2005 Pisgah/VT50 - RR

I stumbled upon these old race reports on a long forgotten blog i used to have and figured they'd be perfect to add to my archives here.

2 Weekends, 2 Ultras:
Pisgah 50k:
My 4th year at Pisgah was a personal record setter for the 50k at 7:02 and change.
Stretching before the race, a familiar face approached me. It was Rob from Mass, a guy I ran pieces of the Jay Challenge Marathon with. We ran together for the first 3-4 miles. He said he was out just to coast, but he must have just felt right and took off. He turned me onto Stonecat, which is a 50 miler/marathon that’s down in Mass in November. Ironically, Gilly, a familiar face from the VT100/50 races comes flying by me at aid station 17. I decide he’s the first person I’ve seen in about 4 miles so I should try and keep up for awhile. I say the bonehead comment of the day of “hey is that a GAC shirt you have on?” We talked for a bit, he said he’s one of the guys that puts on Stone Cat and I should head down for the race. Later that night after coming home and looking up the Stone Cat race, come to find out….GAC stands for Gilly’s Athletic club. Boy did I feel like an ass hat when I read that.
Man I felt like hell though. Between the 5+ bee stings on the back of my neck and the 1 on my right bicep by mile 6 I was ready to call it quits right then and there. Thankfully I had my mp3 player for the time between mile 18 cresting Pisgah itself until the end of the race because I swear I saw maybe 2 people the whole time. It was a great day for a run with a nice bbq’d burger at the finish with my name on it.
Another race in the books.

VT50:
One week later at my 6th tour of the VT50 I set yet another PR @ 6:49!. Talk about a cold start. I’m glad I hung that tarp between the trucks because the dew was so thick it was essentially misting. There is nothing like waking up at 4:45 am and getting dressed in 39* weather before running 31 miles. As the 650 bikers and the 200 runners all gather down at the starting line my pop and I have a cup of terrible coffee along with some month old doughnuts. The race starts and talk about a quick start, it was probably the quickest I’ve ever run the first section of the race. I’m running with Delbock and a guy I guess he works with that also did the Jay Challenge named Mike. Mike has a high tech watch that beeps after every mile so he keeps saying “hey only another 30 miles to go, only another 29 miles to go, etc.” After the first aid station you go into the first section of trail before the split. Delback, Mike, and My father are a good distance ahead at this point. I’m running with 4-5 local mother’s dubbed the “mom bombs” who are just out having a grand ol’ time. I actually leap frog with them until Mile 13 where we meet back in with the 50 miler crowd. At this point I just about don’t see ANY runners until the aid station 27(keep in mind that the VT50 bikers are flying by at a rate of 2-3 a minute, and I’m able to leap frog with many of them on the steep uphill single track sections). Between Aid station 21 and 27 I hear one biker ask another biker what time it was. He responded 1210. So that kept my mind busy for the next 3-4 miles trying to calculate how fast I’d need to go for the rest of the race to break 7 hours (which was my goal since the week prior I did 7:02). I came into the last aid station at 12:45 and I knew I could do the last 3 miles of the race in under an hour. So at the first downhill I take advantage of gravity and start running a little harder. The trail goes back up and my speed goes back down. It’s an up and down course for the last 2.5 of the last 3 miles. Then they send you across the slope and then straight down into the lodge area. Well about ¼ mile from the end or so I’m like….shit that’s another runner. Another 50-100 feet down the hill I’m like….shit I think that’s Mike. I turn on the jets and I can feel myself starting to catch him. We cross over the bridge about 200 yards from the finish and he’s probably still 50yards ahead of me. I yell down “I’m going to catch ya mike” and he turns once, doesn’t recognize me. Then he turns again about 10 feet later, and waves. Now I know he recognizes me and he doesn’t think I can catch him. The only thing that was running threw my mind was “That SOB doesn’t think I can catch him!” I start tearing down the hill now in the last 100 yard stretch. About I dunno, maybe 20 yards from the end he looks over his shoulder again and sees that I’m only 2-3 strides behind him and flying. He starts to sprint as well. I’m gritting my teeth because the 31 miles of trail have been pretty grueling on my body and I’ve decided screw it I’m running threw the pain. I can hear the crowd make the sound of WWOOOOAAAHHH (you know the same sound the crowd makes when they see someone is teetering on a cliff before they fall) I fly past him and beat him by 1/10 of a second. He goes….”you bastard! How the hell did you just do that?” I smirk and lay down for a minute. I guess no one told him the Charlie story from my first VT50. We shake hands and each go our own way. As I’m walking back up the hill I get tons of smiles and congrats from the crowd. Along with a few “did you catch him?” To which I said “hell ya I did” I picked up a few things that fell off in the sprint to the finish and then I sat with a shit eating grin for the next 4 hours waiting for my pop to finish.
He and Delback come in just under 11 hours. As they sit down and have some food I tell Dave to ask Mike how he did. My pop goes, “see I told you he’d catch him before the end.” I laugh and I said, “yeah maybe 2 feet before the end but that still counts right?” My dad goes, you didn’t do a Charlie did you? I plastered on the same shit eating grin and said yeah. My dad laughed and told the story from a few years before to Delback. I hope he passes it along to Mike so he doesn’t make that mistake again.

3 for 3 on ultra’s this summer. All flying solo, it’s been a strange adventure but I do believe I’m adding one more long race to my schedule. Stone Cat coming up in November. So stay tuned for that race’s review

RR: Vermont 50

Ah the Vermont 50, where to start. Saturday was classic pre-race routine. Pick up my race packet at noon, head over to Long Trail for a few drinks, then over to Harpoon for a few more. Then pick up a pair of meatball subs to share with my old man at our campsite. It’s a tradition that started 10 years ago and hopefully will continue for many more.

John, Sarah, Steve, Pete, Pete’s girlfriend/wife? and Gillian joined Leah my father and me around the fire and we shared our running tales. Talks of how the trails are going to be, think they’ll be bad? Will this be another 03? Hard telling at this point, the clouds had started to move in but after baking in the sun and drinking some of my favorite beers all day. I couldn’t have been happier to be out here. The wind started to pick up around midnight, and the rain started somewhere around 130, and when it rained, man did it come down. Hindsight being what it is, I should have purchased a larger tarp to go over the bed of the truck as Leah and I awoke at 430am to wet bottoms and tops to our sleeping bags. I caulked it up to typical pre-vt50 craziness, I told her it could have been worse, at least it was warm. One of the years I woke up with a heavy frost on my pillow.

With the standard pre-race meeting out of the way all we could do was watch the bikers zip out into the darkness and wait for our turn. As we were instructed to walk forward to the starting line Rik and I decided we were WAY to far forward in the pack and we milled our way quickly towards the back third as per usual. With a Ready, GO, we were off down the road and due to the change in the start; it was literally down the road. In the past there’d been the short climb at the start to spread the pack, this year, it was fast. And we knew we were going fast because we NEVER see the lead runner at the 2^nd turn of the course. NEVER!

We settle into a grove and start running with a fella from New Jersey. Seems to be a veteran at these things, not much of a talker, but the small talk helped the miles melt away. At the first hill a young woman named Kim matches our pace. I soon learn this is her first 50 miler; she’s up from Atlanta with her “fast friend” who just last weekend had put in 140 miles in a 24 hour race. DEAR GOD! I exclaim I must be running WAY to fast if I’m keeping up with you guys. She laughs, but there was certainly a hint of truth there.

Rik and I cruise through the woods, and reminisce about how 2 years ago that woman had broken her hip in this location. What a way to start a race. With Kim and her friend long gone we match another runners pace and tag along. This too, is her first attempt at a 50 miler. Danielle from Montreal, Rik puts on his fatherly shoes and talks about how he got me into this and how you just need to “run aid station to aid station, it’s as simple as that.” And that she’ll be fine at the pace she’s going. I grin knowing that those little tips are what will keep you going when you go through the lows. How strange those words would ring true as the day unfolded.

I came into the School house a bit ahead of Rik and rebuilt a bit, wolfed down a boost, smiled for the camera and pushed on. Sara asked me if the trails were really as bad as 03, because I guess people were already bitching about it. I laughed and told her isn’t not even close. Rik and I have a strange relationship at these things. We run together, kind of, but there are stretches where one of us will get far out ahead of the other and this apparently was my turn to pull him along. I ran the next few miles alone, through the “fern gully” single track trails. I was has happy as could be, slipping and sliding, but enjoying the woods non-the-less. The long road stretch into Garvin always makes or breaks my day. I know I SHOULD be running aid to aid, but I’ve done this race long enough to know that if I can get into Garvin (approx 22 miles) feeling good, I’m gold.

My knee is starting to nag me from the early downhill pounding of the road. I take some Advil and slow my pace to where Rik catches me. We pass a handful of bikers that obviously have dropped and have just decided to ride back to the start. We see Nate as well who’s coming off an amazing finish two weeks prior at Pisgah but a nagging hip took him out of the game today. It’s odd, that one would drop, and then run/ride back to the start. Why not just keep going?? Then again, I’ve dropped 3 times at this race. Some day’s it’s just not in the cards.

A familiar face catches up to Rik and me on the climb up Garvin. Nick Palazzo, with two rookies in tow. He reminds us that this is the highest point on the course. Rik wisecracks, “So this must be where I get my runners high then eh?” To which the appropriate comment of “depends on what pills you’ve been taking.” The course over Garvin had changed quite a bit but I enjoyed the new single track they had added to the backside. I was feeling fine. Rik on the other hand, was fading, and fading fast. I catch up to another fella who I dubbed “peg leg guy” and if you were there and saw this guy. You’d know exactly who I’m talking about. Apparently he either cramped up, or had pulled something miles prior but was still moving forward, albeit more like a pirate.

It’s at this point on the course where you come out into this field with a grand fire place and a beautiful view overlooking blood hill and the rest of the course. I synched up my jacket and sat down in the chair (breaking rule 1 and the quote on my shirt) but I had gotten far enough ahead of Rik that I was a bit worried. Rik catches up about 7 minutes later and we settle in with a biker, whose bike broke at mile 12 and decided to run as far as he could without it. IN biking shoes (for those who’ve never worn clip-in bike shoes, they generally have the padding/flexibility of a ski boot). We commend him for his determination. It’s kind of inspiring, seeing that he's still out here when at this point I’d counted at least 30 bikers that had already dropped out. He keeps up with us for a bit, but his shoes have him fall behind in the next run able road stretch. Rik and I jogged together into the next aid station half way up the next climb. The veteran staffed station (the same crew that has been here or at Garvin for as long as I could remember). I get in and out as fast as I could and holler dad to get moving over my shoulder as I marched up the trail. 15 minutes go by, then 20 I, stop for a bit. Still no signs of Rik, I’d been walking stretches where I’d normally run in hopes that he’d catch up to me. Nothing. Now ordinarily I just run this race, without a care in the world, but the two rookie ladies that had come past me in the last stretch were talking about cut offs, if they’d make the next station. And it got me thinking, and a bit worried. After missing the cut off at MMT earlier in the year, you’d think it’d be something I’d keep on my radar. I look at my watch. I start doing math. If you are counting that’d be 3 ultra no-nos in a matter of miles.

We roll into Smoke Rise with 30 minutes to spare. “ONLY 30 MINUTES!” I exclaimed. I knew we were going slowly, but I’d never been this close to the cut off at only 28 miles. I ask about Dugdales and she tells me we’ve got an hour and 20 minutes to go 4.2 miles. Piece of cake I think, I plow down ¾ of a can of coke and stuff salty potatoes in my mouth and walk on, again, calling back to Rik. He’s already in a death march. It’s too early to be death marching. Not good. I call back words of encouragement but find myself putting a lot of distance between us. I sat on a rock and broke down the time/distance what we needed to cover.

"If it's going to be close, go ahead."
I can't leave him. I hope it's just a low and he'll put out of it in this next stretch. Perhaps the coke he had will kick in and he’ll bounce back. We get to the top of the muddy horse trail into Dugdale’s and Rik tells me that he's going to drop, and he'll see me next week. I feel a pit in my stomach knowing that not only am I now going to be on my own, that I won't even be able to share the finish with him. He gives me a hug and yells out "Now go...Go my son!!"

So I turn, and start to run, fighting back tears and know that it's going to be me verses the clock for the next 20 miles. I look at my watch; try to remember how much trail I still have in front of me, I look at my watch again. I’m running hard, sliding and smashing into the deep parts of the mud, which I had been avoiding prior. There was no longer time to fool around. This truly was, turning into a race from aid station to aid station. I pass 5 runners and 3 bikers before I get into Dugdale’s.

I quickly fill my water; get a thing of coke, stuff potatoes and gummy bears into my pockets. The aid station is filled with people I see Leah and give her the scoop on Rik. She’s ready to have me change my shoes as I asked, but there was no time. I got into Dugdales with 12 minutes to spare. I quickly grab a kiss and stuff another boost and two ice teas into my pockets and run off towards Blood Hill.

I catch the rookie and Penny on the next climb. I ask her how her foot is doing. She ran Pisgah with us a few weeks prior, with what I overheard, was a broken foot. Now she’s out here again. I tell her she’s crazy, but that’s just what makes us ultra-runners I suppose. We chat and I tell them how the next stretch over blood is my favorite of the course. It’s the winding single track. Which generally I enjoy. Today however I know I’ve got 45 minutes to go 3 miles. Sure 15 minute miles seems like a breeze, but 32 miles and 8 hours into a muddy wet course with heavy shoes and with the single track feeling like I was running on a slip and slide. I thought I was sunk. I quickly left penny and the other woman in the dust on the switchbacks. I catch John’s friend Gilly on the climb into Fallon’s. She wonders if we’ve made the cut off. I look at my watch. Did we make it? Did we not? I wasn’t sure

The volunteers were packing up the station. They take my number down. I ask, "Did we make it?"“OH YEAH YOU MADE IT”
I look at the cut off time hanging on the table, we had made it by 5 minutes.
After getting some warm soup I run off as fast as I could, passing 3 other runners who were still eating. I've got an hour and change to get 5 miles. This is going to be tough. My knee is throbbing still from the pavement from earlier. I yell out like I always do "16 miles to the LOOOOOVVVVE shack" as the trail turns and climbs next to the tin roofed shed. I see no one ahead or behind me for the next 4 miles. I wonder where everyone had gone. If the runners behind me had bailed because they knew they weren’t going to make it. I run, I run more than I ever had in this stretch. Wincing in pain, but knowing it HAD to be done. This couldn’t, no this wouldn’t be the year where a Robert wouldn’t finish either of the VT races. The trail pops out onto the road that Goodman’s is on and I looking at my watch and let out a sigh of relief. I knew I had made the cut off. I run anyway, setting goals of run to this tree and you can walk to the next pole. Then upon getting to the tree yelling at myself, "common, you can go to the pole instead!"

I see the guys from skipix parked in a field and I continue to run, then I yell over to them "thanks for being here, I wasn't going to run this stretch but I didn’t want to be walking in the photo!"

Goodman's is a hustle, two bikers still at the station and the reaper there looking at his watch. I had 14 minutes to the cut off. I quickly restock, ask how far and how much time do I have? I had to get to Johnson’s by 6pm.
The next stretch of trail is always a show, muddy, slippery, new single-track, rocks, switchbacks. I blast away, passing two bikers, and catching 4 more runners. One runner was another father/son pair. The son had just joined in and was pacing him home. He'd never done a 50, and when prompted the question of why, "I have no fucking clue!" The son was having a good time, saying how much fun he was having. I told him to just keep him moving and he’d be fine. Glancing at my watch, at that pace they wouldn't make the cut off. So I pushed ahead again. Catching two more runners. On the next climb I caught the "fast" friend from Atlanta. She told me of her 140 mile 24 hour run the weekend prior and how tough this terrain was. I kind of smiled. I was having a ball. I guess if you are from the south, and haven’t been running on what has been a muddy trailed filled season, this would be quite the shock to your system.

She and I leap frog for a bit before I even leave her in the dust. I pass the father of the father, daughter pair. "She's just ahead, but doing better than me'"
I catch the daughter soon thereafter and tell her that she’s doing great and her dad is right behind her. I then run with a PT from NYC and we discuss the cut off time and how we got into these things. This was her first 50 as well. She'd come over from the dark side of road running and marathons. She senses my urgency to get to Johnsons and takes off. Turning my pattern of simply passing people into a dog race, and now I’ve got a rabbit. She’s fast, REAL FAST, for 45 miles she’s setting an unbelievable pace. I force myself to run across the landscape, through the huge puddle, now finally soaking my feet thru which I’d done a great job keeping dry all day
Leah awaits me at the top of the driveway into Johnsons. I look at my watch. I don't know if I made it

“DID I MAKE IT?”
“Yep!”
“How much time?”
The reaper simply held up 3 fingers.

I laugh, yell out YEAH, and do a little dance. I grab more coke and Leah hands me a boost and kisses me,

“GO GO GO GET OUT OF HERE!”
I hike up through the field, seeing bikers and runners just ahead of me on the trail
I look at my watch, huh, if I had 3 minutes there, then that gives me 48 minutes to finish under 12 hours. I start doing the math again. I pass at least 10 more bikers in the next two miles, their components worthless at this point.

I give them words of encouragement, telling them they made it. They can't be pulled now. It’s just a death march. One guy thanks for me for the encouragement. I catch two more runners. 2 miles to go sign. I look at my watch, I still might be able to do it... running when I can, I settle in again with the NYC runner. She can't run the downs like I can. I'm a bandit with wreck less abandon. I want my sub 12 and her pace wasn't going to do it. 1.5 miles. Shit another climb. My legs twitching and on the verge of cramping. I think I’m hosed; I pound down Advil, two more salt tabs and choke down the boost on the climb. Turn the corner and slide-run the single track. Looking at my watch every 2 minutes, crap, I’ve got a chance but it's going to be a miracle. I catch another runner, and another, then Danielle on a slippery section. I yell hello and call out "guess whose back from the dead!!" she mutters something about the dark and the single track being tough. I agreed, it was getting very dark in the woods, but I didn't care.

I made the turn, I could hear the finish, and I’m running sideways across one of the slopes, slipping several times and catching myself with my hands. I look at my watch. Crap, I missed, it, I had to have missed it. I start hauling ass just in case; I slip and land on the ground so hard it breaks my water belt. I look at it for 5 seconds, stunned at how hard I hit the ground. Do I leave it? I don't have time for this crap.
“DAMN IT!” I yelled while picking up the pieces and tucking them under my arm. I'm too close to miss this because of this stupid pack. I scream down the hill, the new finish line had to backtrack climb a bit that slowed me down just enough to hear the b52s playing love shack on the stereo below. I bellow out...”TINNN ROOOOOFF,” and Leah yelled back from the final turn, “RUSTY!”

I turn the final corner and I run as hard as I’ve ever run at one of these events across the finish line. I wanted to slide in but was afraid of cramping up. Funny after seeing the photos and talking to John he had the same idea and actually did it. I am congratulated with a "great finish" I ask, what was my time what was my time?
“1206”, Loni says from the end of the shoot.

Leah snapped a picture of us at the finish line. I look kind of defeated because I was still under the impression I missed the 12 hour mark. Danielle and a pair of bikers came in before we left the shoot area. I thanked and congratulated her. I wonder how many of the other runners I had passed had missed the cut off at Johnsons.

Leah, as a rookie crew was EXACTLY what I needed. She force fed me everything I needed when I needed them. I found out two days later when the results were posted that I actually DID finish under 12 hours. I had beaten the reaper, he was right behind me. His scythe figuratively cutting off my water belt. I crossed the finish line in a what Rik would have describe as, the ‘last man standing’ with a finishing time 11:59:52.

What a day, what a story, I can’t wait for next September.

Vermont 50 Preview:

Normally I don’t write previews, but this year it feels different. John always talks about his annual camping trip up to the Whites in the springtime where he feels reborn. For me, it’s the Vermont 50. Tomorrow and Sunday will mark a decade of these things. 10 years! It boggles my mind that i've been doing this race for 10 years. (9 starts, 3 DNF, 2-50k, 4-50M)

Sure the tradition has changed a bit, the first year Rik had to pick me up and drop me off back at college. Camping in the parking lot has come and gone over the years. But the heart of the pre-race still lives on. Sleeping on the ground, in the cold, splitting a 6-pack of Long Trail and wolfing down meatball subs. Waking up at 430 in the morning to frost on your pillow. Trying to get dressed while shivering uncontrollably. Standing in the huge port-a-potty lines. Seeing all of the familiar faces. The fog that covers the mountain in the wee hours of daylight as the first wave of bikers starts off down the road. I don’t know exactly what it does to me, but I love it. The Vermont 50 is the reason I continue to do ultra runs. The trails, the smells, the course, the farms, the memories, it’s…just…home to me.

This year I am happy to say that Rik will return to be running by my side after missing last year with injury. Loni will be heading out later in the morning to continue to try to improve her 50k PR in hopes to crack the 50 miler status in 2010. I will continue my personal tradition of getting to registration early, followed by a late lunch at the Long Trail Brewery and enjoying a few pints on the deck on the banks of the Ottauquechee River.

Looks like a cold rainy race day forecast, perhaps reminiscent of the mud bowl from 5 or 6 years ago? Here’s to hoping so.

Pisgah 50k - RR

Pisgah 50k - September 13, 2009

The Pisgah 50k has slowly become my second “home course” when it comes to ultra’s. Not only is it the closest ultra to me, but it’s the one I’ve done the second longest. What started out as a bet/dare between my father and I(to do two ultra’s in two weekends) 7 years ago, grew into a September tradition. This year would be no different as He and I would yet again, toe the line together. This year we’d have a bit more company then in the past though. Loni was going for her second finish in two tries at the 50k distance.

The weather couldn’t have been more perfect. Sunny and in the mid 70s. A complete 180 from the rain and cold we had last year. I couldn’t have been in higher spirits when at the start I got to catch up with Dave, Mike, John, Nate and the rest of the familiar faces. Loni was described as having a “deer in the headlights” look about her.

With the standard speech and the simple “ready GO” commands down the pavement we went. Rik and I quickly realized that today was a nice slow jog in the woods as our paces were both faster then loni’s so we were able to throttle back. Perfect I figured, I being severely undertrained and Rik still nursing his nagging leg and foot pains. The first stretch of the course is always misleading because it’s a nice long slow grade into the park. And every year I have to catch myself and slow down, because as much fun trucking down the hills are at this stage of the race, it always seems to come back to haunt you hours and miles later. 3-4 familiar faces match our pace and Rik and I tell our horror stories of how about 50% of the time we’ve run here we’ve been stung repeatedly in this stretch. As one would expect we receive looks of horror. After the first aid station at mile 4 our small pack starts to spread out. One of the pack that didn’t burn off ahead was a first timer named Martin. He had recognized me (kinda) from my dirty girl gators and that he’d seen me a few times at the WNHTRS. He was a semi local shorter distance runner that was trying his cards at an ultra. He seemed like he was holding a lot back, but at this point in the day, it was probably the smartest thing he could have done.

As the miles melted away I would run back and forth between the pack with Rik and Loni who occasionally would fall further back. She’s certainly improved a lot in the past year, but she still hasn’t gotten the ultra walk down so we’d pull away on the climbs. At one point we caught up to a Terri Hayes, a sweet southern woman from South Carolina and she spoke of how she’s the RD of many small time ultra’s down her way. As we spoke she mentioned how she’d been doing ultras for over 20 years and figured she was somewhere around 300 finishes. It was nice to run with her, she spoke of how she was envious of me and my father running together and how she couldn’t convince any of her children or grandkids to carry her torch when she quits. I tell her at the pace she’s running she’s still got plenty of years left on the trails to convince them. As much as it was sad that she isn’t able to do so, it really made me happy and lucky that I have that ability myself. The positive thoughts carried us back over Chestnut hill to the 17 mile aid station at the base of Pisgah itself.

Rik starting to feel his sugar dropping gets in and out of the station quickly and disappears down the trail. I restock my supplies and warn loni to do the same knowing the hardest climb over the mountain itself is next. Normally this stretch is long and grueling but today, with a cup of coke and as many fig newtons and oreos I could stuff into my mouth and hands it cruised by. I picked up a stick to use as a hiking staff and power hiked to the top. Stopping every minute or so to make sure loni was still moving. I had expected to catch Rik before the summit but he was already ½ mile down the decent when we caught up to him. He was really starting to crash now. This stretch is where he had locked up last year and had turned the afternoon into a death march. I did my best to make sure he was taking his salt and drinking fluids to get him out of the low. Loni however, who had been behind us all day darted ahead on the pond loop. Although she’s still a novice to the distance, her exposure to the events has left her with a veterans mind. Knowing well aware of the highs and lows of the race she decided to take advantage of the high. It took Rik and I about 2 miles to slowly reel her in. When we did we saw that she had caught up to Martin and the 4 of us shared the next few miles. He looked to be in fantastic spirits and shape for being 20+ miles into his first 50k. After we gave him the scoop on what lied ahead and a few salt tabs he took off down the trail. Now it was loni’s turn for her low, so the pace started to slow to what felt like a crawl. But, we were still moving, and the sun was shining, so I couldn’t have been happier. When we got back to the Killborn Pond Aid station we were told that there were 10 runners behind us. I didn’t believe them, but I was pumped to find out we weren’t the unofficial sweepers. Loni seemed in good spirits as I told her that there was no turning back now. There’s no aid until the finish, nor is there a quicker way to finish other than the 2 trails and road that the course followed back to the fire station. We made quick work of the first climb, and then trotted along the snowmobile trail. Noticing how much work they’d done to widen and change the path. The woods had slowly started to reclaim what was just destroyed last year. Then it happened, Rik took his eyes off the trail for one second and caught his foot on a root. Ordinarily, not a huge deal, he caught himself as he was falling. Unfortunately for him, his salt balance wasn’t right and this trip and catch subsequently turned into a rock hard calf muscle cramp exactly what he ran into last year. Loni watched in horror as he yelped in pain. I did my best to help him stretch his cramp out as fast as I could but the damage was done. At 29 miles and 7 hours into a day when you get a cramp like that it’s pretty darn debilitating and our pace continued to slow. As we passed the gate leaving the park, marking the 1 mile to go mark, we passed John the school teacher. It seems like every year I run this or VT he and I cross paths and some point. We don’t stay together long as I state that I can smell the BBQ and I’m ready for a burger and try to push the pace. Rik gingerly running now as to not re-cramp his leg, and Loni, still trucking along at what seems to be the exact same pace as her first mile. At about ½ a mile to go there is a group of people towards the end of their picnic in their front yard. A few still have numbers on, I assume locals that had perhaps run the shorter race. Rik calls for a beer and one of the guys come over and hands it to him. I laugh and tell loni, watch this, this is going to be like Pop-eye and spinach. She watches in disbelief as he gulps down half of it on the last little climb. “Apple don’t fall far from the tree now does it,” is the only comment I could muster.

As we trot around the last turn w:e can see the finish line, Rik and I hold up and let loni lead the way down the shoot. Official times 8:02:10 and 8:02:13 Not too bad. We took 15 minutes off of loni’s PR from the VT50 last fall and this course is much harder. Rik had survived injury free, aside from the tweaked muscle. I had just enjoyed a day in the woods with my family. I felt amazing. Fatigue sure, but that was it, no pains, no tweaks, no nothing. Sure, you can say I could have run it a lot faster, but in reality, they’ll be another day to run faster, never know when I’ll get another chance to run with my family.

MS Greenway Thru-Hike Part 2

Day 2
The Rain was still falling when we awake. We talked about how we woke up every couple of hours because it was just so bloody hot. We sat and talked about packing up camp or waiting for a bit to see if the weather would break, but in the end we figured with 10 miles ahead of us we'd be better of moving on sooner rather then later. We break camp and put on our pack covers for the first time. As Dustin hoists his pack i start laughing uncontrollably. His green pack cover and turned his overnight pack into a turtle shell which we dubbed for the rest of the trip as Donatello. I'm still giggling about his cover when we reach the Gorge 1/2 mile down the trail.



After a short jaunt up the trail from the gorge we reach a long road section. I'm sure it isn't too bad in the right conditions but with the rain pouring down the lack of tree cover wasn't welcome. The rolling stone lined roads and sprawling farms lands boosted my spirits a bit. I felt like i was in the heart of Vermont running the VT50 and/or the VT100. After a long climb we reached Silver Lake, a perfect spot for lunch, had it not been raining and humid. The trail soon turned from the familiar hard packed dirt to an old logging road. The rain was starting to break and we were both happy to be off the road and away from vehicles again. We marched on quietly until we were both startled to a halt by a turkey, who was equally as shocked to see us. As it crashed off into the brush we turned and caught our first glimpse of Child's Bog. With all of the rain we've gotten this summer the "bog" as it was described was filled to the brim and it looked almost more like a reservoir then anything. The trail passes to it's south below the dam, which gave us an amazingly perfect horizontal view straight across the water.
The sun, now fully exposed in a beautiful blue sky was heating up the woods. The trail still wet from the rain and the humidity in the air almost stifling at times. We talk about how great it's going to be when we get to Nelson(the small town that marks the half way point), and how hopefully they'll be a little convenience store there. As we come out of the woods we are greeted with another long stretch of back country road. As we march down this long dirt road i turn around for some random reason. I still couldn't tell you why. Back about 200' up the road a doe and two fauns march out of the woods and then back up the hill. Dustin looks at me like i had 2 heads. "how the hell did you know they were there?" Wish i knew, suppose it would be a good 6th sense to have if i was a hunter. At the bottom of the hill we reach pavement for the first time in two days. It means we had reached the small town of Nelson. A short jaunt up the asphalt, passed the ancient gazebo and we reached the town center, where we met two other hikers.

They must have overheard us talking as we walked over because one said, "nope, no store, i could have really gone for a coke too." I laugh and said that i was saying the same thing all morning. Tom and John were a couple of older guys that were heading southbound and on the third day of their thru-hike . With the 4 of us laying all of our gear over the mailboxes and parking stalls it must have looked like a yard sale to an untrained eye. As we eat lunch we get the scoop on what lies ahead and fill them in on the rest of their day. We are warned of the beaver pond crossing that is about mid calf deep and the exact words describing the rest was "rolling terrain." Sounds like a breeze right? We wish them safe travels and head out of town, after about 1/2 a mile we reached the pond. Dustin, took off his boots, as he had taken advantage of our lunch break and had dried out his boots to the best of his ability. My shoes were beyond drying so i marched right on thru and snapped a photo
With another 4 miles beyond the crossing and the guys saying "rolling terrain" we figured we'd be at camp in an hour tops. Be able to dry out the rest of our gear and enjoy the afternoon. Well, here's the thing, in one direction "rolling terrain" means what it sounds like, in another it means, long steady climb with a few short dips. We climbed for what seemed like an hour, with 50lbs of weight on your back, soaked shoes, and a water filled trail making ever step up seem like five. Then it hit us, a climb that dwarfed all of the climbs leading up to this point. A long dirt road that you couldn't even see the top of, looming in front of us. The sun beating down on this dry road as we consult the map. Yep, straight up it! and we've still got 2 miles to go. Dustin mumbles, "rolling terrain my ass," under his breath and we put our heads down and marched up. This thankfully was the last real climb of the afternoon. Once over the top we were on what seemed to be snowmobile trails right up to camp. And what a welcome sight that was, our hips and shoulders starting to feel the effects of two day and 20 miles of trail. With another shelter to ourselves we dumped our packs as fast as we could, set up shop and started hanging out whatever we could to get things dry. We spoke of how awesome tomorrow is going to be with the vistas, the blueberries and the non-official half way point of the trek behind us. Never mind the store that we knew was in Washington where we could get a taste of some food that didn't need boiling water. The site register had a Sodoku book and cards so we were able to entertain ourselves while our food cooked. I was curious why so many entries in the log book had mentioned critters until the sun went below the tree line. From what we could tell in the spots between the wall joists and the roof joists a few families of rodents had made home. It was a bit unnerving at first, but the munching and scurrying above your head soon became white noise. With no rain, and a clear sky we were treated to a fantastic nights rest. Good thing too, 14 miles, 3 summits and a lot of trail started first thing in the morning.

MS Greenway Thru-Hike Part 1

This all started when I was informed that my buddy Dustin and his wife want to thru-hike the long trail next year when she gets out of college. After some discussions I determined that neither of them had really thought much about the actual details of said trip. i.e. gear, and the training required to take on a 30 day trek through the wilderness of our home state. After I suggested that they perhaps start smaller, i.e. the Greenway we laid out a plan and on Wednesday July 29th, it began.

Day 1

When Loni dropped us off at the Marlboro Trail head we weren't sure what to expect. Our packs were heavier then either of us had ever carried, and with 5 days alone in the woods, the possibilities were endless. It didn't matter though, this was just what the doctor ordered for us. The cubicle fever was at all time high and we were ready for one hell of a journey. The morning was cool and crisp. We laughed thinking about how this was such a better option then sitting in the 8 o'clock rush hour traffic that both of us would be stuck in on this beautiful Wednesday morning. For those of you who've never hiked up the Marlboro trail on Monadnock there is a long rock and log stair section that knocks the wind out of you if you just have a day pack. With an overnight pack and supplies for 5 days we were sucking wind and stopping every 10 minutes, sweat pouring off of us. When we reached the top of the mountain the sun had broken free of the clouds that had surrounded the summit when we departed. Leaving us with a spectacular 360* view of the area. We looked north and way off in the distance we could see our destination. It seemed so very far away, but this is why we were here. The mayflies were horrendous at the summit so we snapped a couple of quick photos and decided to find a spot with a breeze for our early lunch.

As we chowed down our lunch at the intersection of the Dublin trail another hiker greeted us with a thick accent. Noticing our packs he commented, "you must be the two headed northbound on the greenway." After talking a bit with him he mentioned he had done it a few times and that he thought it was very underutilized. Fine by us, this was more of a journey away from people anyways. Dustin asked the guy if his accent was a New Zealand accent to which the guy prompted corrected to Australian. It made me laugh thinking about how Paul at the MMT 100 was so adamant about not being Australian and now this fellow was so adamant about not being New Zealand. Two counties separated by so little, with such a distaste for one another. We made our way down the Dublin trail with little effort, sliding and falling a few times, but with the sun beating us down the treeline was welcomed.
The fire road climb up to the Spiltior shelter was rough, the heat and humidity scorching down upon us. This summer here in NH being almost non-existent really hadn't acclimated either of us to this weather. We stopped and rested at the bottom of the hill and had to stop several times to dunk our heads in the rushing streams nearby. We joked about how we were sweating like "real men" should on a daily basis. The thing i noticed was that neither of us had gone to the bathroom yet today. With my history of not peeing during ultra's that couldn't have been a good sign, luckily today the hiking gods were on our side and neither of us had any dehydration symptoms. With the threat of an afternoon shower looming in the backs of our heads we pushed on fairly quickly to the shelter and arrived comfortably at 3:30. After looking at the map and reading the guidebook we see that there is a nice spot to pump fresh water from about a 1/4 of a mile down the trail. We shed our packs for the first time in 6-7 hours and laugh at how quickly we knock out the 1/4 a mile without them.

As we restocked our water you could feel the temperature shift, the storm we were warned of was closing in. We hustled back to camp, set up shop and started to cook our meals. As i scoped out a good branch to hang our food from Dustin worked on setting up his Jet Boil. What a surprise he had when melting plastic starting pouring down on the stump tabletop. Followed by a loud, "OH NO,....OH NOOOOO!" Apparently Step 11 of the instructions told you to remove the top AND BOTTOM plastic lids from the main pot. In his exhausted state, the bottom lid had slipped Dustin's mind and he had melted it almost instantly upon starting the stove. As the thunder approached we got our food all cooked and each took a shelter trail log and read for the next hour, sharing the ones that were the most hilarious and getting tips on what tomorrow section would bring from the prior southbound hikers. It's odd being out in the woods with no technology and living strictly by how you feel and what surrounds you. With the thunderstorms essentially blackening the sky and the rain pouring down confining us to the shelter we found ourselves crashed out by 5:30. The ping of the rain lulling us to sleep.

Off to The Crider Shelter tomorrow. Hopefully the rain breaks by morning.
Quotes of the day:
"Glisteny" & "Nom Nom Nom"

The Fifteenth MMT 100

May 16^th, 2009

This has to be the hardest race report I have written. Something about trying to encapsulate a failed event was out of my comfort zone. But after staring at the reminder sticky note and looking at the lonely draft document for the last few months, here goes.

Rik, Loni, John and I drove down together to the Skyline resort early Friday morning. All packed into my Subaru with a trailer full of camping and ultra gear. The trip went smoothly through 6 states when we ran into a 2 mile traffic jam in Pennsylvania. A truck driver who had called ahead on his CB said it was a motorcycle accident. And when the ambulances were called off Rik exclaimed, “Well, must be a fatality, that’s the only time I’ve seen them call of ambulances before.” His logic was there, but the reminder that death was near wasn’t the most comforting. As the pack started moving again a fellow in a truck next to us had noticed one of the bearings on my trailer was about to bust. So we promptly pulled off the highway and accessed the damage. I had said the night before that I wanted all of my tools to do this if needed. Sadly the bearing had seized to the axel so Rik and Loni headed into town while John oversaw my work. When they returned with the bearing puller it took me all of 10 minutes and we were back on the highway, continuing our journey south.

They Massanutten skyline was impressive to say the least after the essentially zero elevation for the previous 6 hours of driving. The ranch was as described to me on the drive down, “Disney-ish.” The 4 of us grabbed our race packets, set up camp, and enjoyed a (at least for me) very apprehensive dinner.

I awoke to a miserable stench. It would have appeared that the sites they gave us were on top of a septic field of some sort. The smell was unbearable and the 3 of us hustled to get our gear together and up the hill to the start. Rik and I shuffle back and forth somewhere in the middle of the pack, while John was off chatting up a few of his ultra buddies. I watched the large ticker count slowly down to the 5:00:00 AM start. With a kiss from Loni and a brief, GO! We were off down the road. The first 2.4 miles are on rolling pavement until we get to the Buzzard Head Trail. Rik and I take it nice and easy on the small climbs and descents. At the trailhead I quickly filled up my water bottle with what tasted much like hose water from a hose that had been sitting out in the sun for a week. It was wretched, and the time I had lost filling my bottles with the wretched water let Rik get out of my sights on the single track climb. I run/hike for a bit with a woman from Canada that states “unless home renovation is training, I shouldn’t even be here.” I catch Carl at the first look out. Carl is a runner that I know from years and years ago at the VT100. I guess in the heat of the day Carl had a pack of lady horse washers wash him down to cool off, and in the process, got him the nickname that I’ve known him since, horseman. The views are amazing from the top of Buzzard. The sun was rising; it couldn’t have been a more peaceful beautiful spot. Through the fog you could see a stream way below. Little did I know, I would have to run through said stream 50 miles later in the race.

The rocky single track terrain turns into Jeep and then gravel access road which makes running seem possible again. Good thing because I glanced at my watch and I was WAY too close to the cut off this early in the race. I run for a bit with Terry from upstate New York. Now when John had ran this race last year he was near a guy that said “this sucks, that sucks.” I had overheard Terry utter the word “sucks” oh probably 10 times in the mile I was running with him. It was kind of funny. I pondered for the next few miles if it was the same guy.

I got into the aid station ahead of Rik. Apparently I had passed him a ½ a mile prior when he was on a pit stop. We were 19 min ahead of the cut off. Ditched our lights, topped off our waters and were off

The stretch from Shawl to Veach was a lot like the VT100. Miles and miles of rolling roads, very run-able, this was good, because the reaper was right behind us and it wasn’t even 9am yet. Rik and I run with Marty the Doctor from Cincinnati & Paul from New Zealand. They helped pass the time greatly as we ran the road. The best statement had to be from Paul who said, “Australia is a great place, except for the Australians.” We arrive at the ever famous Veach aid station 28 minutes ahead of the cut off and grab breakfast.

Leaving Veach we head back onto single track trail and climb to the top of the ridge. Pancake rolled into a burrito with egg inside in one hand, the same method of creation but with sausage in the other. I was starving! Rik asks Marty about tightness in chest, swelling, shortness of breath, and feeling of impending doom (symptoms of cardiac arrest.) Marty responds with “you’re at Massanutten!”

Once I worked the sausage out of my system I felt ok. A light mist had started to fall which brought the humidity down a bit as we climb to the next ridge. The views were again spectacular and I was enjoying the ride a now increasing 34 min ahead of cut off.

Milford to Habron stretch was a nice rocky ridge trail. We knock the section out quickly and roll into Habron. I pack my water bottles full of ice while Rik tells the former runners (twins I guess) that he’s brought the next of kin to sacrifice. The sun has come out and the temps are rising, I tell Rik we need to grab some watermelon and go! While Rik settles in running with Caroline, a woman that trains with Karl Camp, I run ahead at my own pace feeling good as if my body was finally waking up. I catch up with a Brian from North Carolina and we talk back and forth for a bit, which helped the miles tick by. The long decent that I was warned about at the last aid station was no joke. “A quad killer,” one runner said as he screamed past me.

At the trail head there was a flour 4 mile mark with an arrow. 4 miles of long rolling pastures on hard packed dirt road. This is the kind of terrain I dread. The sun out in full blaze now, the humidity rolling off of the fields was Vermont in july-esk as we continue to descend into the river valley. I’m getting hot, scorching hot; I stop to dunk my head into a fast flowing culvert. It works to drop my temps and I’m able to jog a good distance into the crewed aid where Loni awaits. I rebuild a bit, an icy boost, watermelon, some food, checking my supplies in my drop bag and wait on Rik. A couple volunteering commented on our Team Robert shirts that made me all smiles. Just the boost that I needed to get out of there, looking back it was just I needed for this next climb. Now with a 46 min cushion to the cut off

Habron to Roosevelt

Warned of the long climb ahead I have Loni pack a 3^rd hand held water bottle and extra GU’s. The 9.5 stretch is the longest unaided section of the course.

Rik, now hurting in the heat is forced to stop many times along the 1-2 mile climb.

Trying to choke down cantaloupe he’s falling behind me. While I’m not a strong runner, I do pride myself on my ability to hike. For having just run/hike/walked 25 miles I was feeling fresh as a daisy and I was staying ahead of my hydration, salt, and food intake. Things for me were as right as rain (pun fully intended). I even got to pose for a few photographers out on the trail.

After 3 more increasing longer rest breaks we make it atop the ridge. I’m getting antsy, part of me wants to push on, part of me knows Rik is suffering and I need to be here to keep him moving. I believe someone mentioned 85* with 90% humidity at the previous aid and in the exposed sections of the ridge I didn’t doubt it in the least. I’d run ahead, find a rock, sit down. I was starting to force Rik to drink and take salt every 30 minutes if not sooner. He’d complain, I’d give him a hard time and actually took out salt tabs and held that in front of him. TAKE THESE!

Somewhere on the ridge a fellow from Oakridge Tennessee with the nickname “sticks” from his walking sticks came past us and said we better get moving if we’re going to make the next cut off. He wasn’t too far off either. Our gap was now under 20 minutes. I jogged ahead yelling back if we’re really close I’ll come back to get you. I officially checked in 12 minutes ahead of the cut off. The sky’s had opened up in the 5 minutes coming into Roosevelt and I was soaked and getting cold. After new socks, and a warmer shirt, some food in my belly I felt like I could take on the world. Rik on the other hand kind of slogged through the aid station without much said. I caught up with him a bit further down the trail, already soaked through again.

Roosevelt to Gap Creek 1

I’m not exactly sure where the title gap creek is derived from, but the next 2 miles of trails could have been IN Gap Creek as far as I was concerned. We weren’t making good time; my heart was starting to get out of it. We had long periods of silences. The neat part of this section was that we got to run through the section that had burned a few years back causing the course to change. We got to run through the scorched graveyard of the woods. You could still smell the smoke with each footstep. Once at the top I trotted ahead again. I snapped out of my funk and was picking flowers along the way as an attempt to distract my mind from what I was doing and how far behind we were, and as a nice gesture for poor Loni’s who had been trying to keep track of us for probably somewhere around 12 hours at this point. I cruise into the aid station, rebuild a bit, wait again for Rik, who slowly trots in and then plops down in the chair. Bad news as far as I was concerned. I tried my best to get him out of there, knowing full well how close we were. Hell the reaper was there watching his watch.

Gap-Jawbone-Visitors Center

Rik warns me of the climb we have ahead. He’s already dreading it while I’m ignorantly blissful. No idea what lied ahead, no worries, I can hike I figured. Well between my hiking ability and the fact that I was still semi rested from having a bit longer at the aid stations then I’m used to helped me up and over Jawbone with only a few water breaks to catch my breath. Rik, on the other hand, wasn’t in as good of spirits. Feeling kind of defeated I encourage him to try to pick up the pace a bit. Along the ridge we catch up with Brian again. He’s in a rough spot himself so I try to encourage him to run with us for as long as he can. It was at about here where we came to a vista on the ridge. I looked back at both guys and said “hey guys, do you think it’s bad when you can see lightning BELOW you?” It was no joke; there, in the valley below, was a storm that Zeus himself would have been proud of. As the clouds start to roll over the ridge we start to pick up the pace hearing the thunder approaching. The lightning getting closer, the thunder cracks getting louder, we’re now running perhaps 8 min/miles which is a shear miracle at this stage of the race after what we’ve been running for the last 12 hours. The trail off of the ridge nowhere as close as we had hoped it would be. We smell sulfur, we duck our heads, now in full sprint, but seriously, what good would it have done us. We were on a treeless rock ridgeline sprinting through 1-4” deep puddles. I’d never run so fast, so hunched over, and still manage to stay on my feet. I’ve run in fear before, from coyotes, from lose dogs, etc. but never have I run that fast from what I figured could have been death. As the worst of the storm seemed to fade, we finally reached the trail off of the ridgeline. Murphy’s Law I’d suppose, but upon reaching the trail head and catching another runner, he said he had hail where he was. The runner mentions we’ve got 30 minutes to reach the Visitors center that’s 2.8 miles from where we were. Rik tells me to go ahead and he’s going to drop. I felt sick to my stomach. We came all of this way. I had stayed back to keep you moving and now you’re going to drop? Not get pulled because we were slow, but just throw in the towel. Part of me felt a little cheated. Part of me knew that his heart wasn’t there. Looking back I’m surprised he didn’t drop earlier. Well either way I knew that I was going to have to run some of this pavement if I was to make it to the center in time. I made it, with 12 minutes to spare. So either the runner had his time and distance wrong, or I had just run the fastest 3 miles of my life, 45 miles into an ultra. Perhaps the running gods saved us from a worse fate as our slowness saved us from what was described to me as ¼” hail at the aid station.

Visitors Center-Bird Nob-Picnic Area

I grab my jacket, headlamp, and whatever food I could cram into my pockets and prepared for another long climb. I meet up with another runner that says he’s doing this for the first time himself and his buddies are already long gone. And he was just going to go until he ran out of time. We say we’ll run together for a bit, just to keep each other company as the field has spread pretty thin by this point. Unfortunately for that plan, like my father, hiking was not his forte’. Combined with the fact that a few of his friends were heading down Bird Nob as we climbed slowed him to a crawl and he was out of my sights less than 5 minutes after we said we’d stick together. It was getting darker and darker. Had I gone the right way? No matter how bright your headlamp was, the rain coming down and the fog limited your visibility that even if you FELT like running, you really couldn’t without going off the trail. We get to a barrier, I can’t see any markings, and I don’t see any glow sticks. I think I’m sunk, water supplies dwindling, cold, wet, and lost, in the middle of nowhere. I get pissed at myself and figure I couldn’t have missed the turn and run down this road. I’m glad I did, through the fog I could make out a moving light and maybe 2 minutes after I started to run I found myself at the top of bird knob having a nice cup of chicken soup. There’s another runner in there. He’s hard to recognize all bundled up in the dark. But as he’s leaving I notice it was Marty the doctor. So I hustle out of the station and we run together for a bit. Sticking together for the rest of the climb down and into the Picnic area, laughing about how he could never convince his kids to do this. And here I was, pushing on without my dad, in the dark, alone, on unfamiliar terrain. With the power of both of our lights we’re able to get off of bird knob only falling a few times. Not too bad I figure, after the climb up I figured I’d fall at least a half a dozen times on the way down between the mud and rocks. As we see the Picnic area we thank one another for being there on the last crazy stretch, stating that if either of us were alone we’d have never made it as fast. This was good because once again, I had less than 20 minutes to the cut off. The aid station was a mad house, people scrambling around, crews packed under this pavilion, volunteers scattered. I wanted to change my clothes a bit but Rik warned me not to and if I needed anything special they’d see me again in a couple of miles at Route 211. I sadly agree only taking some chicken soup and push on.

Down the road, and back onto the trails it’s dark. I’m lonely, feeling depressed. I see a light in the distance behind me. I start to wonder how long it’ll take him or her to catch and pass me. Turns out that wasn’t my biggest concern. I hear water roaring ahead of me. I figure we must cross over a culvert. No such luck, it appears the trail goes right through. Perfect! I’m going to be washed away only 1 mile from a road and die. It was about as Eeyore as it could get. I reluctantly splashed through and tried to trot for a bit, desperately trying to stay warm. I start thinking about how good it’ll be to get that water bottle of red bull, my mp3 player and lube my butt in under a mile. That thought faded fast when I approached a second water crossing, a deeper, faster running, wider water crossing. If there was anyone without shouting distance they would have heard the loudest F bomb a young man could muster after 57 painful miles.

Rik and Loni wait for me at Route 211, they laugh about how the previous runners through were bitching about the water crossings. I concurred with everything that was said. I grab what I need and quickly hustle out of the aid station saying I’ll see them back at Gap Creek in no time. 5 minutes up the trail. F me, I didn’t re-lube. My stride had already deteriorated to what could be described as a Cowboy after a long days ride. Strike 1. Oh well, what can you do, I’ll just turn on my mp3 player and hope that distracts me enough to get the next 7 miles. Wow those songs looped back quickly, where are the rest of my songs? Oh perfect, that’s right, I had intended on updating the playlist and copying everything back onto here, but failed to do so. Yeah, 7 miles, so anywhere from 1-3 hours time, I had the grand total of 6 songs, which if played on loop 3 times over, took me a grand total of 25 minutes to get through. Strike 2.

The climb is wearing on, the old logging road wasn’t too bad on the feet, and then the slick side sloped single track I’m sure would be a ball in daylight and on fresh legs. I go to take a swing from the freshly packed ice and red bull water bottle. WTF is that flavor? It tastes like coffee. I examine the bottle with my headlamp, no that’s red bull colored, what the hell is going on. I can’t drink it. It’s awful, I tried to drink it for a half a mile or so hoping it was an acquired taste like alcohol, but alas I couldn’t stomach it, so I helplessly poured it out, figuring it wasn’t worth the weight on my belt. (Strike 3)[I later found out Loni had started to pour coffee into the bottle before realizing what she had done, and then just topped it off with red bull stating, “Well, I couldn’t taste the difference.”]

I was a broken man. Then I turned a corner and was like, oh great, another stream crossing. Actually no, the trail didn’t cross. It ran UP this bloody stream. IN THE MIDDLE! I slosh ahead, tunnel vision starting to wear on me. I started not to care about my feet being wet or being in the stream. I was too tired to even be pissed about not getting my red bull fix when I really needed it. I looked at my watch, looked ahead at the trail. I sat on a rock, I cried. There was no way I could make the cut off. And even if I did, could I even push on? Do I even want to push on? I got out of the stream and onto the road. The road that Gap Creek was on! I figured I might have a chance to make it if I could jog a bit. So I did, for a few feet, but the rash had debilitated me to hardly what one could describe as a trot. I started to hallucinate. I was seeing things just outside of the light cone. WHAT WAS THAT? I started to freak myself out a bit. Looking at my watch obsessively, wondering if I could make it, battling back and forth with my demons telling me to just sit down and give up.

I see light ahead. I look at my watch. I’VE MADE IT! Wait, no, that’s just a party, that’s not the aid station. SOB! My spirits sink again. I plod on. Looking at my watch, and looking ahead on this dark lonely dirt road. I see the timer tick over 2:15 am, still no sign of the aid. I know my race is over, I’m depressed, disappointed, I stop and sit on a rock along the road and put my head in my hands. After a minute or two I stand up and walk the rest of the way into the aid station. I got there a measly 9 minutes after the cut off. Which was the icing on the cake; I didn’t miss it by an hour, or get lost, or get injured. I missed the cut off by ONLY 9 minutes! I was disappointed in my crew for not getting me that red bull or getting me out of the stations faster. I was disappointed that dad dropped and I was going it alone. But most of all I was so disappointed at me. Why couldn’t I have run that last stretch of road, or not have stopped there to pee, or do this or that. When the volunteer said “are you ready for your night to be over and to be in a warm bed” it almost made me sick. I responded “no, but I don’t think I have a choice now do I,” and reluctantly handed over my bib number and sat silently by the fire. After about 5 minutes of pondering I joined Loni and Rik in the car and after checking up to see that John was still pushing on we went back to camp and to sleep.

John managed to survive the Stonewall division and collect another buckle to add to his collection. As for Team Robert, we went home with our tails between our legs, wondering what the future held and knowing that Peak was just a few weeks away.

From the race Director post race:
“Fifteen years is a long time to remember, so it's hard to rank this weather. There have probably been more violent storms, hotter and colder temperatures, and a wetter course. But we don't remember a prior occasion with the mix of these bad things all at the same time that we received this year.

One hundred and seventy-three runners braved this weather and 101 finished. It was the fourth highest attrition rate in the history of the event.”