MT101 picks up where the MT100 left off

The MT101s are the follow-up to the MT100 trail shoe. As a huge fan of new Balance minimalist trail shoes, I was very excited to learn more about the newest release from the company, and better yet, put them to test on some good ol’ rugged trail.

Thanks to a really cool dude at New Balance, I got my hands on a pair of pre-release MT101s just in time for the Laurel Valley Whitewater Run in the Foothills of South Carolina. Laurel Valley is a self-supported, 35-ish mile trail race and is known as one of the most rugged, toughest trail races in the Southeast – the perfect venue for putting the kicks to a serious test.

What’s different in the MT101?

In an email from New Balance product manager Bryan Gothie, he offered a summary of the shoe modifications:

The 101 is an upper only update that incorporates a ton of Anton’s [Anton Krupicka] feedback.  He was looking for more stability in the upper, especially on the downhills, and some added lateral support as well.  We also added a little more protection to the tongue and found a way to manufacture the heel EVA collar so that it finishes with a cleaner lip.  Those are the big functional updates, cosmetically we decided to step it up a little.  There is a little more pep to the materials on this version and the color choice, as well as the amount of, is also enhanced.

And once my pair arrived, I found all of this to be true, …along with a few other surprises.

The MT101 seems to be a wider shoe

The pair of MT101s that I received are exactly the same size as all of my MT100s (10.5) but the 101s are noticeably wider and roomier, and especially in the toe box area. Check out the comparison below between a pair of MT100s and MT101s, both size 10.5 — by the way, {click} any of the images in this review for a larger, 900px screen-filling view.

The MT101s are green, and the MT100s are the gray shoes. It’s tough to really see the width difference, but notice the different positioning of some of the support pieces, including the additional upper support at the bottom of the laces. The toe tip has also been changed to a tougher material that softens the blow when kicking a nasty root or rock. I welcomed this improvement often during the Laurel Valley race.

More side upper support doesn’t mean heavier

Notice a complete restructuring of the side support, and especially the upper. The material used for the lateral support feels like a tougher, more rugged plastic, as opposed to the cloth-like support materials in the MT100s; however, that new “fanned-out” support piece does utilize a sort of firm cloth and feels really snug around the top of the foot.

Here on the outside of the New Balance shoe you can see stronger attention to support in the upper. Again, {click} for a larger view on any of the shoe images.

Who doesn’t like a little more tongue?

Ok, that was bad, but I bet it got your attention. {wink}

The 101 has a slightly thicker tongue. Why? I really don’t know. The change is so slight, so I really can’t tell whether it matters or not. Still, the tongue is very lean and as minimalist as I’ve ever seen in any other shoe, and is still one of my favorite features of both models.

What about the achilles issue of the shoe back?

For one, I’ve never experienced the “digging” issues that others have reported. I believe this has a lot to do with heel striking, but regardless what I think, it’s a popular complaint in the comments of my MT100 review. New Balance has lowered the back a little (as you can see in the side comparisons a couple of images above). I thought the rubber might have come back a little softer this time, but it seems to be the exact same material.

Still smells bad. Hey New Balance – why the stinky rubber?

Putting the MT101s to the test at Laurel Valley

Let me just say right now that I am sold. I love the shoe.

Because of the new width, I probably could have tightened them down a bit more for the race as I found my feet jamming into the toe box during steep descents and I slid around in the shoe when negotiating some gnarly rocky sections. I didn’t get any blisters, though, so it must not have been too bad.

I ran Laural Valley hard, chasing some time goals, and the shoes  performed perfectly, carrying me to a PR on the course.

The good:

• So very, very light. Under 7 oz.
• Good grip on the climbs. We got caught in a couple downpours and the shoes handled muddy climbs beautifully.
• Quick-dry. There are lots of water crossings at LV and the shoes excrete water very quickly.

The bad:

• Like the 100s, the shoes let in more dirt and debris than others. I found myself having to stop and pull crap out of them from time to time.
• Those lame laces. I’m just not buying into the New Balance sure lace™ concept. The laces come untied more frequently than, say, my road racing flats which are just simple, thin light laces.

The bottom line – the MT101 is an excellent minimalist trail shoe.

Period.

It’s light, rugged, grippy and fits like a glove. The new upper support feels nice and snug, and the increased attention to rock and root protection is noticeable and makes a real difference out on the trail.

I’m proud to report that I had one of my best days ever at Laurel Valley, scoring a 31 minute PR and 5th place overall, and I attribute much of this success to the MT101.

Would love to hear other’s experiences, so comment away!

Bust.

My Western States ended abruptly at the Rucky Chucky aid station, 79 miles, and 22 hours into the race.

Officially, the medical staff pulled me, refusing to allow me to cross the river towards Green Gate; but deep down, I feared my race was over before we even got to the Rucky Chucky medical check-in.

I was severely dehydrated, down 16 pounds from the start of the race, peeing (more like, dripping) blood, and wheezing from a bout of exercise-induced asthma.

All racers wear a medical bracelet with their weight, blood pressure and heart rate stats so that medical check points have a benchmark for which to gauge a runner’s hydration throughout the event and help them to make smart adjustments as the day and night go on.

Weight gain can mean a runner is drinking too much and needs to adjust down by emptying the bladder, while significant weight loss usually means the runner is not drinking enough.

Clearly, I wasn’t drinking enough.

And while all this might sound horribly traumatic, the entire Western States experience turned out to be far more than I ever expected it would be, and I found myself less disappointed and more focused than ever before.

Like Nicaragua, I had a true experience.

I met people who have had a profound impact on my life in the past, and new friends who would help shape my future as an ultrarunner.

I knew coming in I was out of my league, but I wasn’t going to pass up possibly the once-in-lifetime chance to run with some of the greatest runners in the world – no way!

After you read my story, tell me YOU wouldn’t do the same thing.

Meet G-Mac

I arrived in Sacramento, California on Wednesday three days before the race, with an excitement that was impossible to contain. Somebody said I was like a kid at Christmas and I found that to be an excellent analogy.

It’s WESTERN STATES, man! The grand-daddy of them all, and I, Christian Griffith, was in. It was the kind of excitement that is so intense, it’s almost surreal – like you’re watching it through someone else’s eyes or on TV.

My pacer, George McAlister, whom I had never met before, not only offered to pace me from mile 62 in the race, but also pick me up from the airport, let me stay at his house, drive me 2 hours to Squaw Valley the next day, and then after the race, stay at his house yet again as I recovered for my trip home. After it was all said and done, he ended up doing far more than even all that and I am forever grateful beyond words.

George (or G-Mac as his son-in-law calls him) is a man’s man. A 61-year old Vietnam veteran, experienced mountaineer, camper, runner and survivalist ( incidentally. he ran the challenging American River 50-miler from Sacramento to Auburn this year in an impressive 9:27 at age 61 – solid.)

He’s a father of two beautiful, professional daughters with a 40-year marriage to a uber-wonderful woman. While he could easily be retired, he chooses to work, and not behind a desk, but with his hands. He drives a humble truck, crops the hair down low, and carries himself with a unique vibe of “tough-as-nails” combined with a genuine kindness and politeness that is impossible to ignore and commands respect all on its own. Many times I found myself thinking, “I hope someday I’m just like him.”

I learned a lot about how to be a good man from George McAlister.

SacTown chillin’

George snatched me up from the airport, later telling me his first thoughts were, “does this guy think this is a 100-mile race or a weight-lifting contest?” (this theme will run through much of my Western States experience as you’ll see if you don’t get bored reading.)

We shook hands, hopped in the truck, and I knew immediately I’d like George when we both opted for windows instead of air conditioning, while we both shared stories of our “crazy wives” always wanting to crank down the air. Instant bonding right there.

George took me to Auburn , CA where we hiked small tid-bits of the Western States trail and talked trail running. He drove me all over to Foresthill, Robie Point, and stopped at various places along the highway to point out river junctions along the American River and teach me about the area and the history of the Sierra foothills.

In Auburn, near Robie Point and Placer High School, we saw deer and wild turkey roaming the hillside neighborhoods without fear or concern. Unlike in the east, the turkeys are not a bit skittish. They roam around like they are supposed to be there. Like squirrels. Same with the deer. It’s a really cool visual representation of man and animal living together in a seemingly harmonious existence and as an animal lover it had a profound impact on me.

Squaw Valley and the Olympic Village

Thursday, George and his buddy Dennis (another cool west coast outdoor enthusiast) drove me up to Squaw Valley where I  had a reservation at the Squaw Valley Lodge. Once again, I got an education from the knowledgeable local duo as we drove deeper and deeper, higher and higher, into the Sierra-Nevada mountain range.

Old railroads, tons of snow, ragged, jagged mountain peaks – it was very cool. I was staring out the window like a kid rolling into Disney World.

“Cool!”

“Wow!”

“What’s that?”

“Whoa… Why are those people rappelling down the rocks?” (it was CalTran conducting rescue training exercises)

The boys got me to the lodge, we shook hands, and promised to meet again at mile 62 where George would jump in to pace me for the rest of the race.

Hangin’ with Team Genova

So, ok – now what?

Here I am at the lodge, but I don’t really know what to do with myself. I wanted to walk around and meet people and see who was here, but doing so alone seemed a little creepy.

Just then, I get a text from Jeff Genova:

“We’re leaving for dinner, wanna come?”

Cool!

And I spent the rest of the day Thursday, and most of the Friday, hanging out with Jeff and his crew Tom and Ryan. It was almost freaky how much I had in common with Ryan – both of us have a 15 year old in the house, both boys, both play guitars …and both play METAL. We both share a love for the creative side of life, and both work in marketing/advertising.

We spent a lot of time yapping and probably boring the other two to tears with our discussions of our teenage guitar players and our mutual love of fonts and design.

As a group, we rambled around Squaw Valley, hitting race check-in together on Friday, hooking up with “The Sherp” and taking photos with other ultrarunners – generally just running around avoiding all the pre-race jitters.

Big chair at Squaw

photo: Goofing off in the Squaw Valley Olympic Village

Krissy Moehl

photo: since I can never run as fast as elites, this is the closest I’ll get to Krissy Moehl

Kilian Jornet Burgada

photo: Getting a shot with Kilian Jornet Burgada who ended up finishing third place at the Western States in a sick, sick 16:04

After gathering all kinds of cool stuff at race check-in, skarfing some quality food in Tahoe City, and sitting through the mandatory pre-race meeting, it was all starting to hit me like a ton of bricks – nerves began setting in – and I started thinking about finding a pillow.

As usual before a big exciting race, I got zero sleep at all. (and seemingly, whoever was in the room above me didn’t either…)

At the start of the 2010 Western States 100

There we stood.

Ready. …as we’d ever be, for the 2010 Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run.

Excited.

I was literally jumping up and down.

Then, a 10-second countdown, and before I could take it all in, we started the race up the long 4-mile climb up the gut of Squaw Valley. Me, Jeff, Sherpa John, and DC Lundell – grinding out the crawl to the top.

Squaw Valley to Escarpment

Climbing, baby!

Good, ol’ fashioned climbing. I actually started running up the climb until I received a warning from DC Lundell to forget about that. He was right, but as the grade got steeper and steeper, I would have had to start power-hiking anyway.

As we approached the top, I broke out my camera and started shooting video of the snow-covered trail on top of the mountain.

(unfortunately, I cannot share these photos and videos as I somehow lost my camera at Rucky Chucky with my waist pack. I’m hoping someone has it …anyone?)

For about 1/2 mile we trudged through mild snow, then gnarly steep snow, before finally cresting the climb.

It felt to good to have this section completed.

I was ready to run.

Down to Poppy Trailhead

The first part of this section was, without a doubt, my absolute favorite part of the course.

There was a ton a snow, and snow-melt mud, to run through for miles and miles and I really excelled here. While many people struggled with slipping and sliding all over the place, I tore through the snow, calling on my skateboarding/surfing background and charging through the gnarly single-track with wild abandon.

It was fun. A “hoot” as they say here in the South.

But, as soon as we hit the gate that would send us on the official “snow route”, I started getting passed by all those same people that I passed above in the snow.

{damn}

I seem to have a blast and go crazy on the technical stuff, but when it opens up and people with real speed can take advantage, I always get dropped like I’m standing still.

I still was able to complete the first 20 miles (well, ok, 19) in 4 hours, so everything seemed to be moving along nicely.

Duncan Canyon

I’m not sure what it’s called (maybe the “poppy trail?”), but after the Poppy Trailhead aid station, we hit some beautiful, soft single-track that rolled slightly along a beautiful lake. This might be “French Meadows”, but I don’t know for sure.

It looked like something on TV. Giant, thick pine trees all along mountain sides as far as the eye could see, with a big beautiful turquoise lake, and all draped in bright sunshine and big blue skies.

I felt so alive!

…until we became exposed.

I caught up to Jeff Genova (who hammered the earlier snow even harder than me) and found myself in a pack of runners being led by Zombierunner online running store owner, DC Lundell.

(And yes, if you’re wondering, I do buy from them – not everything – but they provide super-fast shipping, great customer service, and TONS of running knowledge; he and Gillian are true class acts in the sport. Give ‘em a try!)

The climb to the Duncan Canyon aid station was my first taste of canyon heat.

Trees? gone.

Dusty, rocky single-track that winded back-n-forth, slowly climbing to a ridge that would eventually carry us to the Duncan Canyon aid station which was slammed with people and crews …and some excited dude on a microphone, who announced, “here comes a guy that can bench press more than me,” as I made my way to the check-in table.

This got a laugh out of the crowd, but I was hot and tired, so all I could do was grin slightly, and carry my big ass to the food.

And as I stuffed my face with watermelon and peaches, I hear the mic dude, “Christian, how about dropping for a set of push-ups for the ladies?”

Ok, dude, I know – I get it.

Duncan Canyon to Robinson Flat

Woo Hoo! Back on the original Western States course now. Snow route, no more.

The descent was mild, rocky single-track that crossed a few small creeks, and kept us covered up with thick tree cover; but the ascent, into Robinson Flat was almost in complete 100% contrast. There were periods of coverage on the climb, but for the most part it was exposed and hot. There were lots of burnt-up trees here that appeared to be lopped-off about 35 feet high.

I’d love to know more about this section of burned trees as it was very weird.

(I’d show you a picture, but alas… camera is MIA)

Once we got a bit higher into the climb to Robinson Flat, the trail got very steep, snowy and treacherous. Much of the trail was suffering from snow-melt and we did a lot of climbing up a trail-turned-mildly-rushing creek.

I caught some folks here on the climb, but also got passed by John Holt, who was powering up the climb, but out of water.

Now, I have to take a second to SHOUT-OUT to the uber-nice little redhead aid station volunteer that stuck by me from the minute I entered the station, until I left. She filled my bottles, escorted me through the food line, secured my drop bag, helped me with clean shoes and socks AND EVEN HELPED CLEAN MY DIRTY-ASS FEET before I put on clean shoes.

She fetched me more food while I struggled with my shoes, and even found me some real food – turkey sandwiches!

Thank you – whoever you were – you were a dream and blessing for someone who just ran 30 miles.

Almost 1/3 of the race completed, and I felt great!

Robinson Flat to Last Chance

Once again, like a broken record, I loved the early part of this section, too!

Exposed, winding single-track that was dusty, dirty, rocky and rugged and reminded me of what I expected a western trail to be like. There were about three of us, spaced well apart, for this entire descent, so I really got to enjoy some alone time descending this section.

The views of the Sierras were immense and I found myself saying “damn!”, and “wow!”, every 25 seconds.

I felt so lucky to be there – to be experiencing this epic adventure, and so early in my running “career.”

…but at the bottom we hit some really, really fine dust.

The trail became a sort of double-track jeep road and I’ve decided I don’t like jeep roads, gravel roads, or anything like ‘em — well, at least not nearly as much as I enjoy rugged single-track.

The dust was harsh and it was the beginning to one of the medical problems that would eventually equate to my being pulled late in the race. As someone who experiences exercise-induced asthma, dusty conditions or excessive cold can really cause me problems and make me wheeze.

I started wheezing.

I caught up to Alan Geraldi (who also hammered the early snow sections) and he was starting to have some foot problems. No doubt, you will read about this in his report, so I’ll let it go for now, but it was nice to see him – too bad I couldn’t chill with him though, but instead had to duck into the woods to do as the bears do.

Did you know that there are no leaves in the Sierra’s?

Seriously. I’m running along, about to explode, and cannot find a single, normal tree leaf.

All pine.

Try wiping with pine branches someday. It’s an experience.

I rolled into the Last Chance aid station feeling less-than-fantastic. It didn’t help that I heard the old dudes in lounge chairs discussing how I looked more like a rugby player than a runner.

I felt a lot of fatigue instantly, and I was beginning to develop this odd problem where I’d feel like I had to pee, but when I’d hang him out, it would just dribble.

This would get worse later on… and by the time I arrived at the next aid station, I was starting to see blood in the dribbles.

{sigh}

But, I charged into Last Chance as best I could and immediately got called over to step on the medical scales.

“204,” said the medical lady. “let me see your bracelet for your starting weight”

“214!” she gasped. “You’ve lost 10 pounds”

…and with that, they all started whispering to each other and stuff.

“We might need to keep you here.”

“please don’t,” I begged.

And with that a really nice medical volunteer walked with me, got me some soup, and told me to drink more, take more salt and see where I’m at once I get to Devil’s Thumb.

The Canyons – The dirty, nasty evil canyons

Wow.

The descent to the bridge before Devil’s Thumb hammered my quads, but I ran the whole way, determined to suck it up and then take my time on the climb.

Like I had a choice…

Climbing Devil’s Thumb was a brutal experience for me – all 36 steep switch-backs of it.

Clearly, I was not alone.

Throughout the series of switch-backs, it looked like a war zone, with people sitting on various rocks along the climb puking, resting and/or nursing some kind of problem. I saw a woman throw up violently, then get up, and push her way up the climb and out of sight.

I guess it helped.

I saw a couple of dudes, head in hands, just trying to catch a breath.

In fact, every now and then, I’d disassociate from the climb, lean a little too much back, and almost fall ass over tea kettles down the mountain.

I really had a rough time on this climb.

But I eventually got to the top, 12:20 into the race, and was happy to see that I was on about 25-hour pace.

Alan arrived and we shared some laughs with the volunteers, skarfed some Popsicles and started to the very long and dusty descent to El Dorado Creek where we would again cross a bridge and make a mean-ass climb …this time, to Michigan Bluff.

Running with a savior

A long time ago (well 3.5 years ago), when I first decided I wanted to become an ultrarunner, I reached out to Catra Corbett for some much needed personal advice and she proved to be the most helpful and influential person to me at that time. I told her that WHEN I got to the point in my weight loss and running where I was running 100-milers, and I saw her at a race, I would thank her personally for all of her kindness and consideration.

I finally got that chance at race check-in.

Then, descending this long dusty series of switch-backs and looking behind me, who is it…?

Yup, Catra.

What a treat this was for me. In my eyes, Catra is as legendary to ultrarunning as they come. I *think* she’s completed 72 one hundred mile races, and countless of other 50Ks and 50-milers. Like me, she obviously seems to like attention; but she is also a tremendous ambassador for the sport of the ultrarunning, as well as, strength-training, CrossFit and any kind of solid health and nutrition.

I’ve followed her for years (just like you, admit it) – and it was an absolute honor to spend trail time with such a character in our big, worldwide family of crazy runners.

…however, I eventually lost track of her on the climb to Michigan Bluff, and once again it was me and Alan Geraldi – huffin’ and puffin’ up Michigan Bluff.

Fixing my Feet

That’s right, at the top of Michigan Bluff I was treated by none other than Dr. Jon Vonhof, author of Fixing Your Feet, as he ripped off the shoes, and treated me to a real foot education and some preventative taping.

It was the first we’ve met in person and we chatted a bit about Internet Marketing, foot care and general business. It was cool.

I was damn stoked to be spending quality time with legend after legend – it was just the coolest thing ever.

It chewed up a lot of time, 23 minutes, but it was worth it to meet John and feel secure with a job done right.

Found Alan again, waved to some friends in all the crowd madness, and headed down the road sweatin’ the time and stuffin’ my face.

Yet another impact person

Rolling out of Michigan Bluff, standing on the side of the dirt road {trying} to pee, I hear “Is that Christian Griffith?”

“yup,” I said as I quickly packaged things back up since I saw it was a female coming.

“It’s me, Linda.”

“Cool!”, “Killer!” …and I ran up and gave her a hug.

You see, back in what, 2008, I toyed with the idea of running a hundred-miler. I knew I wasn’t ready, and I knew it was far out of my league, but I wanted to anyway, and Linda Dewees sent me the most profound email, personally, encouraging me to “just do it.” – Most specifically, I remember her telling me, “if a 50-something housewife like me can do it, you can do it.”

It was specifically at her encouragement that I man’d up and signed up for my first 100-miler – now, with over 35 ultras under my belt, here she was, strolling right along next to me.

So crazy…

Are you catching the vibe yet?

Are you understanding why this race meant so much to me? Can you see how much of an impact this personal interaction has on me?

I love it, man…

The people? The legends? Putting faces to names and emails, and making new friends.

This is ultrarunning. This is one reason why the sport is so addictive and why I love it!

Through Volcano Canyon, to Foresthill

I was excited to see my pacer, George. Remember George from waaaay earlier in the story?

I knew a pacer would help a bunch as I started a pretty rapid decline with dehydration, fatigue and the pesky bloody stage-fright pee problem.

Alan told me to run on ahead as his foot was really getting crazy and I was feelin’ some downhill, so I took off.

I had a pretty good section through Volcano Canyon. For one, I really liked that section, and two, I rolled into yet another friend, Kate whom I only knew from the “the ultralist” and through various email correspondences.

Each time I made contact with someone that I wanted to meet, it made me happy and lifted my spirits long enough to get a burst out of it.

Where were all y’all from miles 70-79?

I ripped through the Volcano Canyon, climbed out to the Auburn Running Company aid station at the bottom of Bath Road, and was actually feeling ok – not great – but, good enough.

It’s George!

At the top of Bath road I heard someone announce my number over the walkie-talkies. I think they do this so the microphone announcer-dudes at Foresthill can let the crowd know who’s coming and runners’ pacers can get prepared for their approaching runner.

As I ran into Foresthill, George saw me, called out and started running with me into the aid station.

People were giving me lots of attention and it felt really good. I felt like a superstar …like what it must feel like all the time for the elite runners.

It felt so good, I forgot my good headlamp and ended up being stuck with my little bitty small one from Michigan Bluff; and even worse, I had a clean, long-sleeved shirt for the cooler nights and a fresh pair of shoes and socks in the drop bag …and I forgot all that, too.

I’m such a sucker for the attention, that I get caught up in it, waving and thanking everyone, and I forget to think.

Can I blame my parents?

Anyway, we didn’t stay at Foresthill long, only 4 minutes, before we blazed out to California Street to hit the Western States trailhead once again.

I had 13 hours and 13 minutes to go 38 miles.

…piece of cake, right?

Like a couple of gazelles

George and I started off great!

We started passing people left and right and we were moving really well.

At one point George said, “reel ‘em on in, Christian, reel ‘em on in”

Some bitter irony.

Because once we got to Dardanelles (Cal 1) aid station, I tanked in the most horrible way ever…

This was to begin my complete collapse.

Dropping deeper and deeper into Hell

You know things are starting to go badly when not only are you being passed by those you just passed a few miles back, but now people are passing you who you haven’t seen all day long.

My bloody pee problem was becoming very problematic and I didn’t know what to do.

For one, I respected George so much and looked up to him and didn’t want to disappoint him, so I tried to keep it low and downplay it a bit, but I knew it was going to become a serious factor soon.

Running made it worse.

Walking was ok, but with all the bouncing, especially when running downhill, I would constantly feel like I had to pee like crazy, but nothing would produce but drops of blood.

DAMN IT!

I finally could no longer hide it from George as I had to stop constantly, like every couple o’ hundred yards, and try to pee; and of course, constantly rubbing my shorts to the side to get “the man” out was starting to chaff me.

Downward spiral on 78 speed.

I went from running like I was somewhat fresh, to walking entire stretches. I could walk pretty fast, but even a fast walk was slower than a slow run, and I knew it was only a matter of time before my problems began to cut into my walk. Once you can’t even walk, as I learned in the Keys 100, you’re pretty much outta’ mobility options.

The walking dead

This went on for miles.

I felt like complete shit.

Not only physically and for myself, but for George. This man opened his home to me, picked me up from the airport, fed me and showed me around town. Not only that, he offered to let me recover for a couple o’ days at the house until my flight.

Plus, a good friend recommended me as a tough runner and convinced George to run with me, but instead of a tough runner, he was getting an asthmatic, blood-peeing, dehydrated fool of a runner who was staggering around in the poison oak with a weak little dribbling johnson in his hand.

Let me reiterate, I felt like complete shit!

He was out here in the middle of the night FOR ME, to help me get my Western States buckle, and here I was just walking in pain and unable to keep up. Each time he stopped to wait for me, I felt worse.

Like a loser.

When your physically sick and mentally trashed, everything bad is magnified 1000%.

Now I was emotionally coming unglued as I do not handle failure well at all.

The End

About two miles from the Rucky Chucky aid station, I knew I had to come clean with George. He knew I had the pee problem …how could he not with me stopping every 3 minutes to “try to go”; but I don’t think he knew the severity of how I felt with all the various problems compounding upon themselves.

My breathing was now a full-on “wheeze” – both inhale and exhale.

I couldn’t pee, which most likely was what was preventing me from drinking enough, and when I did dribble it was bloody and neon.

Little did I know I was about to get the biggest shock of all at the aid station…

…but, I did come clean.

I told George that I was worried. That I have exercise-induced asthma, but that it doesn’t always bother me, and no, I didn’t have an inhaler. I explained that there was no way I could run because the shaking made me feel like I had to pee a river …only to produce droplets.

I told him I was scared to tell the medical peeps about the pee because they would almost for sure pull me.

He suggested we get to Rucky Chucky, see the medical team, and evaluate from there. …which we did.

But when I got there I just could not get my head together. The medical team had to balance me on the scale and I simply could not make my body do what I wanted it to do.

Then came that shock – 198 pounds – I was down 16 pounds from the start of the race.

More medical team whispering ensued, lotsa questions tossed at me, George looking concerned, more runners coming into the aid station and leaving the aid station…

I started to get cold sitting there but feared the blanket knowing it would almost surely be my nail in the coffin.

I had some grilled cheese and soup, stood up, and tried to make my way to river crossing but it wasn’t happening so well.

A doctor came up behind me with a stethoscope, put it against my back, and that was it.

After hearing the wheezing again, he said, “you’re not going anywhere.”

And my race was done.

(but I already knew it – just needed someone else to say it)

A snip that cuts my heart in half

I laid on a cot under a furniture moving blanket, being petted and attended to by the nicest of nice volunteer-lady, a woman who really did make me feel better as she talked about how much she liked my writing and wittiness on the ultralist, and reminding me how far I had come. I sure wish I knew her name because I want to thank her again.

Some people are just genuinely good people. I wish I was that “good.”

But like the grim reaper, the medical station captain came over, knelt beside me and said that he had to cut-off my medical bracelet to make the drop official.

*snip – and it was over.

That snip went through me like a bolt of lightening and I’ll never forget it.

I’ll have to cross my fingers for next year, and this time, train like my life depends on it.

No excuses.

So now what?

I was so crushed after my Keys 100 race, I’m sure people are bracing for hateful Christian to appear, but that’s just not the case.

YES, I wanted a buckle, but Western States for me ended up not being only about the buckle. It became about the experience.

I may not have my buckle – yet – but I developed and nurtured new friendships and relationships that will only blossom over my time in this sport. I thrive on the sociology of ultrarunning and I took that up a notch at Western States.

I love ultrarunning.

I love training.

I love suffering for personal satisfaction and reward.

I’m a fighter and I’ll be back.

Becoming consistent at 100-milers is proving to be the most difficult thing I’ve ever faced in my life of self-imposed challenges and I’m not about to give up now.

Another shout-out…

Thank you Raj for your wisdom and strength and counseling as I lay on the cot a defeated, dejected loser – your words have stuck with me profoundly and have provided me with a much greater sense of not only what I want to be, but what it takes to get there. I realize you most likely never intended for me to make such a fuss over what you said, or even the fact that you said it, but I want you to know that you have a gift for uplifting people and I thank you.

I’ll be back.

I’m not finished.

I will recover and I will use this experience, just like my Keys 100 experience, to grow and become a better ultrarunner.

I’m only 3 years in to ultrarunning and I’ve got a long way to go.

Watch out!

——————————————————————————————–

The following are just some of the contacts I made, faces I met, and people who have had an impact on my Western States experience: Shaking hands with Anton Krupicka, chatting with MoeBen Shannon, photo with Krissy, catching up with Devon, friending with Jill, cutting up with “The Sherp”, chilling and bonding with Team Genova, getting lengthy trail time with Catra, wishing Hal good luck, meeting Gordy, Cow-man, building a true friendship with Alan, learning from George, the little redheaded aid station angel, meeting Linda, and Tropical John, and Hao, and Rajeev, the Brocks, Kate, and the nice aid station lady who filled me with compliments, and the med dude that walked with me outta’ Last Chance, and the girl that invited me to suffer with her through the dark night, and chatty tiara girl, and “Dave?” in Vibrams, and the Euro dude who after 3 “huh’s” I still didn’t understand his name …and seeing Charlie Crissman again and all his band of Pacific NW Cascade Crest alumni runners. DC Lundell, the king of straight-forward succinct advice. Super-fit Claire, despite being Type-1, and although I never got to speak much to him, Andy Kumeda. Oh, and the local Georgia girls that cheered for me at every station even though they were there for another Georgia runner. And yea, that other Georgia runner was Susan – Way to finish Susan.

I sure hope I didn’t forget anyone, but as you can see my heart is filled, man – I had a truly great experience.

Next time, it’ll be with a buckle.

Friday afternoon, May 28, 2010

me: “Babette, can I please go to Fernandina Beach and swim in that 5K ocean race?”

Babs: “Where’s Fernan.. where are you going?”

me: “FernanDINA …beach,” I said. “It’s in Florida.”

Babs: “When…?”

“…right now?”

me: “Yea.”

Babs: {sigh} “so…uh…you’re just gonna go by yourself?”

“to Florida…?”

“to swim…”

“…again?”

me: “uh huh.”

Babs: “ok… whatever”

And just like that, I’m off to Florida.

A visit to the Jacksonville Wal-Mart

Since it’s almost six hours from Atlanta, I didn’t have enough time to go home and pack or get swim gear or anything. Instead, I’d just leave from the office and head south and take my chances at a local Wal-Mart or Target in Florida.

That’s a cool thing about open water swimming – it doesn’t take much to play: a pair of trunks, some goggles and you’re good to go.

I rolled into Jacksonville kinda late, but Wal-Mart was still open. I scored a pair of tighty little wicking underwear things to swim in and a pair of baggy shorts to wear over them until the very last second.

Grabbed some cheap-ass goggles (mistake) and some High Protein Boost for breakfast in the morning.

I’m ready to swim.

Ed Gaw Open Water Challenge

This was the 10th year for the Ed Gaw Open Water Challenge.

I showed up, registered, got written on, secured my #536 bright green swim cap and walked out to the beach to check the water conditions.

Choppy.

Much more choppy than the Pensacola Bay during last week’s 5K swim along the three-mile bridge. That race had perfect glass conditions, but out here on the East Coast “open ocean” side, we had about 1-2 foot chop.

I walked around, eavesdropping on other competitors conversations who had experience with this race over the previous years. Some were concerned with the chop, some not, but everyone agreed that the water temps were perfect (78 degrees) and the current almost non-existent.

I mean, come on… It’s 7:00 a.m., already 80+ degrees with bright sunshine, light breezes, the smell and the sound of the ocean. It was my idea of total and complete perfection. I was so happy to be on the beach.

I’m always happy to be on the beach.

The mental torture of buses

In these 5K swims, it seems the organizers are always sending swimmers to the start on buses, letting them “swim back” to the finish area. This is always a mental mind mangler because as you bounce around on the bus, goggles and cap clutched tightly in hand, you really get an idea of just how far you are going to have to swim to get back.

The longer the bus rides, the longer you stare out at the ocean and wonder.

Open ocean vs. the Bay

This event was much different than the Pensacola Swim.

For starters, in open ocean swimmers start on the beach, and when the horn blows everyone dashes out into the water. The clock has started, but you really haven’t begun the actual race distance yet.

Swimmers must first fight the surf for about 100 yards out, swimming diagonally towards the starting buoy. Once you get out there, you round the buoy and begin your 3.1 mile trek parallel to shore.

Unlike the Bay race, there were no buoys every .25 mile or so. Instead, they had one starting buoy, one 2.1 mile buoy and a finish buoy. (nothing is a beautiful as a finish buoy)

This made it tough for a newbie dork like me. I bet I swam twice the distance with all the side-to-side swimming I was doing. I couldn’t stay in a straight line for anything – I had waves knocking me around, complete lack of ability to sight anything to keep me swimming straight, and an obsessive, yet unintentional, automatic attraction to heading towards the beach.

A couple of times, the kayakers had to point to me further back out to sea.

Because we were swimming south-to-north and because I breath to my right, the swells were constantly in my face when I’d turn to breath. I chaffed my neck by constantly turning my head excessively to the side to get a clean breath every now and then.

And, because of the swells and my constant attention to trying to swim straight, my rhythm was difficult to set and never really “got there.”

I had a couple of panic moments where I wondered if I was perhaps out of my league on this one. I felt like the pack was way ahead, swimming along fine, while I was constantly just trying to get something happenin’. Some kind of rhythm flowin’.

Clarity

But, then there was this one moment during the race where a feeling of contentment just smacked me in the face like a fishtail.

“I’m swimming in the ocean!”

My love. The ocean.

I’ve never been more content in my life than I am when I’m at the beach. Life surrounds you 360 degrees everywhere else on the planet, but not on the beach. You’re only surrounded by “life” 3/4 of the way — 1/4 is the infinite expanse of the sea.

The ocean calms me.

Its my playground and my serenity.

The smell of the sea, the sand in my shorts, the sticky humidity… it’s all heaven to me.

I all-of-a-sudden didn’t care if it took me six hours. In fact, let it take me six hours, or 12, or all day and night.

Fatiguing or not, one thing was for sure, it would end. And when it did, I’d be right back to normalcy having to deal with the everyday things in life that we all have to deal with all the time.

I didn’t want normalcy. I’m sick of normalcy.

But in the water, it was just me and the jellies, cold-chillin’ on a Saturday morning without a care in the world.

That last buoy

And, just like that, all the uncertainty of finishing disappeared. All the worry about swimming too close, or getting too far out, went away.

I could see the last buoy.

I swam and I swam, rounded the last buoy, and I didn’t stop swimming until I could see the sand below me.

I stood up. Jump-hop-ran through the surf, up the cone-lined beach and past the clock.

2:07 …again.

Same as last week.

Actually, 2:07:26 which is about 20 seconds faster than last week; AND, I’m happy because we had the extra distance(s) from the start and finish to negotiate plus choppier waters.

* Update: official results say 2:03, …cool.

3rd place, 35-39 – but most likely there were only a few 35-39 year olds, but a place is a place and I have the certificate to prove it.

{wink, wink}

Seeing as how I just sorted jumped into this sport, I’m pleased as punch.

So Chris Gaw, you have a great race there in li’l ol’ Fernandina Beach. I learned that Ed Gaw is your deceased father and I’m honored that I got to share in the experience of a little sliver of your annual family tribute to your dad.

Thanks to you, the dude named Scott, all the volunteers sportin’ mad food at the finish and that great lady in the peddle-able kayak who kept a watchful eye on me and offered lots of words of support as I half-drowned down the coast.

I hope to get back there next year – and be a lot faster.

I really enjoy swimming. I’m happy I have this sport as yet another ingredient in my adrenaline junkie lifestyle.

Get some!

Cool! …I found something else to love.

And even better, swimming 5K was all it took to shake off the Keys 100-miler DNF and gain some confidence back.  …well, that, and losing my big toenail this morning which pretty much allowed me to equate some mental and emotional finality to the Keys event.

All focus is now firmly on running Western States 100 in exactly one month (June 26).

Can I even swim three miles?

I was a little intimidated when Kid Kahrs and I rolled into Gulf Breeze, Florida, Saturday afternoon.

First of all, as a long distance runner, visualizing 5K in my head seems easy and is much less intimidating than actually seeing it laid out in front of me in a straight line, and second, 90% of the competing athletes that we saw looked like Olympic swimmers with shoulders like coat hangers and abs like TV commercials.

Driving across that bridge really put the distance into perspective for both of us and I think we were both a little sketched at first.

Lots of, “dude,  that’s a long way, man…”

See, I’m not really a “swimmer.” …let alone an “ultraswimmer”

I can surf. I grew up in the ocean and I absolutely LOVE the water …especially, the ocean.

Lakes? eh…not-so-much, but even a lake is better than grinding out laps in a pool.

I spent a couple of years as an ocean lifeguard; but, I’ve never swam competitively or with any goal or focus in mind. Swimming was just something fun to do.

About a month ago, I started feeling beaten and battered from all the back-to-back ultrarunning races and decided to start swimming more since my YMCA has a decent pool and the low-impact cross-training would be easy on the joints.

Matt “Kid” Kahrs, a good friend, super-fast ultrarunner and easy athlete to look up to, had been swimming almost exclusively since he can’t run due to a long-standing injury, and I knew that he had planned to try an open water swim somewhere.

I didn’t know where, how long, or really anything about it, but it sounded kinda cool.

All it took was a phone call…

It was on!

The Pensacola 3-Mile Bridge Swim and Aquathon

photo: look how small those boats are, now picture a person swimming from land mass to land mass… then, imagine the 10Kers who same that out-n-back — damn!

The Pensacola 3-mile bridge swim and aquathon had four events:

1. 1 mile swim
2. 5K swim (3.1 miles)
3. 10K swim (6.2 miles)
4. 5K run, then 5K swim

5K swimmers got in the water at one end of the 3-mile bridge that starts in Pensacola. Swimmers then swim the length of the bridge, crossing the Pensacola Bay, into the ritzy li’l town of Gulf Breeze, Florida.

One added challenge of the race came once you made it to the other side of the Bay. Once you made it 3-miles along the bridge, you weren’t quite finished as you still had to circle a boat dock and small marina for about .1 mile, before making your way to the beaches of the Bay Beach Resort.

The 10K swimmers (which blows my mind by the way) did it out-n-back. Thats a shocking distance to swim to me, but I’m going for it next year!

The 5K run, then swim, would have been cool, but my feet were still all jacked from the Keys 100 foot fiasco, so no running for me.

Um, so, I swam

A swimming race report is tough to write. There is little-to-no interaction with anyone during the event, and you spend the entire time with your face buried in the water, trying to scope out buoys in foggy goggles, and trying not to get kicked in the face.

Actually, once the field spread out, it was rare to have to worry about running into others – or them running into you.

What I loved most about the event was being “in my element.” – I love mountain ultrarunning, trail running and even road running – but they are all stand-ins right now for my true love of surfing.

And with a love for surfing comes a deep desire to be in the water.

When I was swimming that channel, I felt like I was home. I got into a smooth rhythm where I felt like I could just cruise like that forever. Not until the last .1 did I even try to vary my stroke in any way. It was all about making sure that I could both complete the distance, and enjoy myself doing it.

I loved every single second.

The smell of the ocean. The sticky saltwater, the rhythm of stroking and breathing and sighting.

Every time I turned my head to take a breath, I saw blue skies, bright white clouds and the occasional seagull.

The water felt cool and refreshing on my skin, and I could feel my body cutting through the water.

I felt like a dolphin.

When I was out there …like, waaaay out there, I felt so vulnerable but so self-sufficient. It was me against the elements. Against mother nature …but not really against her, just experiencing her gifts for individual challenge and personal satisfaction.

In ultrarunning we talk about “respect the distance,” and I don’t think there’s any stronger situational example of such as with swimming. You can’t just stop when you’re in the middle of a channel. It’s tough to “regroup”, and you certainly cannot “grab a chair for 20 minutes.”

Some people get freaked out in open water, because its dark, you can’t see the bottom, and its very possible to “bump into” various sea life; but I couldn’t have been happier in my element.

I didn’t worry at all. I just smiled.

Beautiful, warm sunshine, plus 79 degree water, and light, cool breezes, with half-naked people everywhere is just a flat-out great mix for a wonderful time.

Period.

Just get to the halfway point and take it from there

My goal was to simply cruise as easily and rhythmically as possible to the halfway point. From there, I would know if I could complete the distance.

For safety, kayaks followed along, and should swimmers need to bail, they would wave their bright yellow swim caps in the air. Kayaks would then take them to a larger boat for assistance and transportation back; and of course, like an ultramarathon, immediate disqualification.

I didn’t want this to be me, but I was glad the kayaks were there just in case.

I got to the halfway point feeling terrific. I wasn’t tired, but I naturally could feel that I had been swimming for 1.5 miles.

I was no longer concerned about the ability to finish, but I wasn’t going to try to push it either and end up making a fool of myself, so I continued the same cruise-y stroke.

I knew if it got me here, it would get me to the end.

I started to wonder where Matt was and how he was doing and how everything was going for him. I wondered if he was having as much fun as me.

I’m proud to say that I now know that he was doing great and loving it every bit of it just as much as me. It’s always great when both “travelers” feel good and have a good day – makes for a comfortable ride home. {wink}

And there’s the marina

After almost two hours of swimming, I spotted the marina far off in the distance.

I knew I was going to finish, so I kicked it in a little, passing three other swimmers as I pushed around the boat docks and into the beach area.

The clock read 2:07 when I ran under the red finish awning, and I was more-than-pleased as I had expected somewhere around 2:30.

When I swam 1-mile in the pool (which was a mental nightmare counting those laps), I did it in 40 minutes flat, so being able to carry just a blip over that (40:52) for 3.1 miles in open water was a big win for me.

In contrast, Kid Kahrs? …1:34 kids… just like ultrarunning, he’s most likely gonna be a swim phenom, too. He crushes everything he touches and I knew he’d do well. Right on, Kahrs!!!

Oh, to be 29 again…

So, you know what’s next…

Yup, I’m after more of these.

I loved it so much, and I’m built for swimming. I’m thick, with a strong upper body and decent stroke. I might not be fast, yet – or maybe never – but most likely will only improve once I have more than a month of training in the bank. {wink}

I will always love ultrarunning, but swimming is cool too and now I get have more toys in the chest to play with. …until that day comes when I again get to start my morning by checking the surf.

Get some!

Stupid is as stupid does

Any ultrarunner knows that DNFs happen. ** (DNF=did not finish)

But they really sting when everything is going right – Pace consistent, nutrition tight, body strong – and then one stupid mistake, or perhaps a series of stupid mistakes, comes together to bring your race to a screeching halt.

This is what happened to me at the 2010 Keys 100 ultramarathon from Key Largo to Key West.

Stupid mistakes. Poor planning. Lack of respect for the distance.

Cocky, …I suppose.

The setup

I came into the race a little concerned about my ability to run. Having spent over a week on the nasty, parasite-killing drug Flagyl, my body was feeling a little torn up inside. The fact that I hadn’t been running for two weeks up until the event proved to be a good thing as my legs were recovered and ready to go, but this general feeling of “blah” needed to disappear.

At packet-pickup the night before the race, I started to get excited and strongly believed I had not only a finish in me, but perhaps a solid sub-24.

I felt that good.

6:00 a.m. start in Key Largo

As all us 100-mile runners and relay crowd meandered to the start line, I got the opportunity to walk and talk with Monica Scholz. This was a real treat for me as I’ve been aware both of her past accomplishments, and her present goals. She has over thirty 100-milers planned for 2010.

And when we started, I got in a few chats with Beth McCurdy, a personal favorite, before she charged up front with the lead pack.

Within the first few miles, I was greeted by, and chatted with all kinds of people who either knew me from this blog (and the ultralist), or who I’ve run many races with in the past – Jenn Vogel, Cyndi Graves, Alan Geraldi, Scott Sanders, Bry Gardner, Joe Ninke, Bill Andrews …and more.

My goal was to take the advice given to me by DC Lundell and Rob Youngren – start easy, implement a run/walk strategy early, and see how it goes. This would be the first time that I can remember implementing a run/walk strategy BEFORE fatigue required it.

So, I’ll just go ahead and admit it – yea, ok, it works.

The first 25 miles | steady as she goes

Running through the islands of Key Largo, Tavernier and Islamorada were pretty damn nice. You don’t have as many of the water views as you have in the later miles when the land mass is thinner between the ocean and the bay, but it’s still tropical and pleasant.

But, the heat cranked up quickly.

I’ve heard reports from the Vogels and others of 100+ pavement temps, but there were also some people thinking it wasn’t as hot as a last year, so I don’t know what the true deal was; BUT TO ME it felt extremely hot. Hotter than last year for sure. Maybe more humid, I don’t know, but it felt really, really hot whatever was happening.

But, aside from all that heat, there were some really nice breezes. Unfortunately, you could only benefit from these breezes when crossing the bridges since much of the early running blocked most of the wind.

Per Rob Youngren, I implemented a run/walk ratio of ~25/5 (minutes). This worked out great for the first 25 miles and the run/walk thing allowed me to have almost identical splits for 0-25 miles, and 25-50 miles.

Mistake #1: during the first 25 miles is where dumb mistake #1 began happening. My crew and great friend Matt kept pouring ice cold water over my head about every 3-5 miles. While this kept me cool, and felt like the right thing to do, it wasn’t. My feet stayed wet indefinitely, and while I had yet to find out how bad it was going to get, I knew it might be a problem later.

Let it be stated that I DO NOT blame him in the least. I would have done it to myself and am known for drenching myself in cold water whenever I can.

Miles 25-50 | moving well, but going blind

I went through my first low point after the mile 25 check-in. Even though I knew I was doing the right thing with super slow pacing, 5:59 seemed like a long time to get 25 miles in the bank on the road.

And, the heat was catching up to me.

Then a really odd thing happened, I went blind for about 4 miles.

Mistake #2: Here’s what I think happened – I sprayed a bunch of Bullfrog sunblock on my face, but didn’t rub it in well enough. As I ran, I would spray my face with my water bottle trying to stay cool. I think some of the sunblock ran into my eyes. It was horrible. I could not open my eyes for more than a split second, and this went on for about 45 minutes.

I’d open them really fast to make sure I wasn’t running into US1 highway traffic, and then close them again for relief …all while I was still running!

It didn’t help that I was running without sunglasses, and I think the combination of the chemicals in my eyes + the bright glare of the mid-day sun = burned-out retinas. Luckily, Matt gave me his sunglasses to use and it helped a little, but I still suffered for quite awhile with burning eyeballs.

Once the eye issue cleared up a bit, we were directed onto this thin bike path bordered on both sides by thick, tall 15-foot mangroves. The 25/5 ratio thing was becoming too hard, but I was finding much success in a new run/walk ratio of pole-to-pole.

I’d guess that the power poles in the Keys are generally about 1/10 of  mile apart, so I’d run from one pole to the next, then walk to the next one, where I’d then run again to the next pole.

This pole game was awesome. I caught a lot of people this way – most of them who had seemingly already begun to walk-only, so it was cool to inch closer and closer to them until I’d finally pass.

I really liked this strategy and need to remember it.

Because I was running such short intervals, I could run them pretty fast and not get gassed. Then, the short walk would allow me to recover.

I kept this up from about mile 35-ish through the halfway check-point, and even across the 7-mile bridge. It not only helped me move up in race position, but it also helped gobble up the miles a lot faster.

I hit the second 25 mile split, at mile 50, in 11:53 with an almost identical split to the first 25 miles. I felt strong and according to the girls manning the table, I was now in 25th place.

I was shocked that as slow I was moving, there were still 75+ more people behind me.

Miles 50-60 | the surge

I declined water at the 50 mile check-in because I knew I’d be seeing Matt shortly.

Or, so I thought.

Somehow, he lost me, but later found me about 4 miles later, just before the 7-mile bridge. I was out of water and wondering “where the Hell is this guy?!” when I heard a beep and saw that apologetic smile.

I didn’t care that much. It was nice of him to be there, so I just jumped in the back and started eating everything in sight – Ensures, pepperoni, cheese, Oreos, and handfuls of fruit. I knew I needed to stock up for the trip over the 7-mile bridge since that’s a scary, hairy bridge with zero crew access.

I passed a bunch more people just before the bridge, and crossing the bridge I continued to pass other 100-mile runners.

Between miles 50-60, I bet I passed over 10 people and I was starting to feel really confident.

Sure, I was tired – but I wasn’t anywhere near beaten down and I could still run.

Miles 60-68 | The fastest decline in ultrarunning history

And then all Hell broke loose on my feet.

After the bridge, I continued my little sprint/walk routine. It was dark now, headlamp a-glowin’ and although it was still 87 degrees in the dark, the breeze was far more accessible.

Traffic died down a little, and every so often you’d get little glimmers of peace …until the next semi-truck came screaming around the corner in the black of night.

I was amazed that I wasn’t really sore nor all that tired. I started doing the math and thinking that if I could continue this pace, and complete that last 32 miles in under 8 hours, I’d guarantee myself a 25-26 hour finish…

…and then I felt the most painful skin-tearing ever in my life.

I sat on a bridge near Bahia Honda, threw off my shoe and sock, and looked at the pale, snow-white bottom of my foot. The skin had cracked open, kinda like “athlete’s foot”, in three distinct places and you could see dark blood oozing in the cracks.

Then, in the worst coincidence possible, as I limped along avoiding the right foot, the left foot starting stinging. Welcome to mistake #3…

Mistake #3: Earlier, thinking I knew what I was doing, I tried to tape a developing blister on my left foot. But since I’m such an idiot, lame-ass preparatory dude, I screwed it all up and made it too tight. I knew it was too tight, but chose to run with it poorly taped anyway.

What did this equate to? Well, the tape literally began to tear the skin because it was wrapped too tightly, so I took it off. This proved to be worse since I now had exposed flesh rubbing in my shoes at both the big toe and pinky toe areas.

Matt was cool when I expressed that my race might be over.

“Naw dude, come on, go one more mile and see what happens…”

So, I did.

It took me 22 minutes to complete mile 67 to mile 68.

I was dejected. I knew it was possible to continue on, just hobble-walking, but at what price?

I have Western States in just a bit over a month from now, and that’s my 2010 marquee event.

I just couldn’t risk shredding my feet further.

Just like that, my race was over.

So what did I learn?

I learned a lot in the race. Some things new, and some things that were “reinforced”

• Respect the distance: I came into the race with a haphazard attitude. Sort of a “whatever”-kind of thing that is completely the WRONG head space for 100-mile event.
• Steady pacing works: Starting out excruciatingly slow paid off, and would have continued to pay off had I not experienced foot problems. I want to ensure I can refine this strategy and not let ego eat me up when I’m at my healthiest.
• Gear planning is so important for 100-milers: I needed more shoes, more socks and a better understanding of what to do when the feet start to crack and/or blister.
• Problems can arise fast and furious: My total meltdown happened within a span of less than 10 miles. No matter how good you feel, it can change in an instant. Especially in the later miles.
• What happens in the first 50, shows up in the second 50: Early, stupid mistakes will come back to get you in the later miles. Be smart from the first 10 miles to the last 10.

This DNF really stings because I never saw it coming.

I ran well and got stronger as the race went longer.

My nutrition was great – I survived on a base of Vespa + Ensure and fresh fruit. For the occasional protein snack, pepperoni and cheese, which tasted great and satisfied my desire for “real food” in the later miles. Cokes and Oreos when I needed a spike.

Today is Tuesday, and I am not at all sore muscularity-wise. If it wasn’t for my jacked-up feet, I could easily run and train today.

But instead, I’m sitting here, trying to keep the bloody foot balloon from swelling past my toes while playing smear games with vitamin E oil, and antibiotic cream.

Like I said, “stupid is, as stupid does.”

Underestimating a Gary Cantrell race is just foolish and you’d think I’d know better – especially after popping my cherry on The Barkley this year – but sure enough, I went into this race thinking, “A nice little road race, good taper run to ease into the Keys 100 in two weeks.”

And then I got educated.

…once again.

Sean O is the man with the plan

I talked my buddy Sean O into running this race, and as I write this, I just realized it was his longest race effort to date  - so – damn good job Sean O!

Sean O is very smart, and he had already calculated all kinds of splits, read some reports, studied the race web site (of course I did none of these things), and had developed a pretty smart plan of attack.

I had no desire to hammer the course, so I wasn’t an eager strategy-beaver, but I did have my eye on a sub-7.

We planned to settle into a slow 9:30-10:00/mile pace until the halfway point where we could then evaluate the performance thus far, conduct personal inventories, and perhaps pick up the pace gradually until the finish.

I mean, “it’s just a road race, right?”

Sticking to a plan

Laz (Gary Cantrell) blew his famous conch shell, and 101 runners started off through the little country town of Wartrace. A short initial climb, round the corner, and we were instantly deep into rolling farm country.

Sean kept us on pace as I really wanted to go out harder. I’d start to push a little and he’d remind me to chill.

We still ran a little faster than we’d planned but never broke 9:00 miles except for rare downhill blasts.

photo: I forgot to turn of my watch after the finish…

Our goal was to run everything, but this is where I shout-out to Sharon Zelinski because this woman can power-hike some climbs, man. Even though, through the first 25 miles Sean and I ran all the hills, she ALWAYS caught us …and eventually passed us for good very early on.

I’m in awe of the people that can employ walk breaks as strategy. I can’t.

I only try to walk when I feel like I have to, and maybe that’s dumb, but I’m hoping it pays off as I continue to race.

This is not a hill

Some of the unique and comical elements of the Strolling Jim are the messages that Gary Cantrell paints along the course.

“This is not a hill” – when clearly it’s a hill.

At least he does concede “…but this is” – when runners do find themselves climbing something gargantuan.

“Only wimps walk here” – when it’s pretty tough not to walk.

“Big girls don’t cry”

You get the idea. Typical Gary. Harassing runners any way he can.

Happy cows

I have never seen so many happy cows.

I’m going to guess that it had something to do with the beauty of the area coupled with the fact that almost all of them appeared to be free-range, but they all appeared well-fed, happy and content on these humongous farms.

I remember specifically, a little after the marathon point, we made this turn and there’s this collapsed old farm house, sitting there in complete shambles, but begging for a picture, and surrounding it were over 200 big-ass cows.

80% of the cows were huddled very close to road and randomly “moo”ing as we ran by.

Made me smile from ear to ear.

Beauty beauty everywhere

That was pretty much the theme of the whole day.

Springtime in the south is like no other and it almost felt movie-like running down these long, rolling country roads bordered by wooden fences, green hills and the occasional small town.

Everything around us was thick, green and lush. Big, beautiful homes on giant plots of ranch land nestled in nicely with some of the more modest living folks. People waved as we ran by, took pictures and even offered food and drink.

Which reminds me – after running a long time down a seemingly endless country road with legendary Bill Keane, we came upon three churches at a sort of three-way crossroads, and Bill says to me “this one of my favorite parts of the course.” He continued, “The people around here couldn’t agree on a religious denomination, but they COULD agree on where to put their churches…”

And sure enough there were three churches packed together – a Church of Christ, a Baptist church and one li’l ol’ “community church” – all within 25 yards of one another and all without anything else around.

It was constantly little things like this along the way that made you forget you were in a race and felt more like a tour of unique Tennessee countryside.

Race report?

Ok, so I’m not doing very good at talking about the running part of the race, but if that’s how the experience comes out, then that must be how the experience went…

I guess I’ll wrap it up by saying that I truly enjoyed my experience at the Strolling Jim.

Yes, 41.2 miles on pavement is tough on the body.

Yes, it’s harder and hillier than Laz lets on.

But, it’s beautiful and it’s cool and the people rock and the food is good and the RD was good and running through the countryside like that is just special. If you think you won’t feel it, try it.

You’ll see.

Results?

Oh yea, ok, so no sub-7 for me.

I saw 6:56 on my watch with another 1.5 miles to go and I was already hobbling with a blown-out racing flat and sore joints, so that’s pretty much when we decided to just chill on in.

7:25 for 41.2 miles is still not horrible, and I’m happy with it for my first Strolling Jim (but, I will have that red shirt next year!)

Interesting tidbits

I like to lay down some interesting tidbits in my race reports that just pop into my mind, so here ya go:

1. It always rocks to spend time with Gary Cantrell (Laz).
2. …same goes for RayK. We love our legends.
3. Running the entire race, and finishing, with Sean O was the coolest. Long runs make for great bonding even when you aren’t talking a lot.
4. Catching Byron Backer was interesting and will probably never, ever happen again.
5. Tom “cold water dude” Wilson might just be the most incredible support dude to grace the ultrarunning scene ever.
6. The Alabama boys kicked butt yet again – Dink Taylor ran is 24th Strolling Jim this year.
7. Juli Aistars in the house!
8. Abi and TJ – cool mother/son vibe.
9. Spyder Tynes chills with her sister through marathon distance, then braves hella’ storms to complete the race.
10. Beth McCurdy showed off her Keys 100 training with a solid sub-7 and is fast becoming one of my favorite female ultrarunners.
11. …well, along with Kathy Youngren too – who slayed the course for the women (and who’s husband is chasing the Pinhoti record right freakin now!)
12. Brazilian Valmir Nunes cross in 4:44!
13. “The Walls” really aren’t that bad.
14. Not only did Sean O and I get passed by a dog with six inch legs in the latter miles, he finished sub-7!

Great volunteers. Great RD job by Mike Melton. Great race vibe. Great little town.

Easy to see why this is on the calendar for southern runners every year.

Now it’s on mine.

…and then I just stopped.

Woods Ferry 24-hour, …or not.

Li’l Weezy talked me into heading to rural, and I mean RURAL, South Carolina for a 24-hour event in the Sumter National Forest between Union and Chester, SC.

photo: Me and Li’l Weezy banking 20 miles.

The goal was for Weezy to get in some good time on his feet for 24-hours in preparation for the Pinhoti 100 – his first 100-miler. And, my goal was simply to stay on my feet with absolutely no mileage goals what-so-ever. So many people have been there to support me, so I thought I could do double-duty here with the “Weasel from Winder.”

I’m not trying to hate, and I’m from SC, so I’m not even going to get started on the little town of Union, the fact that there is not a single quality motel within 50 miles, nor its lack of even one single healthy place to eat, nor the excessive amount of personally irresponsible residents.

I know it sounds like I’m being very critical, but that’s not it – it really saddens me to see 300+ lb people, eating fried chicken and apple turnovers, ankles and wrists swollen from diabetes. It’s very depressing. Makes you want to help. Grab them and say wake up! educate yourself because you are dying. …and worse, your killing your kids.

Is there even gonna be a race?

Just before dark, we ventured to the start/finish at Woods Ferry Recreation Center inside the forest, and upon arrival listened to all the camping runners worry about the possibility of getting shut down.

The pavilion area where runners were to start/finish each loop had already been setup with a Hammer Nutrition banner and all the aid supplies and food, but apparently this was against the rules of the park. The ranger wanted all the food and supplies removed by dark . Plus, if it wasn’t removed by someone, most likely the animals would be “removing it” throughout the night.

I don’t know what the deal was. I heard musings of “no permit” and “canceled race” and “what if this, and what if that”, and it was all making me a bit uncomfortable. My early experiences in Union were already pretty weird, the race scene was looking weird and on top of all that, I was very, very sleepy.

We went to bed feeling very uneasy that night.

Smooth as silk

I don’t know if anyone removed anything, or what ended up happening, but packet pickup was mellow, the RD chipper, and come 7:30 a.m. everyone hit the trails for 24 hours of trail running.

…however, this would be unlike any 24-hour I’ve ever seen.

Aren’t timed events supposed to be flat?

Granted if you know Terri Hayes, the race director, you know she is always one to shake things up a little.

Woods Ferry was no exception.

If you’re not familiar with the 24-hour (timed event) format, this quote from suite 101 sums ‘em up well:

Most 24-hour races are “run as you please.” Runners run, walk, rest, or even sleep completely at will. Runners may also stop if they are completely exhausted or have reached their goal. All that counts in the race results is the total distance the runner covers. There is no penalty for stopping in less than 24 hours.

This format is a popular way to give runners the opportunity to experiment with different nutrition, hydration and other race-day strategies as typically, these races are low-key in nature and usually held on a short flat course containing somewhere between less-than-a-mile and 1.5 miles.

Not this race.

Purple to Blue to Yellow, and back

The Woods Ferry 24-hour consisted of a one mile approach trail, blazed purple, that carried runners to a sort of figure 8 loop connecting two interconnecting trail segments of ~4.5 miles each, making the entire loop 10 miles long.

Get all that? Here’s how it broke down:

• Purple trail: This section of trail was hacked-up, hard-packed dirt that gradually climbed for about a mile. The footing was a challenge because horses had torn it up wet and muddy, and then that mud dried with deep, hard divots.
• Blue trail: The blue trail starts out very runnable as gradual downhill, leading into a section of very steep downhill, before climbing out again about 500 feet. All the way to the yellow trail, this blue trail roller-coasters up and down constantly with lots of climbing and descending with some sections very steep.
• Yellow trail (I): This was easily my favorite part of the 10-mile loop. The yellow trail had a bit of everything with the early sections being nice, runnable pine straw covered single-track, some creek crossings, some short steep climbs and an aid station halfway through.
• Yellow trail (II): After the aid station, runners enter a power-line cut (some wimped out and took a graded gravel road outside the cut, but whatever). This cut section was pretty chewed-up, roller-coasting up and down, but I kinda liked it; and after a series of short hills, we entered some more nice, albeit technical single-track, and again roller-coasted throughout the woods. The final section of the yellow trail was very dry, very hard-packed and very mutilated by horses.

After the yellow loop, we had to redo the up-n-down sections of the blue-blazed trail before returning to the purple loop which took us back to camp.

That was one loop.

I sure would love to know the total elevation change of one loop. I’d guess 2000 feet of climbing and the same descending.

That’s a lot for a 24-hour loop race.

Quick recap

Although the course was much more challenging than I had expected, I really enjoyed running out there. It was a beautiful, sunny day crawling into the 80′s but never really got too hot.

I ran with Li’l Weezy for about 3.5 loops before he started to have a few foot problems and wanted me to push ahead. In a normal ultramarathon, this would be a given, but I was sorta out there for him, so I wasn’t sure what to do.

I pushed ahead, but it didn’t feel right.

I felt really good through 50 miles. I ran well, walked some hills in the later loops, and gained some additional confidence at that distance. In fact, Abi Meadows found me on the last mile of 50 miles, and we ran into the campground together at a strong pace.

But during the sixth loop, I found myself walking a lot.

I just don’t like that anymore. I know there are different camps in ultrarunning and walking is an accepted strategy, but for me and where I’m at with my training, I’m trying to walk less and less. I come to ultras to RUN, and I’m cool with walking severe inclines, but I want to run as much as I can – I believe it is the only way I’m going to continue to improve.

By the time I finished the sixth loop (60 miles), I learned I was in 2nd place overall, and first place male – all I had to do was continue for another 10 hours and I could win my first ultra race.

Around 10:30 p.m., I started the seventh loop, but found myself just walking the entire mile to the start of the blue trail.

Why do that?

1. My buddy who I came with had already stopped at 50 and was just waiting on me.
2. I was tired.
3. I had achieved enough miles for it to be good training.
4. I have an incredibly challenging race schedule coming up this summer.
5. I will get absolutely NOTHING out of walking for 10 more hours.

So, I simply turned around and walked back to camp.

Giving up the potential win (who cares anyway?) but putting an official 100K in the training bank.

I was happy with my decision. It felt like the right thing to do.

Gear

I ran the entire 62 miles in the Asics Piranha II racing flat. A 4.4 ounce racing flat that has replaced the New Balance 152 in my “flats” arsenal. I truly believe lighter socks and lighter shoes are the key to blister prevention – at least for me. Not one single blister or foot problem at all.

I carried nothing but water and Scaps.

Nutritionally, I took a Vespa every ~2.5 hours, added some BCAAs twice, and ate real food at aid stations. For whatever reason, I did not feel like using gels.

Personal Change in Ultrarunning philosophy

It’s been building all year, but this weekend really solidified for me that my approach to the sport is changing.

I am continuing to get more and more serious with regards to my running performance. I want to be able increase the amount of time I run during races, and this includes hills. I learned that depending on fatigue level, I ran 25 to 45 minutes faster, over the 10 mile course, when I ran hills as opposed to walking them. Over the life of a 50 or 100-mile race, that’s a big chunk of time.

The key is both being able to run more, but also being able to recover from those efforts faster, and continue with a solid pace on easier sections throughout the rest of the race.

I simply want to get faster. Both in ultras and the shorter stuff. No limits.

The training continues with my eyes firmly on a sub-24 hour at the Keys 100-miler.

One month away…

{huh?}

photo: Coming back for trip #2 across the river.

My fourth SweetH20 50K

The SweetH20 50K is one of my favorite races. Shockingly, I’ve run it four times now – more than any other ultramarathon since I started running back in ’06.

Wow – sittin’ here, I can’t believe I almost – almost – could be considered a non-rookie.

Nah, I’m still a rookie.

A few changes to keep things killer

You probably already know that the park was washed out from the 2009 Georgia floods, so Johnny and the DCRR crew had a bit of a challenge when creating the new course.

The hard parts didn’t change.

“Top of the World” was still “Top of the World” [TOTW]. A series of rollarcoaster climbs and descents ripping through a powerline cut. (minus the powerlines)

“Yellow loop” still had that nasty climb, straight-up a dry creek bed.

And, “Jack’s Hill” is still just a pain in the @ss.

But, to keep things continually changing and improving, the RD threw in a few “surprises” for the runners – just to make sure they knew they were running “rogue-style”. These changes included:

• Two trips up Jack’s Hill (a deceptively evil climb)
• Two rope-assisted trips across the river (yummy)
• A mental mind-bending, sun-infested, never-ending field approach to TOTW
• A short-n-steep gravel jeep-road
• And, a few extra miles to keep the runners guessing

Rough day from the get-go

Within in the first 3 miles, I knew I was running on dead legs.

Honestly, I hadn’t really recovered from my Barkley loop, which I did before recovering from the ING Georgia Marathon, which I ran sore from trying to chase 5 and 10K speed goals, which…

Whatever.

I just have a problem with rest; but that didn’t stop me from having fun.

At the start, I spent the early road section running and chatting with Abigail Meadows, stoked to see her at one of our local races, before ducking into the woods to tear through some of the “sweet” single track.

Down and across and up over the rope-assisted spillway, and I was moving pretty well.

Once you hit the blazed trails in Sweetwater State Park, you enter a series of rapidly changing trail sections that forces runners to pay close attention. Lots of blowdown branches, thick stumps, beachy soft sand, …but it’s mostly flat, so if you’ve got some skills, you can move quickly through here.

News to me

After crossing the bridge that leads out of the park, the course takes a different direction than years’ past, along some rolling, well-maintained and tree-covered trail.

I liked this trail, but it’s long. I was told a mile – but its a long mile.

And after that pleasant mile, it dumps you into an exposed single-track trail wedged into field of dry high-grass.

Honestly, I didn’t love the field. It was not my favorite addition to the course, …but remember, I was grumpy and running on dead legs. {wink}

Gravel-ling

Rats.

After that long field romp, racers were dumped onto a short climb up a gravel jeep road. It wasn’t so bad, but it was steep, and you knew it was taking you to “Top of the World” – just didn’t know when.

When.

Before I had a chance to recover from the climb, I turned a corner and BAM! – there they are – the roller coasters of “Top of the World”.

Every report ever written about this race drones on about TOTW, so I’ll just agree that, yes, it’s tough and nasty and gnarly and hot and exposed and slow and grueling - but, for some odd reason, it’s my favorite part of the course.

If you read my Barkley report, I suppose TOTW is just another example of me “loving that which sucks the life out of me.”

Water should be part of every ultra

The water crossings rocked! Both of them.

It was peaking into the 80′s by the time I got there, so I was ready for a li’l splish-splashin’… (say that 3 times, fast)

The first trip across was far more wild as I was tripping and falling everywhere trying to get across, but the water was cold and refreshing and it felt awesome on my quads.

There was a beach’s worth of sand on the other side, so I was given the chance to conquer the yellow loop, with it’s gnarly climb and fast descent, with plenty of soaked-shoe sandy goodness.

Clap your hands everybody 

photo: Glad to be finished!

After the water crossing, it was pretty much the same drill.

A second loop.

So, just take what I wrote, multiply by two, and there ya go – not much else happened on the second loop except for finding my good buddy Sean Oh dehydrating on the second crest of Top of the World and stuffing Fig Newtons in his mouth like a starving child.

I was also out of water, and hot as hell, So I figured I’d do pretty much the same.
(Biiiig shout out to Spyder Tynes for saving runners with ice cold water up there)

Sean and I chilled together through the next aid station, but he found a new awakening and dropped me like I never caught him.

Ultrarunning phenom, now injured-kid-swimming his-@ss-off, Matt Kahrs came looking for me about 2 miles from the finish and ran along with me for some much needed bro-catching-up-ing. I sure hope ol’ Matt heals and comes back to the sport. It’s too fun watching him rip it up

And after 33-ish miles and 6:35, I finally rolled up to the finish and put this one in the bank.

34th finisher out of about 175 runners.

I was not at all happy about that finish time, but felt a little better when I was told the race was long; and since I had plenty of ready-made excuses stemming back from all kinds of over-training and zero recovery, I felt well-armed with plenty of come-backs for “what happened?” should someone feel the need to test me.

…and yea, around mile 25 or so, I got “Schicked” …again.

Damn that Schick.
(but thanks Rich, for the Barkley chaps – mighty kind of ya)

Hanging around for the rest of the troops

But the highlight of my day was sitting on the finisher road with various other race finishers and volunteers cheering on all the other runners as they made their ascent up the last hill to the finish. Kate Brun and I spent a lot of time cheering on folks before being joined by Bryce Carlson, Dreama Campbell, Sarah Woerner and others both looking for their friends and cheering on strangers.

That lifted my spirits more than I can express.

I then hung-out to make sure that all but one of my local running group members crossed that finish line.
(Sorry, JR, but now you have a chance to get me back in our “contest.”)

Thanks all around

Thanks to the DCRR runners, Johnny Buice, all the aid station folks and all the positive people who shared the trail with me in the spring’s  first 50K scorcher.

Like I’ve said in all three of the other reports, SweetH20 is a the perfect 50K. Rocks, roots, sand, water, tough climbs, wild descents, gnarly gravel, sopping spillways, crushing concrete, open fields, dense single-track …and some stairs thrown in for completeness.

GET SOME!

(and yea, I’m gonna crank up the redesign on the SweetH20 web site next year. It’s due.)

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

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.