sweat off my face, I was simultaneously smearing blood all over it as well.

I rolled into the the first aid station at mile 6.7 with peeps pointing cameras at me like the paparazzi. The blood was all over my face, and especially near my eyes, at first causing people to think the source of the blood was my face.

For a second, I was scared…

…but I just grabbed some PB&J, gels, and bolted the heck outta’ there.

stuffing my bloody face ::: photo by: Spurgeon

Just as the RD Promised

This early part of the day was trail perfection. I do enjoy running roads, and shorter, faster stuff, and even the “round-and-round” timed events – but there really is no comparison for the pure, unadulterated joy of ripping through rugged trails, in 50-ish degree temperatures, with bright sunny skies all the while feeling strong, fast and free.

There just isn’t.

It’s primal, I think.

Of course, because it’s “me”, and because the Fall leaves had surprises waiting for each footfall, I busted my butt a thousand times, bottles a’flyin’ and cuss words a’flowin’, but that just makes it all the more raw.

Here’s a trail karma lesson for ya:

Never comment how “easy” a particular section of trail feels. The trails are always listenin’, and just when your misguided brain has you feeling like Karl Meltzer Jr., that trail will jump up and bite you and slam you to the ground – HARD – just to remind you that you’re in “their house” and you better show some respect.

No wonder the deer are so quiet.

Tornadoes did all this?

Yikes, I heard that we’d be running through some intense tornado blow-down but WOW. Much of this area seemed almost like new trail had been cut around all the freshly fallen, big ol’ trees. Short, steep climbs, up and around gnarly tree stumps and matted mounds of damp, high grass eventually took us to some summits that appeared to be completely clear cut.

It was cool …and creepy at the same time.

But it wasn’t long before we dipped back into the yellow, red and green forest, spending hours running along thin, cambered leaf-covered ridges, and cool trickling streams. It was really interesting how the temperature would change from damp, cool and humid in the deep forest flats, and hot as Hell on the open ridges.

The forest continued keeping this fresh, interesting mix and at only 20-ish miles in, I couldn’t have felt better.

Gettin’ some GUTS

Woo Hoo, people I know!

I should’a known it was the leaders of our awesome GUTS trail running group when I heard, “RUN UP THE HILL!”

Yep, Sally Brooking was going to make sure nobody, including me, took the easy way up to the aid station. Not at her aid station. She wanted us running those hills. Good ol’ GUTS.

Coming into the GUTS aid station ::: photo by: David Ray

I had a snack (Moon Pie, yum.) and talked a bit with Janice, Sally, DRay and others, but opted to continue moving on down the trail as I knew a couple of local boys were comin’ to chase me down.

About 78 miles still to go – but all’s well in the wheelhouse.

Making the Way to Cheaha Mountain

The stretch from miles 22-35 seemed very long for me. This mileage period tends to be my early meltdown point. I think it’s probably the sweet spot where my brain starts to recognize that I’m getting tired and tries to get me to stop running - The mental chess match begins.

But my saving grace during this stretch was the beauty of the terrain.

First of which, being damp, soggy trail running along small creeks, followed by a very long climb out to a small-but-cozy aid station, just before the ascent to Cheaha Mountain, the highest point in Alabama.

That Bald Rock trail, while extremely tricky, rocky and rugged, was some of my favorite kind of trail – straight up, big loose moss-covered ankle-twisting rocks that turn corners and just keep on goin’ up up up.

My least favorite? running 1/4 mile across a Boardwalk getting crazy stares from the 300-lb tourists sporting Auburn University sweatshirts and telling me, “damn boy, yo’ face sho’ is messed up”

{sigh}

…or better yet, the old lady, who, just before the aid station, sticks out her walker and says, “jump!” – she looked 90 and I never expected that in a million years, so …I jumped.

and it hurt.

Blue Hell

Yep, the infamous Blue Hell.

But at least I had Lane Vogel to descend it with me.

photo by: Vikena Yutz

It sucks when we have to run up it at the end of the Cheaha 50K, and it really sucks when we have to run down it with 40 miles on tired legs and joints. Todd, the race director, would not have liked hearing the names I was calling him as we descended this beast. The leaf “bits” covering the big, cambered rocks made them slick as ice and Lane Vogel and I busted a number of times making that descent.

After one of my especially interesting and entertaining falls, Lane says, “there ya go, dude, just slide on down the mountain”

another {sigh}.

Who Wants to be Alone in the Woods at Night?

Not me.

And not, Lane …nor our new buddy “Darren”.

Darren caught up to us after we climbed down Blue Hell, and the three of us headed into the night, headlamps a’blarin’, mouths a’yappin’ as the sun finally set behind the mountains for the remainder of the night.

Things That Go Bump in the Night

Night running on rugged mountain trails is always a challenge.

The fatigue from running for 12 hours is starting to wear ya down, your headlamp starts creating funky shadows, and at least for me, visions of that sweet little wife, all cozy in that big ol’ warm house, start creeping into your head.

Lane says, “I can’t wait to see my wife.”

“Dude, it’s too early to start that sh!t”, I bellow.

And with that, the three of us plodded on into the darkness…

What’s said on the Trail, Stays on the Trail

We had some funny conversations between miles 45-65. Good, healthy “man stuff” and I really enjoyed spending time with these dudes as we laughed and talked it up – anything to keep our minds off the growing fatigue and muscle pain.

Lane started really hurting on the gravel fire roads to nowhere and I started to wonder if he was starting to pay the piper for trying to run back-to-back hundred milers; and by the time we got off those roads and started navigating some very technical, scraggly single-track, we were all starting to come apart a little.

There’s a stretch of trail, about 3 miles long, from the time runners leave the “roads to nowhere”, until reaching the mile 65 aid station, that is just brutal. The trail is tough to follow, pine-needle-covered and full of sneaky rocks – plus, you start seeing these far-off city lights and your brain wants to believe they are aid stations.

They aren’t.

I Believe They Call It Pinnacle

Oh my God. Forget about Cheaha, this climb was waaaay worse.

Darren and I had lost Lane and found ourselves starting to sweat the clock a little. I had ultra-brain at this point so my attempt at time calculations were laughable; but, taking my advice anyway, we pushed like crazy across each and every switchback on that climb to Pinnacle.

I’m not being dramatic when I say this climb was one of the most brutal, painful and frustrating climbs I can ever remember in a race.

75 miles on the legs, constantly going up, then turning for yet ANOTHER switch-back. Then, the trail would take you AWAY from where you were headed, and finally bring you back again – over and over.

You could see the aid station waaaaaay up at the top of the mountain which was even more demoralizing because you knew you had to keep climbing and climbing to get there – and of course – being the comical characters that they were, the aid station crew was whopping and yelling at us as they saw our slowly ascending headlamps for as long as 45 minutes.

It was Hell. (but I loved it)

More GUTS Angels

The aid station at the top of Pinnacle was “the bomb!”

GUTS members were frying up egg sandwiches, grilled cheese and handing out Pop-Tarts. They were so attentive with helping us to discover our needs as we were complete zombies upon our arrival.

David Ray, a GUTS mile-75 aid station volunteer, summed it perfectly on his blog:

One thing that became quickly obvious was the difficulty some runners would have with the mental processing. One would stop and stare at the aid station table uncomprehendingly, not seeming to realize what he needed or wanted.

The helpful thing for that is suggesting all the options to each runner, giving him a chance to think a little better and forcing him to choose. “Like some coffee, hot chocolate, or soup for something hot to drink? How bout some coke? Need any Vaseline, desitin, band-aids, baby wipes? Care to brush your teeth? Would you like to sit here or over by the fire?”

Once the script got fixed in your head, you could play it back for each runner. And you’d see the light bulb go off when you mentioned something they needed but didn’t realize it until you asked.

Most of the time. A few runners just stared at us like we were speaking some unknown language. That was pretty interesting.”

These dudes and ladies took great care of us and I love ‘em for it, BUT…

They lied to us.

The stretch from 75 to 80 miles WAS ABSOLUTELY NOT DOWNHILL!

Ya, Ya, Ya Youngrens in the Da House

Miles 75-85 were really tough for Darren and I.

I worried incessantly about the time clock and ensuring that I was going to be able finish with plenty of time – but not Darren, he was more calm and collected about the time, but he was starting to fatigue on the climbs.

Running together with Darren was helpful for us both because we could feed off of each other’s strengths – he was fast and breezy downhills, where I was forced to push to stay with him, but I could charge the climbs with lots of drive and help motivate Darren to keep up through these uphill sections.

Win-win.

And when we finally busted out of that gnarly, rocky forest at mile 85, there’s Robert and Kathy Youngren, along with new friend Josh Kennedy, and they were blaring ol’ skool techno and had the place jumping.

A HUGE pick-me-up and it was a blessing seeing their smiling faces.

It was truly a highlight for my race to get to see these two – we all have ultra heroes and I admire these two runners for both their accomplishments and their attitudes.

I was still a little freaked out about the time, but the Youngrens calmed me down, gave me some hot soup and a sandwich, and sent me on my way to get that buckle.

Only 15 miles to go…

Just Gettin’ It Done!

I didn’t have much left.

My bestest buddy Victor Zamudio and his runner Philip Sustar came up behind me, passed me on by, and continued running towards the finish, but I just couldn’t hang at that moment. I knew Darren was right behind, and sure enough I heard him hootin’ and yellin’, so I held back and waited for him since I had already run almost 50 miles with the kid.

Miles 85-95 are good because you can make up a lot of time on those jeep roads, but bad because, well… they’re jeep roads.

Darren and I didn’t say much along these roads. We just marched on.

We’d run all the flats and downhills, but walk the uphills.

I began to look for, and be appreciative of, the uphills so I could power-walk instead of run.

I was spiraling downward physically, but still hangin’ tough mentally, and I think Darren was doing the best he could too, but we were both ready to wrap this up and lie down somewhere nice and comfy with a big brass finisher’s buckle.

“I’m not stopping, 64 out!”

Just before the mile 95 aid station, Darren started to have some climbing issues, but I could already smell the barn so I took off.

This is ALWAYS what happens to me. Five miles from the finish, I always seem to wake up and move like it’s mile 9 instead of 95; plus, even though I had like 3.5 hours to go five miles, for some reason I was still sweating the time.

Then, to make it worse, just before arriving at the last aid station, mile 95, I come to find out “Three-kids”-Tony is hot on my trail.

“Damn!”

I didn’t even stop at the last aid station. I ran through yelling, “I don’t want to stop …number 64 out!”, and all I could hear were the volunteers barking out instructions to me as I ran on down the trail, doing my best to prevent Three-kids from catching my butt.

26:51:06 and a Fine Finisher Photo with the Race Director

The last section of trail was tricky, muddy and tough, but I ran through it hard. I passed a guy that I leaped-frogged with a couple of times, but I knew he’d catch me again once we got to the road.

He did.

And those last couple of miles along a rural Alabama road were the longest miles of my life.

I shuffled on down that road asking neighbors, “hey – how far is the high school from here?”

“ah, man, you almost there… just around that corner…”

But the corner was so far away, it was like a mirage.

One older lady sitting on her porch yells out to me, “how far all y’all runnin’?”

“100 miles”

“come on…”, she replied as if I was putting her on.

“no really, we started in Heflin and ran up and over Cheaha”, I explained.

“no you didn’t“, and with that, she went in the house.

…and left me to shuffle on into the stadium, taking a half lap around the track and crossing the finish line in 26:51

There was my buddy Vic’tah – good ol’ Vic’tah – holding a phone with my wife ready to congratulate me. A quick hello/goodbye/I love you and it was off to find a chair and secure that finisher’s buckle.

Another hundo, in the books.

photo by: Amanda Tichacek

Post race thoughts

I loved the Pinhoti 100. The race was everything I had hoped it would be and much, much more.

But, make no mistake IT’S TOUGH. Somewhere around a third of the runners dropped out or were pulled from the race, so it’s probably a good idea to make sure you’re trained and ready for this one.

If you love beautiful fall colors, challenging terrain, hella’ nice people and a solid race director who knows his stuff – this is the race for you.

…but, I still hate the song “Sweet Home Alabama…” {wink, wink}

Race Director Todd Henderson is one cool dude. Thanks Todd!

Update: $59.95 + $6 shipping is the best price we’ve found thus far – Holabirdsports.com

A Four-Mile Muddy Test

There’s nutin’ quite like the feeling of coming home from a frustrating day in the world of Advertising – all grouchy and agitated, full of misdirected creativity – and finding that New Balance box sitting in front of the garage.

“My new MT100s, …yes!”

It’s like New Balance knew how badly I’d needed to hit the trails and run off all that corporate nonsense; so, I yanked on a long-sleeve wicking shirt, grabbed the step-fella’ and headed to some technical trails to get put these new bad boys to the test.

I chose a section of trail near my house with lots of roots, short-n-steep ups-n-downs, plenty of muddy creek crossings, and some fun, fast sections to give the shoes as much varying terrain as possible. We’ve been pounded with rain lately in good ol’ Atlanta, so our trails are ‘G’ N A R L Y right now.

yeeee ah!

Light as a Feather

Wow, these shoes are light. It’s the first thing I noticed pulling them out of the box.

As you might know, the MT100s were created as a collaboration between Anton Krupicka and Kyle Skaggs, as a follow-up model to the New Balance 790.

At only 7.6 oz., the NB 790 is a minimalist trail shoe and one of my personal favorites for any type of trail race up to fifty miles.

The MT100s are every bit as light, if not lighter, than its predecessor; but, I still recommend that you buy up as many pairs of 790s as you can find.

Raise Your Hand If You Like a Little Tongue

Shoe tongue, that is.

If you’ve ever read Anton’s blog, you know that he tells stories of dissecting his shoes and cutting out the tongue foam to make the shoes lighter and fit his running style best. Along these same lines, the MT100s have the most unique tongue I ever experienced in a pair of running shoes.

It’s simply a piece of fabric.

No foam. No thickness at all. Just a piece of material.

Also, you’ll notice {photo above} that I had to tie the shoelaces in a knot because they weren’t long enough to tie in a bow. At first I was annoyed – now I like the idea of not having little “bows”.

Get a Grip with the MT100s

As much as I love’em, the 790s have some pretty weak tread; but not the MT100s.

It’s not the super gnarly, knobby tread that 800 and 840 shoe wearers have come to love, but it’s a very acceptable alternative to the mellow tread on the 790s.

The bottom of the shoe feels more solid and firm, bordering on hard, but out on the trails this felt sturdy and solid.

I don’t know all the fancy New Balance branded shoe jargon, but that orange that you see on the bottom of the mid-foot is a plate designed to protect the underfoot from rocks, roots and other technical trail obstacles. The 790 supposedly had the same thing, but I could never tell…

In these shoes, you can tell – and it’s much appreciated.

Because We All Need a Little Love and Support

Well, I dunno if New Balance loves me (although they should with all the shoes I buy and how much I evangelize the brand like a teeny-bopper does Hannah Montana) but the MT100s have definitely stepped it up a little in the support department.

Is this a good thing?

I don’t know.

I liked that the 790s were simply “cloth on top” and that’s pretty much it. The MT100s have some plastic supports on the outside front and back sides of the shoe, PLUS a very unique, light-but-stiff backing that I can only guess is designed to prevent friction while also adding a little stiffness in the heel. If you can think of a better reason, please lemme know in the comments section below this review.

And you’ll also notice that the material of the shoe is less cloth-like, and more like the quicker-drying mesh upper found in the 800 and 840 trail shoe models.

While the shoes feel rather stiff in your hands, once you put them on, they feel really light and comfortable.

General Observations During the Trail Run

I love ‘em.

From the first step, they felt like they were made for me.

As we ran down the first hill, I noticed that the shoes felt harder on the bottom, but that was actually a good thing. I felt less of the roots and jagged rocks. The “rockstop” plate thing actually works noticeably in this trail shoe model.

As we charge through the mud, I noticed how much grippy-er the MT100s handled the short, muddy climbs. No more energy-sucking, foot slipping.

Running through two streams soaked the shoes pretty well, but surprisingly, the uppers protected my socks and feet from getting completely soaked themselves; and at the end of the run, the shoes had almost all but dried out.

In fact, I’m sorta bummed because I didn’t want to sound like all those lame reviews I read all the time in Runner’s World or other various magazines, where it’s obvious the Marketing Department (or a guaranteed paycheck) had a heavy influence on the editor or freelance writer’s opinion.

Nobody’s paying me for this – I just dig running in the woods on sketchy trails, and finding shoes that make it that much more fun.

The MT100s fit that bill perfectly.

Light. Fast. Sturdy. Grippy.

The perfect minimalist trail shoe.

Get some!

{TinyURL link for this post: http://tinyurl.com/mt100BK}

~

New Balance Product Manager Weighs In

Byran Gothie, New Balance Outdoor Project Manager, sent some great feedback regarding what went into the production of the new MT100BK.

We tried not to treat the 100 as a direct update to the 790 but instead a new shoe to our lightweight trail category. We did start with the 790 though to figure out how we could build a better shoe. In addition, we added ultra trail runners Anton Krupicka and Kyle Skaags to our Outdoor Ambassador Team around the time we started looking into an update. The first thing we did was look at shoes they ran in for high wear areas. The attached image shows how we built the outsole specifically around the high wear areas of an ultra runner’s efficient gait. The lateral mid/forefoot has been built up the most to provide support to the highest wear area. The midfoot/heel is actually ground contact so that there is a smooth transition or just a contact point. The heel has been designed specifically for braking, as we found that the only time they landed on their heels was when they needed some control going downhill. The heel and forefoot heights are the same as the 790, 18mm in the heel and 8mm in the forefoot.

Anton and Klye then came out to our sports testing lab in our Lawrence office where we ran them through a bunch of tests like force plates and motion capture. This helped to validate our theory and solidify our work on the midsole/outsole.

A big “Thank You” to Bryan and New Balance for sharing this helpful and interesting information.

- Christian

“Next time, I’m just going to hire a pack of teenagers with baseball bats, and get this over a lot quicker”

- Gary “Laz” Cantrell, 6:00 a.m.~ish, Day 2.

Lazy, Cocky and Stupid

photo: Perry captures me in fine, “fat-man-running” form – thanks dude. {sigh}

Picture this:

It’s about 1:30 in the morning.

I’ve been running for over 17 hours, and assuming I’m remembering this right, have about 78 miles in the bank.

I had finally made the leaderboard, sitting in 6th or 7th place which was killer since I’ve never made the leaderboard before.

Over six hours to go, and I only need 22 miles to complete my dream goal of 100 miles in 24 hours.

I’ve circled this 1.52 mile loop at least 50 times, so 16 more should be a walk in the park, right?

Wrong.

Those rewards are reserved for those who run strong, humble and smart – not lazy, cocky and stupid.

A Hinson Lake Homecoming

A record 200 people lined up at Hinson Lake to spend 24 hours running a 1.52 mile loop around the lake, attempting to gobble up as many miles as possible.

The field of runners was legendary. Gary “Laz” Cantrell was looking to continue his yearly ultra streak of 34 years. Ray K was running and gunning for 100 miles. Successful Appalachian Trail through-hikers Sue Norwood and Jim O’Neil made it out, and legendary, timed event record-holders from way before my time were also at the starting line.

Other names that you may recognize were Joe Lugiano, Juli and Val Aistars, Fred and Susan Dummar, Liz Bauer, Tom Adair, Byron “badass” Backer, Joe Ninke, Brad Smythe, Matt Kirk, Denise Davis, Larry “git-a-goin” Robbins, Trans USA runner Doug Dawkins, and so many more awesome runners, current/previous record holders and all around swell ultra folks.

That’s right, I said “swell.”

The Hinson Lake Course

Hinson Lake 24-hour is directed by Tom Gabell whom I met for the first time this year at Laurel Valley. Like most of the Magnum Track Club, Tom is one of those genuine runners with a great personality and an obvious love for, and dedication to, ultrarunning and ultrarunners.

Plus, at only $24, making a decision to run his event was an absolute no-brainer.

The course was mostly hard-packed dirt, with a bunch of short wooden bridges, tucked into the woods surrounding a big, beautiful lake. The race course was generally “flat”, but did have some gradual climbs and descents that seemed to grow with each cumulative lap.

After 50 laps, I started to refer to climb on the backside as Mt. Hinson …and Mt. Hinson got walked a whole lot more often than he got run.

The weather was warm, climbing into the 80’s with heaping helpings of humidity to remind you that you were in the South. I decided to run shirtless, allowing to the rest of the field to enjoy my jigglin’ belly and man-boobies.

woo-woo.

The night time, at least before midnight, wasn’t much cooler and many of us remained shirtless and fabulous for most of the night as well.

Get to the $%$#! Race Report Already…

Hang on there skippy.

It’s hard to write a blow-by-blow race report when the entire race consisted of a course that only stretched a mile and a half long. Yeah, it was pretty the first time. …even the fifth time; but after about 13 laps, it became mostly about the grind and “gettin’ it done”.

And of course, the people.

In fact, it became all about the people.

In a typical, point to point trail race, you see some people pre-race, and again post-race, but because you’re usually trying to work your way up the pack, rarely do you get to spend much time with lots of different people throughout the entire race.

Timed-event races are different.

Christian’s Race ’cause It’s my Web Site

This is easy.

My race can be summed up as follows:

1. I created a false sense of talent in my own head.
2. I believed I was ready to tackle 100 miles – even though I just completed a tough mountain 100 a couple o’ weeks before.
3. I forgot that I have only been running ultras for two years and that I’ve only gone 100 miles, three times.
4. I showed up sore from weight-training all week, with the attitude of “who cares? it’s a flat, timed event, 100 miles is in the bag”.
5. I taunted Vikena Yutz. (Huge mistake)
6. I started out too fast.
7. I continued too fast.
8. I had a total, “where’s my mommy” pitiful breakdown.
9. I tossed and turned in my truck, on the ground, and under our tent, feeling sorry for myself and feeling tremendous blister and chafe pain.
10. Looked up, saw Laz hobbling down the lane, stood up, walked with him in the dark, and never stopped until the end of the race.
11. Finished the last lap looking like a complete and total idiot having never heard the final horn to stop, huffing and puffing across the gravel, barefoot and blistered and carrying a banana, trying to prove who-knows-what…

Drama Queen.

But, in between all the mistakes and all the personal drama and reality-checks, I was still lucky enough to score some of those great moments that we live for as ultrarunners:

1. I never get sick of the new friends coming up to me asking me, “Are you Christian?” – I just love that. It makes me feel good and when people tell me that my race report, or my list post, inspired them to do something special and meaningful, I can’t help but feel especially proud. It’s part ego-padding, but it’s also a genuine love for seeing the recognizable stoke in someone else.
2. I must have run 40 or more, of my 85 miles, with DOOM – Mr. Fred Dummar – and we really had something special going. For awhile there, we had a lap routine that looked like it was going to carry us to about 110 miles. All we had to do was stay steady. Yeah, all we had to do… regardless of the outcome, Fred and I became better friends on that lake and I’ll never forget it.
3. I got to trot a few laps with Byron Backer, who many may know is one of my all time favorite ultrarunners. Byron is a great guy, but waaay too fast and he blew me up a couple of times, but it was worth it to run alongside of him to put a couple faster miles in the bank.
4. I got to watch Vikena Yutz, a local friend and similarly-experienced ultrarunner, rack up 104 miles and 2nd place female. I may have thrown down the gauntlet, but she beat me over the head with it, and spanked me all the way home.
5. The encouragement – from the basic “looking good guys” to Laz’s “lemme see some six minute miles”-type heckling, the jovial, fun atmosphere coupled with genuine encouragement helped keep me going when things looked grim.
6. The volunteer lap-counters and food girls nicknamed me “smiley” and I enjoyed that. I tried very hard to come in after each lap smiling and letting them know how much I appreciated them being there. Without them, we’re just a bunch of freaks running circles.

Even with them, we’re still a bunch of freaks running circles.

But, the moment that stands out as the most unique of the event for me was my time with Gary “LAZ” Cantrell.

Laz is a staple in our community. A legendary runner, race director and writer with more varied talents and smarts than I could ever hope to have. Coming into the event, I was very excited to meet him and secretly hoped I’d get the opportunity for some one-on-one time with him.

Stay with me for as minute and try to imagine the scene

It’s dark and it’s late. …or “early”, depending on what you call 5:30 a.m., and the race would be ending in a little over two hours.

A sorry-looking, dejected, shivering Christian Griffith is sitting in a chair, trying to find some warmth from a Coleman lamp that wasn’t even designed to be warm.

I had announced I was quitting about 4 hours earlier. (’bout 1:30-ish)

I had 78 miles in the bank but somehow had lost my way. Pain set in. My brain melted. I entered a moment of weakness, and it beat me.

With only 22 miles to get my goal of 100, and almost 7 hours to do it, I gave up.

I crawled into my truck, but the truck light wouldn’t go out and I was too stiff and locked-up to move to turn it off. This attracted a million bugs inna ’bout 2 minutes, and I found myself covered in bugs, and sweating to death from the lack of moving air in the vehicle.

I staggered to the wooden floor near the outdoor restrooms, and saw Ray K sleeping in a sleeping bag there, so I figured it would be a great spot.

It sucked.

For one thing, millions of mosquitoes kept buzzing in my ears while I tried to sleep; but it was futile anyway, because my feet, legs, chafe and blisters hurt so badly that I couldn’t get comfortable in any position on that wooden deck.

Plus, every time I heard a runner coming through the start/finish area, announcing their number to the lap counters, I felt worse and worse about my decision to quit.

I was sticky, dirty, sleepy, sore, grumpy and really just about as miserable as any one person could be.

My body temperature was so jacked up – I’d go from hot and sticky to cold and shivering – so, I got up and staggered back to our tent along the course and that’s where we pick the story back up…

Christian – shivering away in a zip-up, grey GUTS jacket, with it stretched out and pulled down over his knees …head in hands and really feeling like tee-total shit.

And here comes Laz.

Laz wasn’t exactly sprinting and was all alone; and since I was freezing my @$$ off, it seemed like a great opportunity to get in a few laps with him while also taking my mind off my terrible state.

I got up and joined him as he passed by…

…but my blisters hurt so badly that I yelled out, “Laz, you’ll have to go on without me, man, my blisters hurt too much”

and he said, “if you just keep going, they’ll hurt less.”

And that was the beginning of me being part of Laz getting to his new goal of “Strolling Jim” distance (40 miles) as well as the beginning to my ability to continue on, another 5-7 miles, pushing me over 85 miles for the race.

We must have looked pretty comical as we snail-paced that loop, laughing a whole helluva lot and not really paying much attention to the clock anymore. Hopefully, he was happy for the company, and I was happy that I wasn’t dying anymore and instead, actually feeling pretty good and a little energized.

I’ll tell you this much, it’s definitely the first time I ever waited for anyone in between loops, and MOST definitely the only time I ever waited for someone to finish smoking a Camel cigarette in between loops.

That is just too damn classic.

Along that 3.04 miles of walking with Laz, I came to realize that I was not going to quit. His effort inspired me to keep going no matter what, and when he got his 40 miles and found a comfortable chair along the track, I kept going.

Crocs and all.

And when the Crocs even became too much for my blistered feet, I took ‘em off and kept going barefoot.

I wasn’t going to quit.

I thought I knew how badly it felt to quit but I guess I hadn’t learned my lesson.

I was trying to redeem.

And when I took off with that banana, with 23 minutes left until the end of 24 hours, my feet hurt so bad I was crying without anyone seeing it, and grunting when no one was near, and wiping the stray tears once I got passed those who were packing up.

I felt so much, although I couldn’t really put my finger on what it was, but I was consumed.

How could I quit so easily earlier, yet now I was running, …and running really hard, trying with everything I had to make it back and finish that loop before the final horn.

I passed a few walkers and they gave me encouragement, “go get it, don’t stop!”

And I ran my heart out. Barefoot.

I turned the corner and heard Mike Melton say, “good job, Christian” as I staggered and rock-hopped the big gravel, heading towards the bridge…

“Hell Yeah, I’m gonna make it before the horn!”

And I hit the bridge…

…looked up…

…and the clock wasn’t moving.

“What the…”

I missed the horn.

It blew.

I didn’t hear it.

I failed.

I felt really stupid charging across that finish line.

I staggered to my chair, sat alone, sulked a little, and examined my SHREDDED feet.

And that’s how the race ended.

I still have a lot to learn about ultrarunning.

but…

For your enjoyment, I introduce the Blister Videos

…and don’t forget the toes…

I realize I probably just stopped 1000 people from ever visiting run100miles.com ever again, but that’s ok.

Toodles.

I have the buckle, but I still have a lot to learn about running 100-miles.

Especially, and more specifically, the rough and rugged 100-mile trail races.

As ultrarunners, we seem to have serious selective memory, so I’m writing this report from a cruising altitude of 39,000 feet to ensure that I remember and report on everything that I wanted to during the time I plodded on through the Cascades …one foot after the other.

Cascade Crest is no joke.

If there are more difficult 100-mile trail races, then I found my “difficulty limit” for quite awhile. Ultrarunning Magazine lists Cascade Crest right up there with Massanutten, Hard Rock, …and of course, the Superior Sawtooth trail 100 which I completed last year as my first 100-mile race.

I’ve heard ultrarunners say the Superior Sawtooth 100-miler is harder than Cascade Crest, and finishing times seem to indicate this might be true, especially since it is a “slower” race, but I rarely found myself climbing at Superior like I was at Cascade.

Must be more of that “selective memory”.

Like a kid on Christmas Morning

I was very excited for Cascade Crest.

Being from Atlanta, I travelled a long way to get there. I showed up race morning with enough energy to power the small mountain town of Easton, Washington for a month. In fact, stepping out of the van was just about the time I met Jon Yoon, an enthusiastic ultra-list member and extremely supportive and nice guy. Jon would be volunteering and manning a few aid stations during the race, so he had plenty of good cautionary advice.

If you know me, you know how much I love meeting people in our sport. It’s one of my favorite parts of the race experience. For the first time I got to shake hands and chat up with other well-known, West Coast ultramarathon runners including Chris Martin, Kent Holder, Chihping Fu, Andy Kumeda, Catra Corbett, Jessica Deline, Hans Deiter-W …and more.

(sorry if I forgot some people but I have “ultra-brain” right now. I’ve been calling Pat Ackley, my host and crew member, the wrong name all morning. —“Hey Phil!”)

One of the neatest things was meeting Brian Morrison at Seattle Running Company, who folks may remember as the fastest runner at the 2006 Western States 100-mile trail race who collapsed 1/4 mile from the finish and thus ended up disqualified.

Think about that for a second – I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.

10:00 a.m. is a nice race start

Video note: This is a 1:31 video of just the start of the Cascade Crest 100, but I think it’s key in demonstrating smart pacing. Chris Martin, the dude in the white and blue sleeveless shirt, starts the race in last place just walking – he finished over 2 hours ahead of me. Proper pacing ladies and gentlemen.

For one thing, starting at 10:00 a.m. makes it easy to get to Easton, and thus the race start, without having to get up at 3:00 o’clock in the morning. That’s nice. Plus, it pretty much ensures that even the fastest runners have to run through the entire night.

We started the race like most races start, and found ourselves headed down the gravel road, past local barns and grazing horses, towards the first serious section of the day, the climb to Goat Peak.

Warning: Cascasde Crest is an incredible race and I’m about to throw it down. Right here, right now, so if blow-by-blow bores you, you just might want to go visit a less enthusiastic web site. …Just givin’ ya the heads up.

“What did I get myself into?”

I asked myself that same thing over and over just a couple of miles into the climb to Goat Peak. Making runners start a race climbing a very long, very steep, rugged, and rocky mountain is, …well… as I was about to learn, very Cascade-Crest-like.

Of course, I studied the course a bit and knew the climb was coming, so I just settled into a very slow grind, sorta laughing to myself as gravel roads turned into technical single-track, turned into cambered rock, to even more steep technical trail, before finally giving us some much-appreciated relief.

Goat Peak is a long, tough climb – very tough – but, as we were soon to see, it was just one in a series of race challenges in store for all the runners over the next 24+ hours.

“I’m amazed at how fast everyone is going out!”

During the long descent after the first aid station, I was throwing that statement out to anyone who’d listen, secretly hoping they would validate my concerns and my decision to go out slower. After all, the race reputation is one of a much more difficult second half and I was trying to respect that enigmatic element of the event.

After coming down the other side of Goat Peak, dropping 1500 feet, we started climbing again (up 1500 feet) to the 15-mile aid station at Blowout Mountain. This was 100% old dusty gravel logging roads. I could taste all the dust gettin’ rustled up and whenever I’d bite down, my teeth would crunch the dirt I inhaled from the air.

That’s West Coast for ya.

But oddly, over just a mile or so, we found ourselves climbing into the clouds again on very steep, moist and damp single-track. Like the flip of a switch, the weather and climate just changed.

Being in the clouds is such a trip. You can literally see the clouds rushing by in front of you and feel the dampness on your skin – like a cold steam room. I got a big kick out that …at least until the night time when that same phenomenon created freezing cold temps, at high elevation, with no escape other than to just run through it, hoping for a descent to get you out of there.

Are ya listenin’ Kecheless Ridge?

A little more bobbin’ and weavin’, up and down, (mostly “up”) and we found ourselves running onto the drop-dead, stunningly gorgeous, PCT – the famous Pacific Crest Trail, the West Coast’s version of the Appalachian Trail.

The PCT might just be trail running heaven.

A little bit of running love

Ok, so the entire 100-miles is not brutal. The PCT section between miles 17 and 47 were absolutely incredible. Lots of varying terrain with old growth forest that looked like it was lifted from a masterpiece painting.

I ran the first part of the PCT in absolute heaven. I was fast and feeling it. I’d roll into those aid stations yelling at the top of my lungs, and getting the love back from all the volunteers and crews waiting for their runners.

I was so stoked by the beauty and runnability of the trail, and I was feeling fantastic and just had to let everyone know.

…but,

…as is typical,

…it can’t stay bright sunshine and fluffy kittens forever…

Cover your eyes ’cause here comes the D-word

Yup. Diarrhea.

My butt blew up; and for the first time in an ultramarathon, I found myself dealing with major ASSplosion over and over again, for more than 30 miles. I had to drop and squat over 20 times until I finally just quit counting out of disgust with the situation.

Sorry about the graphic detail, especially for those reading who do not run ultramarathons, but as ultra runners you know the serious race impacts of the D-word: lost time, dehydration, frustration, un-kind leaf irritation, and unavoidably, our friend, mr. chafe.

I have no idea what did it to me, but if I ever figure it out, I might just ban it from my life altogether. Period.

But, I’ll move on…

Video note: Here I explain, very succinctly, what needs to happen.

Darkness falls

I like running at night. It’s a forced excuse to slow down and it’s an easy way to identify runners ahead that you might have a chance of picking off, and runners behind, moving more quickly and making a move to pass.

It’s also comforting to see a headlamp ahead of you – then you know that you’re most likely going the right way on the right trail, …or BOTH of you are lost, but either way, you aren’t alone in the forest in the dark.

At mile 41, I picked up Betsy from Montana. We had run near each other at various points in the race, and both left the Meadow Mountain aid station at the same time with head lamps a’blarin’.

If I remember right, this was her first 100 mile race and the first time she had run in the woods in the dark. I don’t know if any of you readers have much experience running in the dark, but there’s a huge difference between “running in the street” dark, and “running in a mountain forest” dark.

“Mountain-forest-dark” is just plain BLACK dark.

Like “coal-air-dark”.

Like “what in the Hell was that?”-dark.

But Betsy was an absolute trooper, and in my opinion a far better runner than me. She mentioned that maybe we should stay together as a sort of companionship thing, and I was happy to accept. I let her lead and she’d just chat away while navigating technical slippery scree-rocks, and climbing very rugged terrain around Mirror Lake.

She didn’t seem to be phased one bit by the darkness in combination with the technical terrain and I was a little worried that I would not be able to keep up with her. In retrospect, I’m glad she charged it like that because we passed quite a few people together.

The new addition

One of the most unique elements of the Cascade Crest 100-miler is a very steep, bushwack descent, down to a 2.5 mile long tunnel that runs right through the center of a mountain. Supposedly it’s drippy and creepy and straight out of a woods-themed horror movie.

But, the tunnel was closed this year for construction, so the RD set out to find a suitable replacement.

The replacement consisted of a very long climb up and over Snolquamie Pass , a ski resort with a beautiful lodge and treacherous slopes. Let’s put it this way, I would have MUCH, MUCH rather skied down these slopes as opposed to running down them. Wow!

Apparently, lots of people were frustrated and my crew told me that people were showing up at Hyak (mile 53), all bloodied up and wounded and not-at-all happy about the chosen course change.

Me?

I didn’t really care. I had never seen the tunnel section anyway, and yea, I bitched and moaned coming down those steep, dangerous, and loose-rock declines, but I love that kind of stuff – especially once it’s over with – and running down a ski slope was pretty darn gnarly, so I was 100% cool with it.

Plus, with Betsy leading, I could let her find all the sketchy spots first and make sure to avoid them – such the gentleman huh?

“Hey, it’s a race – that gentleman stuff doesn’t apply.”

Hyak = halfway home

Video warning: Please excuse the excessive cussing at the end of this video clip …I was a little “fired up!” and excited to be halfway through the race.

Victor and Pat, my race crew, were a welcomed sight after all that madness through Mirror Lake and the Snolquamie Pass ski slopes.

They ushered me into a chair and Victor immediately started with all the “are you coherent?”-type questions:

“Are you eating?” – yea.

“How are your feet?” – great.

“How are you feeling?” – good.

“Are you sure?” – yup.

“What do you want to eat?” – grilled cheese.

I even got to have a few quick words with Charlie, the race director, letting him know how much fun I was having and how much I was enjoying the race.

I can’t remember if I shared my D-word problem with the gang, but I do remember getting some ginger candies from Victor and Pat, so maybe I did. I was afraid Vic’tah would make me stay at the aid station if I shared any discomfort at all.

Victor is kind of a hardass and he wants you to do well, probably as much or more than you do yourself, so I was cautious with what I’d tell him sometimes. At least until the later miles when I acted like a little, pitch-a-fit baby and he got more than a mouthful from me.

I would never wanna deal with me in a broken state, so three cheers for Vic’tah for hanging in there and not kicking my ass and leaving me on the trail.

At least I know I’m good for fifty???

I felt fantastic for someone who had just run 53 difficult mountain miles, and once Victor got me fixed up and Pat scored me some hot food from the aid station, 10 minutes had passed, and I was fired back up and ready to go again.

You’re allowed pacers at this point, but I didn’t feel like I needed it yet and Betsy had planned to have her Dad pace her from here anyway, so I just jumped in with them.

Dan, Betsy’s Dad, might simply be one of the coolest dads around and I really enjoyed the time I ran with the two of them.

But, once again, the good turned to bad.

The long, 100% uphill, 7-mile climb up to Kechless Ridge did me in. It started out ok, but it felt like it took forever. In reality, it only took two hours, but it felt like all night. Even worse, the D-word problem forced me stop over and over again.

Whenever I could find suitable leaves, which got harder and harder as the elevation got higher and higher, I’d pause for a humbling squat session. Then, once I got business taken care of, I’d have to sprint uphill to catch back up with my little two-person group.

By the time we hit the top of the climb, Kechless Ridge aid station, we were playing at close to 6000 feet with temps in the 30’s, and facing another 8-ish miles of the backside.

And that other side of that climb, the descent from Kechless Ridge aid station, was just as damn long – maybe longer.

where’s that course map, anyway?

I rolled into mile 68, the Kachess aid station, feeling like complete death, loopy, and badly needing some food and tender loving care – and I got it thanks to my awesome crew and the cheery, experienced aid station volunteers.

As nice as everyone was, I could tell from the way they talked to me and looked at me, that I had better get up and keep moving, or I could get stuck there for the night.

The trail from Hell

Don’t blame me, that’s what the trail is called, and for good reason!

I really don’t think it’s possible for there to have been a worse time for me to have to embark on this ridiculous section of trail – I was trashed. I wanted to go home.

The emotional meltdown was starting.

I told Vic’tah that I definitely needed a pacer now – which really just equates to some company – so he got dressed, grabbed a ton a gear and supplies like he always does, and obliged.

Describing this section of trail correctly will definitely test my creativity and literary semantic skills because no matter what I say, you’ll never truly understand how nasty this trail is until you step foot onto that beast.

Man.

It’s something else.

Really… it’s crazy-hard-nasty-tricky and mean.

The trail opens up with a half-buried skeleton at the base of a short, steep climb that doesn’t even really look like a trail head at all. It looks like a bear was just digging for ants up a steep embankment.

And, this is pretty much the case for about 1/2 mile of complete and total bushwacking that is 100% unrunnable – barely walkable – and in fact, it almost appeared as if it was “created” exclusively for some sort of masochistic ritual.

Somebody needs to come clean. {grin}

Once you make it over the plethora of huge blown-down trees, the thick bushes and thorns, and the steep camber that could easily send a woozy runner down the slope and into the abyss, you then, finally, start the official Trail from Hell – 5.5 miles of constant up-n-down, barely-a-trail type footing and heaping helpings of danger to round out the experience.

The progress is super slow which equates to a long, grueling grind, many times hand-over-hand, all while trying to prevent yourself from slipping off into the Kachess Lake – about 500 (?) feet below.

Ok, I’ll just say it – this section was very, very hard for me. Both physically and mentally. This was my wall, and poor ol’ Vic’tah got an earful from me for no other reason than the fact that he had ears and was there. I’m not happy nor proud of my mini temper tantrums, but it’s part of what happened out there and I can’t deny it.

He’d tell me to eat, and I’d tell him “no.”

He’d tell me drink, and I’d yell, “I hate that GU2O sh*t!”

I’d accused him of lying to me about the aid station distance.

I’d accuse him of lying about the time.

I’d accuse him of lying about knowing the trail.

Finally, he’d get fed up with my whining and yell back, so we pretty much sounded like an old married couple out there on that stretch of insanity.

Christian crumbles.

“Make sure he’s ready, it’s a long climb to NoName Ridge.”

Coming into the Mineral Creek aid station, and finally finishing the Trail from Hell, I really didn’t need to hear that comment above.

And sure enough, the next section would challenge me more than I could have ever imagined. It was on this stretch of climb that I started an even worse downward spiral.

The climb to NoName Ridge is 100% climbing, 7 miles, with an elevation gain of 3,000 feet, all on loose gravel.

I walked 99.9% of it.

Once, I was so fatigued that allowed myself to just collapse smack-down on the side of gravel mountain road, hoping for just a minute of rest, but NOPE! Vic’tah snatched me up off the ground, yelling at me to keep going while some other runners encouraged me to just get to the mile 81 aid station (NoName Ridge).

The sun came out and started to roast us down, but also made for some gorgeous views of the jagged Cascade Mountain Range. We were above the clouds in some spots and you could see this beautiful, fluffy cloud floor below that looked so comfortable I fantasized about running and diving over the edge of the mountain and sleeping for a month on the comfy clouds.

Pitiful, huh?

At mile 81, I laid down on an Army cot for 6 minutes.

It did nothing for me.

Nice to see Laura Houston. A familiar face.

Time to keep moving.

Finding ways to compensate for pain

Here it comes…

Some of the most difficult terrain in the entire 100-mile race was next – The Cardiac Needles and the climb to Thorpe Mountain …and in my case, the descent to French Cabin.

At this point, I had developed a knee issue that was preventing me from running downhill – while this sucked royally since downhills are where you can really make up time, the knee was fine climbing steep uphills. I’d simply have to switch the natural strategy and try to charge up the climbs and go easy on the downs …not a pretty scenario for 80+ miles in, but necessary none-the-less.

After some pleasant and beautiful sunny sections of rolling single-track, the first of five (5) Cardiac Needles appears. There is nothing you can do but put your head down, laugh at the ridiculousness of the grade, and march up the beeeeyatch as slowly and carefully as you can. One small stumble, slippage or lean in the wrong direction and you could be rolling backwards like an avalanche.

Afterwards, more nice trail with great views …and of course, more nasty Needles to climb.

Lots of drastic descents testing my thresholds for pain.

Lots of drastic ascents testing the conditioning of my heart.

Those Needles are laughable.

Really.

At least they are relatively short climbs. Long miles at this grade might just wreck a dude for life.

The Thorpe tease

Talk about a let down.

You feel like you’ve done something. “Nice, I hear voices, I made it here faster than I expected…”

Nope.

Instead, you get to wave to the aid station volunteers as you begin a steep ascent on a scree-like, technical trail at a ridiculous grade, for at least the distance of a couple of football fields, …grab a piece of unique paper that proves you went to the top, …and return down that steep, ridiculous grade to hand in the paper to the race volunteers and get your aid.

84 miles in. Tired and sleepy and trashed.

Downhills hurt the knees, forcing me to employ some silly-looking, fast-falling-walk that looks like I am throwing myself down the trail and my rag-doll legs are bobbin’ and weavin’ below me at an unsustainable, wobbly pace.

Like a mall-walker on acid.

Chafe is at raw-skin stage and the compression-like shorts are sticking to my exposed flesh. The blisters have become so big, I can move my foot inside the shoe and redistribute the fluid to different parts of the blister. Gnarly, huh?

Oh well, only 16 miles to go – just’a little more than a “half-marathon”… well, plus a road 5K, plus…

Cussing the trail

More steep Needle climbs, more ridges, more beautiful scenery…at this point I am in total, head-down, grind-it-out, don’t-talk mode where all I can think about is the finish.

The quintessential “death march” that everyone tries to avoid.

The tree-covered ridge running opens up to a drastic, sun-exposed, technical and dusty descent down a mountain to the French Cabins aid station. The descent just pissed me off because I felt like the trail gods knew that my knee hurt, and they just wanted to keep compounding the challenges. What’s the matter with those guys?

After taking it out on my pacer for most of the drop, we finally arrived.

88 miles in – 12 more to go.

Is this White River?

Whoa.

This 6-7 mile section was awesome. Next to the PCT sections, it was the most runnable; but besides that, the trail was gorgeous, old-growth-like blow-down with lots of rushing water and a cinematic, prehistoric feel.

I love trail like that. I appreciate the sport most during these times as opposed to marching up gravel jeep roads.

I was able to find some legs (and some kahones), and finally start to run again in bits and pieces.

Since it was rolling with a soft surface, I sucked it up and actually gained a lot of time over what would have happened had I walked it in totally. It felt good to run and for awhile there, I looked like I was coming back all the way.

But a nasty, 1.5 mile technical descent to the last aid station would hammer the knee to a point where I had to do the falling-walk thing again to endure the drastic grade into that last aid station.

Physically, arriving at the last aid station just switched my body off almost completely.

I knew I’d finish – time goals were gone a long time ago – so now, it was just getting there, and Vic’tah and I set off for the little town of Easton, Washington.

5.5 miles to go…

Pitiful

I was so pitiful.

Disappointed in yourself kind of pitiful.

Head bobbin, feet shufflin’ pitiful.

Vic’tah tried to get me to run. I’d shuffle 25 yards, and just shut-down.

“I can’t do it, man”, “I’m done.”

I was looking forward to finally getting to the long, straight road into Easton. I thought for sure I’d be able to kick it in and finish strong.

Nope.

The road ate up my hips (?) and I found myself just hobbling. Bad knee, terrible blisters, painful chafe (frontside and backside) and now, a little hip action to keep things fun.

A broken man.

Standing and staring at 29:44

I ran the last 100 yards in the most pain I’ve ever felt running ultras.

I heard Charlie call my name and say, “and coming all the way from Georgia…”, and I knew it was finally over.

I finished.

And even though I was sweating my time the whole race, I came in well under 30 under hours, taking over 9 hours off my first 100-mile race, and with a beat and battered body that had to power-hike a majority of the last 27 miles.

What a race!

What a beast of a course!

What an experience all the way around!

What a helpful crew, phenomenal pacer and great group of runners!

Everything that I experienced over that 100-mile adventure, that 29 hours, all came rushing into my brain at once and I almost passed out…

…right there, under the finish line banner.

I just sorta’ stood there. Wobbly. Looking at the clock.

A couple of others grabbed me, put me in a chair, plunked my feet in some cold water, covered me with a blanket and fed me some soup and fluids for a good hour.

And, there I sat, watching other runners come in, some needing medical attention, but most with giant grins on their faces and a thick ol’ belt buckle held tightly in their dirty hands.

I slept with my belt buckle that night.

—————————————————————————–

The learning chapter

So, what did I learn in this one?

Here’s the advice I would give anyone who is considering this race:

1. Go easy on the very first climb to Goat Peak. You’ll hear this a lot but if you’re like me it might take some reinforcement. Here’s your reinforcement. It’s hard and it never ends where you think it ends.
2. Early in the race, the best spot to make up time, or put a little in the bank, is during the early PCT sections. Once you enter the PCT, the trail is rolling and gorgeous and fast for about 15 miles.
3. Expect many challenges. You get your money’s worth – Cascade Crest throws a little of everything at you over the 100-mile race course including:
   • Very long climbs & descents
   • Very steep climbs & descents
   • Bush-wacking
   • Just enough road to hurt
   • Gravel jeep road
   • Lots o’ rocks
   • Sketchy obstacles (the log over a stream towards the end of Trail from Hell could have killed me if I would have slipped)
   • Hot sections
   • Cold sections
   • Scree running
4. The second half of the race is really, truly harder than the front half. Take heed or ignore – but it is.
5. Run with a long-sleeved, windbreaker type jacket, tied around your waist. You never know when you’ll need it at higher elevations, and at night, it makes all the difference in the world.
6. It gets dark early, and light late in those mountain woods. Bring extra batteries for your headlamp.
7. In my opinion, you can run this race with two bottles. I was glad I chose not to wear, and did not have to lug, a hydration backpack.
8. Take a least some time to absorb the scenery. The PNW is incredible and the Cascades take it up a notch.

Thanks Charlie.

Thank you volunteers.

Thank you Vic’tah and Patrick and Betsy and Jon Yoon …and anyone else that touched me through this experience.

That’s the thing about 100s – it’s hard to do without others – and it’s an “experience” much more than a race.

September 19, I go for 101 miles.

Full speed ahead.

Followed up 30 minutes later with, “so, uhhh, what’s the date for next year?”

A perfect combination of sweet and salty

Courses like Laurel Valley illustrate the true nature of ultrarunning for me.

You get it all:

• Incredible beauty
• Lush forest
• Roots, big rocks, little rocks, slurpee mud, pine-coverage
• Punishing heat and humidity and sun…
• …but with ice cold rivers, creeks and lakes
• Tight, technical ridge running
• Straight-up-steep, old skool east coast climbing
• Punishing (and I mean punishing) descents
• 3000+ railroad tie stairs along the trail
• Waterfalls
• Hand-over-hand climbing and jiving
• Wide trails, skinny trails and “barely-a-trail” trails
• Veteran runners, newbies and handfuls of sweeps
• 100% unsupported – you are on your own – no aid
• Ambiguous, no one knows for sure how far it is
• A certain respect that must acknowledged in order to safely come out on the other side
• No guarantees

That’s a lot of trail goodness jam-packed into somewhere around 35 miles.

Party at the Pizza Inn

Ok, so maybe it wasn’t a party, but since a bunch of us would be stealing a little corner of floor space at Byron Backer’s house, meeting at the Pizza Inn in Traveler’s Rest, SC just made good sense – gathering as a group, swapping ultra stories, and fueling up on loads of pizza.

In attendance was Jim Musselmen, Jonathon Savage, Bedford Boyce, John Teed, Mike Melton, Byron & Irene Backer and me, probably the least overall experienced ultrarunner in the crowd, but damn happy to be included none-the-less.

3:15 comes mighty early

Laurel Valley is a point-to-point race. This means that some runners have to leave cars at the finish of the race, and then catch a ride from another runner back to the start – all before the race begins.

Jonathon Savage and I rode to the start with Bill Keane, a 13-year Laurel Valley race veteran and terrific story teller. This would be Jonathon’s first Laurel Valley and it was a kick listening to Bill give Jonathon “the lowdown” on the race course and what to expect. Must have worked because Jonathon took second place overall.

Bill is adamant that the race is 40 miles; as for me? I’m not so sure – but who’s gonna argue with a dude who’s been running the race since I was back in my 20’s washing dishes in South Florida?

We got to the start at 5:50 a.m. with 10 minutes to spare until the start. I shook some hands, introduced myself to some newbies, and blinded a few folks with my overeager and early illumination of my headlamp.

“Go!”

…and as usual Byron Backer grabbed the lead like it was a blistering fast 5K.

A post-race email pretty much sums it up

Well, I could go turn-by-turn, like most race reports, or I could be a little more abstract.

With this being the third time I’ve run Laurel Valley, I thought I’d share an email that I wrote late at night to the ultrarunner email list.

I figured that, being ultrarunners, they could understand the emotions that were swirling around in my head. Here goes…:

Ya know what my problem is?

(by the way, I’m so interested in sharing my problem that I’m willing to endure the wrath of a trying-to-sleep wife, lying next to me with a pillow over her head, hurling comments at me to stop banging the laptop, go to bed and to quit being inconsiderate …but still I write…)

But my problem is I gots no damn memory.

Can you relate?

I lay here thinking about how am I going to break it to my CEO that yeah, man …I got accepted into another one of those “goofball races”.

I think about how much “fun” I’ll be having trotting through some new forest, on some new trail, all the while trying to keep myself hydrated, fed and coherent.

Naw, I don’t remember two days ago when I threw my bottles down on the ground, frustrated that my body was hurting so much that I couldn’t fight off the runner who just passed me one mile from the finish … huffing and puffing and tired and sweaty and beat-up and scraped-up – feet hurt, hammies tight as guitar strings, out-of-water …but with water around me, just too much effort too refill so close to the finish.

shirt stuck to me – annoying me. Ripping it off and swearing it’s not littering, …it’s “trail magic”. Yea sure, my stinky, sweat-soaked  shirt is gonna be someone else’s trail magic.

whatever.

But that wasn’t all – I cussed at every climb after the horse pasture bridge.

I complained that this stretch or that stretch was killing me – that I must have made a wrong turn – where’s that $%#@! white blaze?

Sometimes I was so hot that I’d stagger, foot half-teetering over the logs alongside the trail …logs that are probably along that ridge so people don’t topple over, but I was close to topplin’.

My head would swim, and I’d sorta laugh in an insane, introspective conversational laugh that would feel funny at first – a little weird after a couple of minutes.

Time to collect myself and continue.

Stop skipping creeks you idiot – prune juice-colored pee means you need some fluids, fool.

Damn that guy that said “if you keep up this pace, you’ll break eight hours”

Damn him!

Now that’s burned in my brain

Making me make bad decisions…

…or at least, hard, difficult ones.

Yeah, I forget about all that.

Running into the finish area like a kid chasing the ice cream truck, I barely hear the claps and hoots and hollers, running straight to Claude…

“Did I get in under eight?”

“8:11″

Damn…

Sorta hoping Doom’s guess of 8:05 was just a tired, climbing man’s mistake.

But just like that, all the tough stuff disappeared.

I felt awakened. Fully alive.

Cascade Crest is two weeks away.

so I lay here…

thinking about new trails

new forests

new challenges

new excitement

new people

all reciting much the same when they meet me – “ohhhhhh, you’re that dude from the ultra list”

“yup. I’m here to get my run on.”

I forget how bad running long distances hurts me.

Mostly because I think without running long distances “I” might hurt me.

I like the Runners From Hell

the meaning is for real.

Great – so, anyway, what in the heck does that post title mean?

Schicked, Gabelled and Doomed?

During this year’s race, I ran 90% of the day completely alone, always looking over my shoulder – and looking ahead to see if I could pick anyone off along the way.

While I was lucky enough to pass a few folks, I especially remembered getting skewered by the following folks:

• Richard Schick: No competition here. Rich passed me about 5 miles in to the race and I never saw him again. Damn that Rich Schick …I’m gonna get him one day. Did I mention he’s 60? What an athlete!
• Tom Gabell: Tom is the race director for the Hinson Lake 24-hour race. Tom particularly made it tough because I saw him coming into the horse pasture bridge as I was leaving. I knew if he caught me, it would be a clear indication that I was slowing down …or that he was speeding up. I think it was both, and when he approached a couple of miles later, I tried to stay with him, but he dropped me like a bad habit.
• Fred Dummar: Everytime I see Fred, I can’t help but yell “DOOOOOM!” – I was so happy to meet Fred in person, but not-so-happy to get passed by him in the last mile of the race. I did find some climbing legs, and regained my lead just before the finish, but that’s probably a little cheesy… BTW, the “lovely Mrs. Doom” is not just a Fred catch-phrase, she’s a great lady.

So there ya go…

Long live the LV.

Long live the Runners From Hell.

…with extreme humidity?

…around a one mile loop?

…for eight hours straight?

As ultrarunners, we call this a “fun day”.

And, we even pay to do it.

2009 Hot 2 Trot 8-hour Race, Decatur, Georgia

Waking up at 6:00 a.m., I rushed to the computer to check the weather. All week the high temperature reports, the humidity and the possibilities of rain were all over the board. No one really knew what to expect for this year’s Hot 2 Trot race; but one thing was for sure – it’s the first week of August, in Georgia, so you can pretty much count on hot temperatures, extreme humidity, and a collection of insane runners milling about at the Clyde Shepherd Nature Preserve in Decatur, Georgia.

The Hot 2 Trot race is a timed running event. Runners are given eight hours to run around and around a 1.12 mile trail loop in an effort to collect as many miles as possible.

I’ll break the loop down for ya like this:

• Section 1: the bridges: this first section begins with a cedar covered trail entrance that takes runners across a series of very slippery wooden bridges. Stepping up onto the bridges becomes a challenge after about 25 loops. This section also contains the one and only hill that ascends about 12 feet – but that’s a tough ascent, again, after about 25 loops and more.
• Section 2: the straight-away: This is a long, straight and super lush trail section that has both deep cover-up and sun-exposed portions. For the first couple of loops, this portion feels short and sweet – but somehow gets longer and longer as the race progresses. After 36, one-mile loops, I have this entire section burned into my skull.
• Section 3: the punisher: After a mile of heavenly trail, runners are dumped out onto the road for a short trot back to the start. Lots of runners walked this section – but I chose to run it every single time – not because I’m cool, but because I wanted to get it over with…

1.12 makes for a short race report

So, what can I say? It’s not like most ultramarathons where I get to travel long distances, across a wide variety of terrains and environments. This was mostly a test of mental resolve.

Personally, having just completed the White River 50-mile Trail Championships near Mt. Rainier in Washington, I was tentative about doing Hot 2 Trot. I had almost resolved to just showing up, running one loop, and then watching the front runners beast it up.

But as usual, by Wednesday, I had talked myself (with a little helped from some other GUTS members) into running 40 miles. For one, race day was my birthday, turning 39 years old, and every ultrarunner knows that you must run your age in miles on your birthday. Plus, local runner “Three-kids-Tony” offered to pay my next year’s Mountain Mist 50K entry if I nailed 40 miles.

It was on.

A race report in bullet points

So, as this year’s race report, I’m just going to try to remember some cool and interesting tidbits that made the Hot 2 Trot a fun way to spend my 39th birthday. *Beware – this might only be interesting to local runners and GUTS members, but here goes:

• Team Beth, dressed in matching outfits.
• The constant screaming as runners would belt out loud screams, usually resulting in a string of various hootin’ and hollarin’ to keep every one fired up and stoked.
• The slick bridges made for some challenging obstacles. I busted my ass a good 2-3 or times on that first slick bridge, plus I tripped over the exact same root section, near the bridges, about 4 or 5 times. One dude saw me do it twice in a row. {sigh}
• Watching the leader {name drawing a blank}, and John Obst, Kate Brun, Bryce and Matt Kahrs loop the field over and over and over. This crowd, minus a hurt Matt Kahrs, all clocked 50+ miles.
• GUTS leaders Janice Anderson and Sally Brookings took time out from volunteer/aid station duties to run a few laps with runners during the heat of the day.
• Matt Silva’s tremendous support lap after lap after lap – Matt recently ran the Vermont 100-miler where he kicked some serious butt and rep’d Georgia proud.
• Lane, Sally, Janice, cold-water-dude (I need to know this guy’s name), big Rahn and so many others were all over the place ensuring that runners had everything they needed for each loop. Especially during the later hours. when things start to get ugly – or comical, depending on your perspective.
• Social stuff – seeing the same people loop after loop allows for lots of catch-up time with other local ultrarunners – although after about 25 laps, I wasn’t much for chattin’.
• The HTFU temporary tatoos were mighty popular. Love me some HTFU.
• David Ray’s great attitude every time you see him. …(and thanks to David for my HTFU button birthday present)
• Andrew Edwards rocking the yellow and black, bumble-bee tights – Tights? in the summer? Trip dog.
• Jeff Bryan and Gary Griffin coming up from Florida an taking a chunk out of the course themselves.
• Colt and Matt hanging around to watch me complete my forty miles even though I know they wanted to go home.
• Li’l Wayne loggin’ a phat 34 miles, adding to his confidence going into Laurel Valley next weekend.
• Vikena – perhaps 2009’s most improved ultraunner.
• My wife showing up to catch my last lap, and getting to shoot me finishing my 40th mile.

…and so much more (but my bullets are getting really long and very “local”)

It’s a wrap

At seven hours, five minutes (7:05) I achieved the day’s goal and finished up 40 miles. It was a real struggle fighting that heat, and more so the humidity. During the noon time portions of the day, you could actually see the steam on the trail – like running in the steam room at the gym. Hot, man.

Really hot.

But as I pushed it up the road for my last lap, my friends Colt, Matt, Tony (I think) and my wife were all standing there yellin’ for me and taking photos. I gots some good ol’ peeps in my crew.

Congrats to all the runners for incredible performances all around, but especially the top five-ish who all pushed into 50 miles and more.

The Hot 2 Trot is a great local event, and driving home from the race I couldn’t help but feel all stoked and proud at being part of this unique club of insane runners.

Rock on.

or should I say, “Get some!”

It has been awhile since us Ultraholics and friends have played that old game called Blog Tag. Here is how it works (or should work in theory). I pose a few questions, answer them and then tag three other blog owners to answer the same questions, and so on and so on (they also have to tag the person who tags them).

Christian Griffith Blog Tag Interview Answers

1. Do you have a favorite race you ran this year – if yes, which one and why.

Picking a favorite race is hard for me because I tend to be very emotional about my races, and at all kinds of different levels. I loved the White River 50-mile trail championships because I had never been that far north in the Pacific Northwest, and I fell in love with Seattle, the mountains and especially Mt. Rainier.

I loved the Keys 100 50-miler because for one, I love the Florida Keys and for another, I had a great experience running with my best friend and wife as my crew. (and I got to meet good ol’ Alan in person)

I would also have to mention the Landsford 50K as it was my fastest 50K to date at 5:05.

I’m sorta known for calling all my races, my “favorite race”.

2. Have you selected any race goals for 2010?

I’m sorta winging it for 2010. I can’t possibly do everything I want to do, so sacrifices will have to be made. I am running across Georgia in March 2010 and considering VolState as well.

3. Did you discover any new (non-race) trails this year?

Why yes I did – The SCAR – The Smokies Challenge run which takes place in the Great Smokey Mountains on the Appalachian Trail. This is a VERY TOUGH section of the AT. Lots and lots of tough climbing. We went from Fontana Dam to Newfound Gap – about 42 miles.

4. Why do you run?

I have an addictive personality. I read Dean Karnazes’ book and immediately felt the sentiment of current life frustration coupled with a very unique challenge I could sink my teeth into. I never really ran seriously before June 2006 – and now, I can’t imagine life without it.

5. There are extreme ultramarathons – Spartathlon, Run Across America, Badwater, etc. are you planning any?

I am doing a Run Across Georgia, 100% self-supported in March 2010. Eventually, I would like to do every difficult ultra that exists today. That’s my mission – to complete everything at least once.

6. Favorite food during ultras and favorite post-race food?

I can eat anything during runs. Gatorade will give me stomach cramping issues if I rely on it for me than a few cups throughout the day. I LOVE Coke & Mountain Dew during races because I don’t drink them normally – the rush I get from them is incredible + they are delicious.

Post race is tough because I recently began a more vegetarian eating style and can’t have that post-race steak that I crave so much. Fish works pretty well, and also vege burgers and pasta dishes.

7. Are ultrarunners part of your life outside of races?

Not so much. I wish that was the case, but my family life is so demanding that it seems I only see my ultra friends when we are running, racing or traveling to a running adventure.

8. What do you consider the most beautiful ultra course you have run?

Man… so many “different” levels of beauty, but Superior Sawtooth 100-miler was really gorgeous with lots of varying beauty. White River 50-miler near Mt. Rainier was awe-inspiring, and of course, my all-time favorite race – Laurel Valley – is typical lush-as-hell, southern trail running.

9. Favorite race director?

Claude Sinclair. I feel almost a family connection to the guy and have from first contact. Can’t explain it.

10. What is your longest streak at running the same race?

I have only been ultrarunning for 3 years, but I have done SweetH20 50K three times, Mountain Mist two times, Mount Cheaha two times, this weekend will be my third Laurel Valley, Hot2Trot two times …probably some more sprinkled in there.

Who’s Tagged Next?

As an East Coast member, I don’t know a lot of theUltraholics personally, so I’ll tag:

Bob Becker, Jennifer Huffman-Swift, and Diane Forrest