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Ouray 100 - It's Done, It's Done, It's DONE!

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Sat, 30 Jul 2022 17:05:00 +0000

The Red Mountains Over Crystal Lake

The decision was made while approaching the Richmond aid station for the third time during the 2021 Ouray 100. The decision was a simple one: no matter what happened on this day, I'd be returning to Ouray 100 in 2022. As I sat down in the aid station sometime during the first night of that race, I expressed this sentiment to one of the race directors who happened to be working in that aid station at the time. I knew my attempt at to finish the Ouray 100 was starting to fail. I hoped it might not. But my breathing was becoming more and more ragged and the ability to move forward was getting heavier and heavier. I shared with the RD, "wow, this course is incredibly beautiful and finish or not, I'll definitely be back next year." I did not finish on that day, failing and dropping at mile 65 (at Crystal Lake), but the die had already been cast. I'd be back in 2022. I'd get back on this course, experience the final climbs I missed, and finish this monster of a race. And for the next 11 months, every bit of training and running I did was focused on being back in Ouray and slaying this dragon one way or another.

The Caveat: Was Is That Hard? Or Did I Make It That Hard?

You're about to hear a story about how terribly difficult my day, and night, and day, and night, and part of a day at Ouray 100 was. And it was terribly difficult. But what I can't discern in my recollection of the events of the race is whether it was so terribly difficult because that's just how hard this race is, or because I made some race day misjudgments that led me into some really dark moments? Or, and very likely, a lot of both options. I don't know. I will tell this story as I know it to have happened. I will leave you to make the decision about whether the difficulties I encountered were my own fault or simply what this race offers. I can say, I did sign up in 2021 largely because the degree of difficulty is extremely high. That, and the beauty that was clear in the photos.

Ouray 100's Stats

Ouray 100 isn't your average 100 mile ultramarathon. The official stats make that quickly clear. The statistics from the race website:

102.1 miles
41,862 feet of vertical gain, 83,742 feet of total vertical change
Maximum altitude of 13,365 feet

These alone are extremely daunting numbers. But they don't begin to tell the real story of the race, much of the story that I didn't fully understand after my first attempt at the race in 2021. What's not shared is that, in addition to the total vertical gain and athe 13,000+ high point, the race crosses 12,000 feet of altitude on 9 separate occasion. There is a lot of time spent at very high altitude.

And if that weren't enough, the real kicker is that the course is totally backloaded. When I dropped at Crystal Lake aid station last year at about mile 65, I had gained about 22,000 feet vertical. That means the final third of the race, the final 60 kilometers, had just as much vertical gain packed into it as did the first 100 kilometers. Most races I've participated in were designed to get a bit easier as the race went on, with the toughest work loaded into the front while still fresh. But not here. Here the biggest, hardest work would come after that magic 100 kilometer point where a race traditionally begins to fall apart anyway.

And if that backloading of vertical gain and loss weren't enough to make things extremely challenging, Ouray 100 offers two extra twists. First, while the first 100 kilometers include the highest altitude work, the technicality of the course to that point is relatively low compared to the final third. The technicality and the exposure (e.g. sheer cliffs, poor footing, and drop-offs along the trail) pick up dramatically in the final third of the race. So the climbing gets steeper and tougher, and on much more challenging, even dangerous, terrain. And then there's one final twist, the twist that I knew about and that had been shared with my when I had the good fortune to sit next to an elite ultramarathoner who lives in the San Juans at the Western States award ceremony last year, and discussed Ouray 100 for several minutes. The final twist, she shared, was that the single biggest and longest climb of the entire race (4,500 feet up feet over 5 miles, then back down) occur at the very end of the race. Races do little things to make a finish challenging, such as the staircase climb at the end of the Georgia Death Race. Yet this finishing twist is a whole different ball of wax. I understood this going into the race. But understanding it intellectually and experiencing it in real life are two wildly different things. I'm getting ahead of things here.

Bottom line, Ouray 100 is an extremely challenging course that only ramps up the difficulty throughout the race. There's no coasting. Flat sections are measured in 10 foot increments, while climbs and descents are measured in miles. Actually, I didn't use mileage during the race at all. I kept my watch showing current altitude and total climb and descent. All I cared about what how much farther a climb or descent had to go. And I memorized the course by climbs, not by distances.

Fundamentals Of Training in Florida

I don't want to spend too much time talking about training for the 2022 Ouray 100 run. But because I do live in Florida, and did almost all of my training in Florida, I had to overcome some unique challenges just to be ready for race day. And I was asked about how I got ready on many occasions during the race. so I offer a short summery of what my training looked like here. And, not to wait too long to make this clear, the training worked and I finished the race. Maybe not in the manner I had hoped, but I absolutely finished with some time to spare. Not only that, my legs felt good for climbing the entire time. And, far more surprisingly, my legs felt okay to run downhill on non-technical sections right up to the finish line. Never, never would I have thought that possible. My big challenge at all prior mountain races was getting my quads destroyed early in the race, leaving me to hike downhill even when running would have been ideal. But my quads were ready this time, I think a testament to my training in general and one weekly workout specifically.

Enough of a preamble. Let's dive into what my training looked like. From about September 2021 through May 2022, the rough framework of my training was the following:

Monday: AM recovery hike or jog, PM 60 minutes easy run with strides
Tuesday: AM easy jog, lunchtime 30 minute 15% hike on the treadmill, PM 45 minute 15% hike on the treadmill
Wednesday: PM fast hiking practice for 60-90 minutes, sometimes with a weighted vest
Thursday: AM easy jog, lunchtime 30 minutes 15% hike on the treadmill, PM Uphill Athlete At-Home Muscular Endurance workout
Friday: Rest or easy 30 minute jog
Saturday: 90 minute 15% treadmill hike or 90 minute run if treadmill hiking on Sunday
Sunday: 22 mile run or 4-5 hour 15% treadmill hike, alternating

That was mostly it. The numbers varied over the weeks. The treadmill hikes got longer, or a bit faster. Occasionally, I added a weighted vest. But I pretty much followed this structure for most of the 11 months of training. I did take a couple month deviation when I paced a couple local marathons, where the training became a little flatter. But that was short lived.

I did plan three training weekends in more mountainous areas. Twice I traveled to Rapid City, SD and climbed the highest peak in the state. I also paced a friend for 56 miles at Cruel Jewel in Georgia in May.

More than anything, I credit that Uphill Athlete At-Home Muscular Endurance workout with having my legs ready for the impact of all the downhill at Ouray. The workout is miserable, and gets progressively more challenging. Lots of eccentric loading on the legs and lots of dynamic movements. It was no fun, but my legs were ready. Not included in my training outline above, but I also added the Uphill Athlete Chamonix Fit program to my training in January. This is a program designed more towards balance, core strength, and injury prevention for mountain sports. And this program I really enjoyed. And the biggest testament to the program...I didn't experience a single fall at Ouray 100. In 2021, I took two really bad falls in my 65 miles and several smaller ones. This year, while I slipped often and was close to falling, I had the balance to catch myself every single time. That is wild success.

I did one final thing in training that was new to me, and would prove extremely valuable on race day. Since about November last year, I ran the Sunday 22 milers on no fuel and only drinking water. It was rough for a couple weeks not fueling on long runs, but got better rather quickly. This practice running unfueled would prove invaluable.

My Crew and Pacers, Me, And My Arrival

I had some wonderful people offer to help me in my quest to slay this dragon (yes, get ready to get sick of this phrase.) Tom, who was there for last year's DNF, Gio and Nikita would be crewing and pacing me. Gio would begin pacing me at Weehawken Trail around mile 54, through both climbs through Hayden Pass and down to Fellin Park in Ouray. Then Tom would pick up pacing, and take me through the most technical section of the course up to Twin Peaks and then on to the finish from there. Nikita's role was to act as crew captain, make sure the train stayed on time and on track, and really take care of everyone. And they were absolutely wonderful, going way beyond any expectations of them. Never for a moment was I left having to handle anything myself, unless I specifically asked to do it. They dealt with my deep, deep lows and grumpiness with kindness and aplomb. There was never a complaint out of any of them, though 50 hours out at a race is a difficult time for everyone and not just the runner. I have nothing but deep gratitude and admiration for these guys. Without them, well, who knows.

As for me, I'm just some random dude with no particular athletic aptitude. I've been involved in ultramarathons for about six years. When asked why I run ultramarathons, I never have a good answer. Though one answer that often crosses my mind is "to find my limits" or "to see what I can do." And this race definitely helped me find some limits. While I finished this race after dedicating a year of work toward it, I have zero interest in taking on anything this challenging every again. The big point, there is nothing special nor unusual about me. I just decided I wanted to finish this race and set out to do the work to make it happen. And I probably had to train much harder and longer than any gifted athlete would have to.

My arrival to the San Juans was a special one. Last year, I had arrived a day before the race. Zero altitude acclimatization. This year, I wanted every advantage on my side. So I arrived a week beforehand in order to spend time sleeping at altitude and do some even higher altitude hikes. The basic idea was hike high in the morning, return to my hotel and work remotely in the afternoon staying off my legs. And I stuck to that plan well from Friday through Wednesday of race week.

But beforehand, I got to experience a special treat. I was able to volunteer at Hardrock 100, which was held the weekend before Ouray 100. Not only that, my volunteering gig would have me at the Hardrock finish line as the race leaders finished Volunteering at ultramarathons is almost always a great experience. And this was no different. The Hardrock 100 community was extremely welcoming to a newcomer and I'd love to volunteer again some day. And to top it off, I got to watch Killian Jornet, Francois d'Haene, and Dakota Jones all come into the finishing chute and kiss the rock! What a wonderful night of volunteering!

Once my volunteering gig was up at 6AM, it was off for a quick nap in my car and then my first acclimatization hike up to the summit of Handies Peak, my first 14er. Each day from that point, I'd hike high (or one day take a gondola high), spend some time at high altitude, then return down and rest in the afternoon. I got to see a ton of the San Juans that I wouldn't get to see during my own race. I spent time in Silverton (a wonderful, tiny, little mountain town) and Telluride (a bit more commercialized than I like) and lots of time in the town of Ouray.

Before I knew it, Thursday before the race arrived, and it was time for me to pack up from my acclimatization hotel and move the the AirBNB where I'd be meeting my crew later in the day and which would act as their base for rest and recovery while crewing and pacing me. Race day had almost arrived!

The First 65 Miles

For the sake of brevity (HA!), I won't cover the first 65 miles of my race in extremely deep detail. I covered this section of the course in deep detail last year, and will only cover the highlights and critical pieces of those miles for this year here. Feel free to read last year's DNF report if more detail is desired.

Even so, there is plenty of action to share from the first 65 miles here. As is always the case, I slept very poorly the night before the race. However, while poorly, I did sleep much better than usually. I got about 4 hours of sleep, then woke up and taped my feet, then was able to sleep another hour before it was time to really prepare. 5 hours may be the most I've ever slept the night before a race, a miracle since I would most likely not be sleeping for the next two nights.

The Crew! (And me.)

Before long, my crew and I were dressed and fed and caffeinated and standing in Fellin Park milling around the starting area. It's remarkable how quickly several hours can disappear before a race starts. I felt far less anxious this year than last. I basically knew what the next day held for me (or so I thought) and knew I didn't have to worry about the unknown for a good 24 hours. I knew the race started into a long, but relatively mild climb for several miles, slowly working our way up Camp Bird Road into the Sneffels Wilderness where the real climbing and descending would begin. Knowing all this allowed me to approach the start relatively relaxed.

I bid my crew goodbye, sharing that I planned to see them within 8 to 9 hours, and then lined up right in the middle of the pack. And then we were off! Out of Fellin Park, across the small wooden bridge, left on Oak Street, onto the Ouray Perimeter Trail, through a low pedestrian tunnel certainly not designed for anyone 6'1" inches tall (and probably not for someone 5'6" even), across the Box Canyon bridge, and right onto Camp Bird Road. And the climbing into the mountains began.

This first climb up Camp Bird Road makes a great warm up. The incline is comparatively gentle, the footing good, the road wide. I quickly connected with a couple other runners, and we hiked our way up to the Camp Bird aid station together, chatting and being very casual the entire way. This would be a theme throughout the first half of the race, connecting with a group of runners and keeping one another company. Sometimes for just a few minutes. Sometimes for hours on end.

In to the Camp Bird aid station I came, and stopped for a couple minutes to get a bit of food in. I was sure eating well would be key to a good race. I didn't refill bottles at this point. The morning had started out a nice temperature and the climb had been gentle, and the next section wasn't terrible long before we got back to this aid station. Hotter than expected weather was coming, but not yet. So me and one of the fellas I'd been climbing with (Carlos) were back out and headed up for our first real climb. We climbed into Yankee Basin and then onto our first real trail and up to an alpine lake. Overall, a beautiful, but uneventful climb. Carlos quickly climbed faster and away from me at this point. But my legs felt good. My training seemed to have worked. Alpine lake reached, bib punched, and I was back on my way down. I was even able to comfortably run the downhills when not too technical, a thing I wasn't able to do well at all last year. Things looked promising.

[11.5 miles covered, 4,459 feet climbed, 3:12:00 elapsed]

Back to Camp Bird aid station I arrived, a full refill of bottles and various foods, and then off to Richmond aid station I went. Richmond Aid Station would be visited three times total, the final time early the following morning. But for now, it was through Richmond aid station with a quick top-off of fluids since it was only 2 miles from the Camb Bird aid station. But now we'd be heading into the altitude on course. First up to Chicago Mine, the first time we'd hit 12,000 feet. Then from Chicago Mine, a short drop down and then a big climb to the high point of the race, Fort Peabody at 13,365 feet.

Again, both climbs came effortfully, but comfortably. The climb to Chicago Mine was much easier than last year. And the climb to Fort Peabody way easier than 2021. In 2021, I really felt the altitude as I climbed to Fort Peabody. This year, I didn't notice the altitude at all. The acclimatization had worked!

Fort Peabody sits high in the mountains, a small prominence a couple hundred feet higher than Imogene Pass, though they share the same basic mountain structure. Last year, at Fort Peabody, I experienced the first of many thunderstorms I would encounter here. This year, I was there a bit earlier in the day and no thunder was to be heard anywhere.

The climb up to Fort Peabody does run up Imogene Pass Road, a famous jeeping road that leads to the second highest vehicle pass in the United States. However, it's not a road for conventional vehicles. It requires a 4x4 vehicle with high clearance and aggressive tires. We shared the road with many Jeeps and four wheelers heading up the pass. But one moment stuck out in particular. Someone in a Jeep Compass (not the kind of Jeeps we'd been seeing all along) crept past myself and another runner (Karolina) whom I'd been hiking with. I noted how odd it was to see that vehicle up here. And not long after, it stopped on a particularly steep section. Someone got out of the passenger side, then the Compass began to back down the steep and rough road. "Thank goodness" I remarked, thinking the driver had given up on trying to get up the pass. And as the Compass passed us, Karolina said something about turning around being a good idea. The driver yells "I'm not turning around!" and shortly thereafter gunned the motor and went flying up the incline, despite plenty of runners along the shoulder. We were flabbergasted, appalled, and worried about the safety of the runners up there. But the driver did make it across the crest of that climb without incident, and then continued higher, with just a few hundred more feet to Imogene Pass. But it was not to be. Only a few minutes later, we noticed the Compass stuck again. And this time, the driver made the correct decision to turn around and give up. He was fortunate, too. Only a few minutes later, the first rain and hail of the day began. Nothing significant, but enough to make the jeep road quite a lot slicker for vehicles. I can only imagine what kind of trouble the Compass would have found itself in had it been up there when the slick rain and hail arrived.

Just a hundred feet or so up to Fort Peabody

After that bit of drama, the climb to the top of Fort Peabody finished up quickly and uneventfully. I only spent a minute to absorb the views in all directions from Fort Peabody, including my first glimpses of the Red Mountains in the distance. I'd be heading to the Red Mountains soon enough, the mountains which were my favorite bit of the race last year.

Down Fort Peabody and down Imogene Pass Road and back to Richmond aid station I descended. The day had warmed up considerably, and I was quite warm as the altitude dropped. And the solar exposure at altitude was quite intense, even when not hot feeling. But the climb down to Richmond aid station went quickly. I ate a big breakfast burrito, filled my bottles, and got on my way for the long climb and cross over Richmond Pass at 12,600 feet and then down to the Ironton Aid Station almost 3,000 feet below and the first time I'd meet my crew.

[21.4 miles covered, 7,818 feet climbed. 6:52:00 elapsed]

The climb up to Richmond Pass felt effortfully easy again. Way easier than last year. But I was also having issues. Food was not clearing my stomach. I felt bloated and was clearly distended. Nothing significant, but digestion wasn't going super well. I was also finding myself pretty sick of the watermelon Gatorade Endurance I kept in one bottle. I had never gotten sick of that particular drink. I made note of these issues to make sure to discuss them with my crew in a couple hours. Other than that, I was feeling really good. Legs were strong. Feet were comfortable. I was still running non-technical downhills. The pack wasn't bothering me. Shoulders and arms weren't bothered by so much pole use. All around, just in really good shape.

Getting across Richmond Pass isn't a ton of fun. There is a very long talus field to cross, and it's just slow moving climbing up those large loose rocks. But fairly quickly I was up and over and quickly descending the steep single track on the other side. And still, no thunderstorms. A wonderful relief compared to last year's endless thunderstorms during this part of the race.

Heading out of Ironton aid station
with Tom

And then I was at mile 27, having knocked off 3 of 9 times over 12,000 feet, and met my crew for the first time at the Ironton aid station in just under 9 hours. Now it was time for a sock change. I had brought 5 pairs of XOSkin socks and 2 pairs of Bombas running socks. Last year, I ended up with maceration of my feet from all the time in the rain, and this year I was going to take care of that with regular sock changes. The XOSkin socks have always worked well for me and are a highly technical sock, though not the most comfortable of socks. The Bombas were relatively new to me and I wasn't totally confident in them, having only spent one 50k in a pair once, but they are wildly comfortable. So I brought those along to change into if my feet became very uncomfortable. Sock change was done. The crew loaded up my bottles, put a baguette sandwich in my pack in the hopes I'd be able to eat that on the move, and gave me a bunch of chicken broth to drink. Chicken broth and soda would become my primary source of calories for the next dozen plus hours. Not ideal, but at least lots of sodium and a few calories.

[27.4 miles covered, 9,581 feet climbed, 8:51:00 elapsed]

And with that, the first climb around Red Mountain 1 began, a 8.1 mile loop up Corkscrew Gulch jeep road and over a pass at 12,200 feet and then back down into Ironton aid station through some steep single track. The first loop, the counterclockwise loop, was entirely uneventful. Remarkably beautiful, yet otherwise uneventful. Then I was back down to the Ironton aid station in about 3 hours. This time it would only be Nikita and Tom waiting for me. Gio had returned to the AirBNB to get some sleep before his pacing gig with me would begin in about 17 miles. I hadn't touched my baguette sandwich, my stomach was still sour, but I continued to be able to take down broth and soda.

[35.5 miles covered, 12,363 feet climbed, 12:21:00 elapsed]

And then it was out for the second Red Mountain 1 loop, this time in a clockwise direction. I began alone in the fading daylight, but not needing a headlamp yet. This time it was up the steep singletrack and then onto the jeep road and over the pass and then down Corkscrew Gulch. Again, the hiking remained effortfully easy. I experienced no breathing difficulties like I had last year. Last year on my second loop of Red Mountain is where my race began to end, with breathing becoming increasingly difficult and even some wheezing beginning. None of that this year. The biggest events for the Red Mountains this year were the increasing stomach challenges and, after the day had faded into night, I spotted a moose off the trail and followed the moose around a bend and off the course! But not far, just a hundred yards off the course and something start to feel wrong about my path. And then I spotted the headlamp of another runner passing straight through the intersection where I'd just turned. I hustled back to the intersection and joined that runner (David) for the rest of the climb. He and I would only spend about 20 minutes together here, but we'd end up running together off an on several times over the next several hours. And back down Corkscrew we went, me surprising myself by being able to run many of the downhills still and the quads really not feeling the miles or gains and loss at all so far.

[43.6 miles covered, 15,145 feet climbed, 15:26:08 elapsed]

Ironton in the fading daylight

Then I was back in Ironton aid station with Nikita and Tom waiting. This aid station stop is one of the most challenging of the race. Now considerable miles have been completed (about 45) and the course turns around and heads back over Richmond Pass, onto Camp Bird Road and starts to head back to Ouray and Fellin Park. That climb out of Ironton up to Richmond Pass is a doozy. Extremely steep switchbacks until it opens up above treeline and up to one of the highest points of the course at 12,600 feet. It's hard, hard work through the middle of the night. Last year, I had completed this entire upcoming 10 mile section without so much as seeing another runner. This year, however, I knew how mentally challenging this section was and was really going to try to connect with another runner for company.

And as I headed out of the aid station, David chased me down as he was leaving as well. We decided we'd work together up the big climb and then see what happened after that. David had also been experiencing stomach issues for several hours and shared that he was really beginning to struggle. But David was a very strong climber even so and I was often working hard to keep up with him. Along the way up, we picked up another runner (Andy), who was feeling very lonely and joined our merry pack. The three of us worked together up and over the pass. Richmond trail is official closed at the moment, and the trail was very challenging to spot in the dark. And some of the trail marking flags seem to have gone missing, perhaps stolen by the local marmots. It took all three of us scanning at the high pass to find the way on a few occasions. But soon enough we were across the top and headed back down the long talus field on our way to Richmond aid station for the third and final time.

As we approached the lower portion of the descent, we encountered another runner sitting on the side of the trail with her head in her hands. It was Karolina, whom I'd spent a good amount of time with earlier. Karolina was not doing well at all and had spent that climb and descent mostly alone. She was discussing dropping, and all three of us encouraged her to join us and reconsider dropping. This she did and all four of us headed to Richmond aid station together.

Two notes here. One, I was so hoping for a night of beautiful stars. The night was mostly cloudless, so I turned off my headlamp at the very height of the pass. But the stars were remarkably disappointing. Two, you'll note I've spoken little of food. This is not unintentional. My stomach remained extremely unhappy and I was taking in only the scantest amount of calories, mostly through soda. I'd occasionally try a gel or a bit of candy or small bite of food here or there, and my stomach would turn almost immediately. But my energy level remained good despite the low calorie intake.

[49.6 miles covered, 18,148 feet climbed, 19:00:00 elapsed]

I was quickly in and out of Richmond aid station, ready to get to the Weehawken aid station where Gio would be awaiting me. I wanted to get to Weehawken, try to get some real food into my system, and take a good long sit to try to process some of that food. The trail from Richmond to Weehawken was almost all downhill on relatively easy jeep road. No need to waste time at Richmond.

So off I went. David and Andy weren't far behind, and soon we were back together as a group. The only real items of note on these four miles were the porcupine we caught by surprise, the longest moment of rain I'd experience for the entire race, and watching the moon rise over Hayden Pass where we'd be heading soon. That rain helped me realize that I was tremendously hot. It cooled me deeply and I kept my hood off even after I put my rain jacket on.

Trying to get Gio to scold me
about train safety

Soon enough, we were in Weehawken and Gio was waiting. The mental boost of reaching a pacer is huge, indescribably huge. Now I'd have a friend along until the end of the race, no longer having to hope the trail gods provide another runner at my pace to hang out with. Now I'd have someone to do much of the thinking for me. Now the fun would begin.

[53.8 miles covered, 18,270 feet climbed, 20:16:00 elapsed]

The Weehawken trail is one of the easier sections of the entire race. Pretty steep and a bit overgrown at points, it still remains relatively easy singletrack up to a beautiful overlook that offers a wonderful view of Ouray. We started in the morning blue hour, but had the headlamps turned off as daylight arrived about half way up. This was mostly an uneventful climb and it was wonderful to have Gio along with me for conversation and to experience this beautiful course. Up Weehawken we went. Down Weehawken we went. In what felt like no time, we were back at the Weehawken aid station.

[58.9 miles covered, 20,531 feet climbed, 23:17:00 elapsed]

But now, the course would turn serious. I was now at about 55 miles, over half done, but the vast majority of the work still lay before me. First up would be a double crossing of Hayden Pass. From Weehawken, down Camp Bird Road a bit, then up the extremely steep and occasional high exposure Hayden trail and over Hayden Pass at 12,000 feet, then down a very steep single track into the Crystal Lake aid station. This would be the first truly technical section of the trail with loose rock and dirt along steep cliff edges characterizing long sections of the trail. This would also represent the last section of the course I knew. Last year, I had dropped at the Crystal Lake aid station on the other side of Hayden Pass.

But before that began, some aid station work would be needed. First, another sock change. Second, a shoe change. I had been wearing the Altra Mont Blancs, which are wildly comfortable and fine on moderately technical trail. They had been great so far and had kept my feet in good shape, but with the technicality now ramping up significantly, it was time to get into a shoe that leaned more toward technical prowess and less focus on comfort. So the new socks went on with a pair of Hoka EVO Mafates. Then it was time to take another shot at calories: minestrone soup! I was able to eat the soup and all of its goodies. It was the first substantial calories I'd eaten in probably 12 hours or more. Had my head been more straight, I'd have thought to spend some more time in the aid station and put down a couple more cups of the soup. But I had a clock ticking in the back of my head. I really wanted to cover the next 20 miles with enough daylight to spare so that Tom (pacer #2) and I could be up and off of Twin Peaks, the most technical portion of the entire course, before daylight faded. So a single cup of minestrone it was, plus some coffee, plus bottles refilled, plus a potty break, and then Gio and I were off.

Doing my best (and failing) to try
to get down a few calories on Hayden

First, a gentle fast hike down Camp Bird road, then a turn onto some jeep road, then onto very steep Hayden trail. Up we went, slowly at times, but consistently. Climbing through the switchbacks and then onto a section the race directors call the "ball bearings" because of the small gravel on top of loose dirt that slides around like crazy, all along an exposed extremely steep slope one would not want to fall down. On the way up, it doesn't feel all the treacherous. Then, as tree line approached, we crossed a beautiful ridgeline and then headed up into a final set of trees through with the alpine meadow and the pass we'd be crossing could be seen.

You might be asking how long all this took. The reality is, I have no idea. By this point, time had lost all meaning. I was intentionally not paying attention to my pace or total time elapsed, just total focused on doing the work I could do in the moment. I would guess we crossed high Hayden Pass late morning, maybe 10AM or so, but I could be entirely wrong. But soon enough, we were crossing that path and moving along through the high alpine meadow for a good half mile or more. We passed a runner going the other direction wearing a vintage Mountain Dew hat, and I suddenly became ravenous for Mountain Dew. I'm not a Mountain Dew drinker at all, and it was not one of the sodas available on course; but in that moment, it was the only thing in the world I desired. (Yeah, I still wasn't really eating and hadn't touched my solid foods since the minestrone.)

If you've never spent any time on one of these high alpine meadows, I cannot recommend it enough. To be up high out in the wild open wilderness, mountains all around, and yet to find grasses and wildflowers thriving and the marmots and pika at play is really magical. Also, a bit frightening when on foot and the storms start rolling in, but we'd not have that issue on this first crossing of Hayden Pass.

Then we were headed down the other side of Hayden Pass into Crystal Lake aid station. This was a steep, but not terribly technical descent. About 2,700 feet of decline in two miles. And suddenly we were at the bottom, and I was still running the gentler downhills and running into the aid station. The comparison of the shape I was in this year to last year was stark. Last year at this exact point, I was a broken man. Unable to breath. Unable to run downhill. Actually still quite high energy and very lucid, but with absolute knowledge that my day was coming to an end. This year, none of those negatives. Legs felt great. Breathing was good. Running was happening. Really good energy even with the low caloric intake. Dropping was nowhere on my mind.

[66.0 miles covered, 24,142 feet climbed, 27:48:00 elapsed]

It's All New From Here

And with that, I entered all new territory in this race. I had now finished the same 100+ kilometers I did last year, but this year I'd be turning around out of Crystal Lake aid station and heading back up Hayden Pass instead of climbing into the back of Tom's truck and driving away. Now the warm up was done. Now the race would really begin.

But before that began, it would be time for a little foot repair. Changing into the more technically capable Hoka EVO Mafates also meant accepting some blisters. I'd developed a couple blisters along the rim of the insole on my heels. And a small blister on one big toe. Nothing dramatic at all, but best to deal with these issues right away. Tom jumped right in and worked on those blisters as best he could. There were also a couple of blisters developing on the balls of my feet, but those were deep and dark and would require serious work to get to. We decided to leave them alone. Then my crew tried to get me to eat a variety of different foods. I could only manage a bite of this or that thing before my stomach would begin to turn again. Broth and soda became my calorie source once again. I was also able to take down a coffee with a hot chocolate packet in it, the best calories in quite a while.

Approaching Hayden Pass with the Red
Mountains and building storms in
the background

Before long, Gio and I were up and ready to begin the steep climb out of Crystal Lake and back over Hayden Pass. While I'd not made it to this point in the race last year, I had come out here during the previous week and climbed this section. I knew it was steep and tough. But I also knew it was just a matter of biting down on the bit and doing the work, that there was nothing particularly challenging about the climb. And that we did. Up and up we went. A quick stop for me to poop in the woods, and then the climbing immediately resumed. Clouds and even some thunder had started to rumble through the valleys while we were at Crystal Lake. This continued as Gio and I climbed, and I shared that there was a final grove of trees right at the one mile mark where we'd have to decide whether it was safe to ascend above tree line or not. The storms all seemed to be building behind us and behind a large massif, and we felt relatively safe. So through the grove we went and on to the exposed pass. And soon enough, we were crossing back over the high alpine meadow and Hayden Pass.

Now the course would change dramatically. From here, it was a 3,700 foot descent. The beginning would be relatively tame as we worked toward treeline. But soon we'd find ourselves back on the "ball bearing" section, now much more treacherous as we went downhill. Try to move slowly, and the braking would cause the loose rocks and dirt to slide from underneath you. Move quickly, and the exposed steep 500 foot slope on the edge of the trail would loom in my thoughts. We tried to be safe and used our poles heavily to keep balance, and at times moved very slowly.

My nearest fall happened on this section. I was able to catch my balance using my poles before sliding away down the slope into nothingness (a bit of hyperbole), but not before I had stepped on one of my poles and snapped it in two. I knew there was a decent chance of a broken pole at this race. I had seen lots of broken poles last year. I had even gone out and purchased a cheaper aluminum back up set of poles for the race. Unfortunately, I had bent one of those poles during my acclimatization hike up Twin Peaks earlier in the week. Two set of poles down, as if this entire thing hadn't been expensive enough! Fortunately, I knew Tom had packed a back-up set of poles that would fit me and I could grab those in Fellin.

Around this time, another new race dynamic was introduced. The 50 mile racers had started their race at noon on Saturday. Those racers would follow the same course as us starting in Fellin and then beginning from the Weehawken point. And those racers began to show up on the trail going the opposite direction up Hayden. They looked so fresh and so strong. To be here in the race, some 28 hours in, and to see these fresh runners bound up this trail was just a bit demoralizing. Not dramatically, but enough to hurt just a little bit. This dynamic would continue for the remainder of the race. My, feeling deeply exhausted with no sleep, while a fresh 50 miler would come running up the trail (or later from behind) looking fresh and spry.

Eventually, Gio and I made it off the highly technical section of the Hayden Pass descent and onto better footing. Soon (I think it was soon, but who knows, really), we were on jeep road and then onto Camp Bird Road heading down to Fellin Park in Ouray. And I was running. Not fast, but absolutely running down the road into town. I was still running! At mile 75ish! 30 hours into the race! My training had definitely worked. My legs were strong and ready. Unfortunately, I had still been eating next to nothing. Really just soda for calories, either Coca-Cola or Ginger Ale. Eventually this lack of calories would ruin my race, right? So I thought. And so I wanted to try to figure out the stomach issue some more once we got down to Fellin Park.

And soon we were approaching. Left off Camp Bird, across the Box Canyon bridge, through the way-too-low pedestrian tunnel, off Ouray Perimeter Trail, left onto Oak Street, right across the wooden bridge, and into Fellin Park we went.

[74.6 miles covered, 26,770 feet climbed, 33:29:03 elapsed]

A Lioness On The Loose (Why Not Nap Here?)

Now we were into Fellin Park in Ouray. Fellin Park serves as the starting area, the finishing area, and the crewing area three separate times. It would become the base for my crew for the next many, many hours. In Fellin, it was time to really assess where I stood and how I was doing, before turning my attention to the most technical climb of the day, Twin Peaks.

We tried a ton of food stuffs. Some I could stomach a little. Others not at all. I can't recall all the different things we tried. I was just dribbling in tiny amounts of calories, never really getting the amount of food I needed. Broth with ramen noodles worked best. But again, that's low calorie stuff. I really wanted something like a brownie to try, but there was nothing of that variety available. So, I'd have to continue on running on calorie fumes. Somehow, my energy and strength had stayed relatively high even so.

Before we dive into the actual climb, a short story is needed here. A few days before the race, my crew and I were having an online conversation. Tom mentioned that there was little wildlife he was worried about. Except mountain lions (or, as we were calling them, murder kittens). Only murder kittens would cause him consternation. Funny thing, at the prerace meeting, one of the race directors shared that while they were marking the Twin Peaks section of the course, they had encountered a lioness up high on the summit. Not only that, but the lioness had lion cubs in her den. And the lioness had been quite grumpy and noisy when they marked the course. Shit. So we'd be climbing up the most technical section, potentially with the daylight failing, near the den of a mountain lion with cubs. I didn't know if Tom had heard this warning. I wasn't sure if I should tell him before or after we were done with the climb. I didn't know what to do with this information. Fortunately, as we got ready to head out for Twin Peaks, Tom shared the story with me and was ready to pace me up Twin Peaks anyway. This was the one section he'd specifically wanted to pace, and I was glad he was still willing to join. And we made many murder kitten jokes on our climb up, because what else could you do but make light of the situation.

Old Twin Peaks "Trail" Straight Ahead

So, with a murder kitten and her smaller kittens waiting in a den for us 3,100 feet above, Tom and I headed out of Fellin Park, across the wooden bridge, left on Oak Street, and onto the Ouray Perimeter trail. This time we'd quickly turn onto Twin Peak Trail as we moved toward Box Canyon, and now things would get earnest. I had warned Tom that the turn on to Old Twin Peaks trail would feel like no trail at all. I had come out earlier in the week and taken on this climb one morning to find out just how challenging it was. And I had gotten lost, missing the turn onto Old Twin Peaks trail. Why? Well, there's really no trail at all. No trail markings or signage. No discernable path. Just some boulders to climb up along the edge of a gorge and waterfall. However, as we arrived, the "trail" was well marked for the race and it was very clear where to go. Yeah, still no trail there, but no getting lost either. After about 50 yards, the scantest hint of a trail appeared, and after another several hundred yards we found ourselves on fully formed single track. But the gnarliest, steepest, rockiest single track mixed with occasional super steep steps; all along the same waterfall gorge and serious exposure. None of this felt too treacherous on the way up. But Tom and I both knew we'd be coming back down this section in a few hours, and in the dark. This was the one section of the course where the race directors gave serious warnings about the risk on the trail. A misstep could lead to a slide down the gorge and into the waterfall canyon. There was real danger ahead.

The steep, but sturdy, stairs were a
relief from the steep and loose trail

Up and up we went. Steep trail, steep steps, slowly working our way to a scramble to reach the summit of Twin Peaks and to the mountain lions. As we climbed up, we encountered several runners headed in the other direction. With each of them, we'd ask a joking question about whether they had encountered the mountain lions up above. Nobody had. A few runners hadn't heard the warning, but most were immediately in on the joke.

While my spirits were fairly high and I was enjoying the time with Tom and laughing about our impending deaths at the paws of a mountain lion, I was also really beginning to feels the miles and the 30+ hours on my feet and, mostly, the lack of calories. My energy was dropping for the first time, and dropping fast. Climbing was becoming a real challenge. I had consistently been about four or more hours ahead of cut-offs throughout the race, but I could feel the pace starting to cut into the buffer. I didn't know how severely, but I knew I was losing time. Tom shared with me not to worry about it, to just keep doing the work and to remain in front of him, and we'd be fine. So I continued to climb. And eventually we reached the top of Twin Peaks, where things truly became challenging. The final 200-300 feet up Twin Peaks becomes extremely steep with a slope in excess of 60 degrees at points and, finally, a hands and knees scramble to the top. The scramble had not been much of an issue when I climbed this section earlier in the week, but in my low energy state, I made quite the mess of it.

Tom and I did reach the peak pretty quickly. Tom punched my bib. And we were quickly on the way back down. I had no desire to spend any extra time up here, wanting to get off Twin Peaks before nightfall.

If climbing up was a tough time, climbing down was even more challenging on the steep, steep grade.

Dinosaurs roamed here!

In fact, this first section of descent is where I had bent my first set of hiking poles earlier in the week. We slowly picked our way down, being careful not to lose our footing. Eventually we found our way to trail that became a bit less steep and we were able to pick up the pace. But I was feeling woozy, very woozy even. My energy was very low. And then I began to see double. Fortunately, we had reached gentler trail. And now we'd be hiking down to Silvershield Aid Station in Ouray before we had to climb back down Old Twin Peaks trail. The trail to Silvershield was among the most gentle sections of the entire course, and included crossing fossilized dinosaur tracks! Even so, the wooziness and double vision were creating real challenges and I decided I needed to try a trail nap. I suggested the idea to Tom, asked him to give me five uninterrupted minutes, and then we could be back on our way. I wrapped up in my rain jacket and found a flat-ish area just off the trail and laid down. As I lay on the ground, I realized I was laying not too far from the mountain lion's den. The thought flashed through my mind, then quickly disappeared. Sleep was not to find me in this moment and Tom got me back up after five minutes. My vision had straightened out, and I felt good enough to move on. So we made our way down to Silvershield aid station a couple miles away, and decided I'd try to nap a bit more once there.

[80.9 miles covered, 30,220 feet climbed, 36:55:00 elapsed]

There Is No Reason To Climb Out Of This Aid Station Except To Make This Experience Worse

At Silvershield aid station, I put a little bit of food into me (salted avocados and bacon, I think?), took my shoes off, and tried to nap. An aid station worker offered me a chair to put my feet in...a blessing. And I did doze off for a few minutes. Soon enough, Tom had me awake and we were getting prepared to head back up from where we'd just come.

Now, the descent down and climb out of Silvershield aid station really isn't a dramatic thing on this course. It's about 1,700 feet of climbing each way. And on a course with 42,000 total feet up, 1,700 feet is a pretty minor matter. But, climbing out of Silvershield is a real mental bugger. Why? Because Silvershield aid station is all the way back down in Ouray and Fellin Park, where we were heading next, is barely over a mile away across flat terrain up the road. It's right there! But instead, the course climbs back out of Silvershield and back to Old Twin Peaks trail to now descend down that seriously technical and slightly dangerous waterfall gorge. Tom and I remarked several times that there was no reason to add this bit of course other than to make the course more challenging and the experience worse. Removing it would actually get the overall distance of the course closer to spot on 100 miles.

But, alas, follow the course one must. So up we went, back over the dinosaur tracks, and finally back to Old Twin Peaks trail. Night had fallen. We were under headlights. I had been leading the two of us to this point. But I asked Tom to take the lead down this technical section given my lack of sleep and earlier vision issues. I wanted him to pick the safe line, and I'd try to follow his footsteps down this extremely steep and technical trail. And slowly and safely we worked our way down. Sometimes barely inching around a corner covered in loose gravel and dirt. Other times speeding up as we got to solidly rooted stairs. But the time kept ticking away, and it was somewhere between Saturday night and Sunday morning and I had no idea which. The 52 hour race cutoff began to really loom over me at this point. Finally, we reached the bottom, went over the boulder section, got back on the Ouray Perimeter trail, then a left onto Oak street, a right across the wooden bridge, and then we were back in Fellin Park. The singlest most dangerous and frightening challenge was completed. And I had found myself genuinely afraid for life and limb at points. That was probably mostly due to sleep deprivation, but it sticks with me today.

[84.9 miles covered, 32,188 feet climbed, 39:32:00 elapsed]

Stomach Say No

Back in Fellin, we did the usual thing. Swallow some broth, some coffee with hot chocolate, try to eat some other foods (perogies, I believe), fill up bottles, clear out debris from shoes, and then head back out. Now we'd be climbing a 6.7 mile out and back to Chief Ouray mine. A big long climb lay ahead. Nothing technical like we'd just experienced. And not super steep. But almost 3,400 feet up and down over those miles to a mine buried deep in the mountains.

On this section, my body really began to revolt against any food. Even drinking soda became challenging. I could take down small sips, but not much more before feeling ill. And I began to feel extremely hot, feverishly hot. My face and head were throwing off massive amounts of heat. I'd dip my headband into every little stream and brook to keep cool. As we got higher, we also got a gentle cool breeze that began to help. But that feverish feeling remained. Until it began to rain. Not a hard rain, but a cold rain. A very cold rain. The rain jacket went on, but the hood stayed off. And it felt wonderful. And my climbing improved, and I began to move faster again. I think we were still cutting into the four hour buffer, but the damage was being minimized. I was able to move well now that I was cooling.

But food continued to be virtually inedible. Water was no problem. I could take in water at ease. But anything with calories immediately seized up my stomach, which was now significantly distended and uncomfortable. Everything I'd tried to jam in over the 40 hours raced so far just sat in my stomach like a rock. And, yet, up we went. And then we finally reached the height we were supposed to reach, though no mine was to be found. We had a quite long traverse around the mountain we were on to eventually find the mining hut on the other side. But we did arrive, and spent a few minutes in the disused and dilapidated ancient building covered in modern graffiti.

Then we headed back down. Again we found that cooling breeze and again I got stronger and moved better. As the altitude dropped, the temperature rose and we lost the breeze. But that regained strength remained and I moved quite quickly downhill, maybe even make back some time that had been lost. This was the strongest I'd felt in hours and I began to run more and more downhills again, stopping along the way to dip my headband in the nearby waters when available. I didn't realize it at the time, but I began to move quickly enough that Tom started to have trouble keeping up. At least so he claims, though I don't really believe it. Before long, we could see the lights of Ouray rising up toward us. We'd have to skirt around some mountain sides before we got to finally drop into town, but this climb was nearly done. Then we made a left and the trail dumped down into town and straight into Fellin Park. The penultimate climb was done! And I was feeling strong.

I came into the aid station and sat down with my crew and said something to the effect of "let's strip all the extra weight out of this pack, and let's finish this fucker." I was no longer enjoying the race, not one bit. I was actually hating it. It was too hard. It was more than I'd meant to take on. But here we were, mile 92, with one more climb to finish things up. And I had about 8 and a half hours to do it. And I really, really, really wanted to finish now, no matter how much I hated this race. I wanted it really bad. The year of dedicated training and giving up all other running activities to be focused on this race came rushing back to me. All the work put in over the past two days danced in front of me. The sacrifice my crew and pacers had made to spend the extended weekend with me bounced in my head. It was so close, I could smell it. The finish was right there. But what a climb remained...

[91.6 miles covered, 35,587 feet climbed, 43:35:00 elapsed]

Smelling The Barn

Last year, I had sat at the Western States awards ceremony and got to pick the brain of a San Juan local ultramarathoning elite about the race. She had shared lots of tips, but one should have stuck with me better. She said something to the effect of "be ready, because the hardest climb is the very last climb." And she was right. I sat in Fellin Park, ready to get this thing done with, taking every superfluous item out of my pack and my shorts because I could smell the barn. But in front of my lay a 10.1 mile out and back including 4,500 feet of climbing and 4,500 feet of decent up to 12,000 feet one last time to a ridge known as Bridge Of Heaven. I knew it was there. I wildly underestimated how difficult it would be at this point in the race.

Tom and I were out of Fellin and headed down the road to the trailhead that would lead us to the Bridge of Heaven. I was overcome with emotion. I shared with Tom how desperately I wanted to finish this now. As I did so, my voice broke and I began to cry. I do not cry, certainly not over races. These are just fun hobbies. No need for deep emotion. But here I was completely overcome, unable to hold the tears back. I need to get this done. I was going to get this done! We were so close!

In no time, we were climbing. It wasn't Twin Peaks steep, but steep enough to be really challenging. It wasn't Twin Peaks technical, but endless fields of talus to cross nevertheless. Up we went. Every step felt like it was up. First light began to arrive as we got higher and higher. Fortunately, we also got some cooling breezes as we ascended. But the climb was endless.

And my stomach got worse. Suddenly even water was problematic to drink. And gatorade or soda impossible. Even a tiny sip of gatorade, and I would begin to dry heave. Small sips of water were manageable, but just barely. We climbed, I dry heaved. We climbed, I dry heaved. At one point I tried to make myself vomit hoping that might reset my stomach, but with no success. So we climbed slowly. And again, I could feel the time slipping by and 52 hours creeping closer. 8 and a half hours had felt like so much time when we started this climb. And I began to cry again. I could feel the finish slipping away. I could feel time flowing through my fingers like sand. It was just disappearing. I decided to try a second trail nap. This time I made myself comfortable on a bit of rotten wood and fell asleep almost instantly. Again, just five minutes and we were on the move again. Tom shared that he had also dozed briefly.

We were moving, but not well. Tom told me not to worry about the time, but I couldn't help it. I did the only thing in my control, I kept climbing. Kept doing the work. Up and up we went. And sunlight arrived. And my pace picked up a little bit with that morning sun, third sunrise. The third sunrise I'd watched since my last sleep! I had never experienced that before. Now with sunlight, I began to try to find Bridge of Heaven in the distance. I couldn't find the right peak, nor could Tom. There were some peaks in the distance that had the right meadow on top, or the right shape, but none that had both. So more climbing we did. And then, after what felt like an eternity, I spotted a peak in the distance that clearly had itty bitty human beings climbing up it. It was a long way off and a long way up, but now I could at least put an eye on Bridge of Heaven.

Up and up and up we climbed. I was a broken husk of a person. I had no energy. I was eating nothing. I was sipping tiny bits of water. Everything felt wrong and terrible and I'd never been in such a mental hole in my life before. I hated myself for signing up for this race. I hated these mountains. I hated the 50 milers coming down the mountain looking oh so spry and fresh. I hated my blistered heels. I hated my stomach. I hated the hot sun. I hated the runner coming down who told us it was about two more miles, when it was closer to 1.75 miles left to the summit. Tom was the only thing I didn't hate in that moment. And up we went anyway, despite all that hate. I wanted to finish this damn thing so bad that all I could do was climb mindlessly. In that moment, there was nothing I had ever wanted more than to finish this race. Tom and I would speak occasionally, though much of this climb was done in silence. Fight, fight, fight for the summit.

And then we popped out of some trees finally reaching the alpine meadow that would cross to Bridge of Heaven. Still a long way off, but it was there. I kept asking Tom how many more switchbacks we had to cross, when suddenly there was a trail sign ahead with a marker stuck to it. Tom exclaimed that it was the hole punch! I didn't believe it. I thought it was a final race sign pointing us up one more ridge. But it was the hole punch! We were there! We had finished this final brutal, miserable, soul-crushing climb. I sat down to let Tom punch my bib, and wept again for a minute. I knew the view on Bridge of Heaven was spectacular and Tom was talking about the view, but I didn't see a thing. I even looked, and didn't see a thing. I have zero recollection of the view atop Bridge of Heaven. All I could think was that I had lost gobs of time getting up here and needed to get off this mountain as quickly as possible before the race timed out.

Most of the race course and Ouray can be seen from Bridge of Heaven

I got started back down the mountain while Tom took a moment to take some photos. And for as bad as I was feeling everywhere else, my legs still felt strong and steady. I was able to move downhill well and make big pushes without any rest. As we moved down the mountain, Tom shared the amount of time left. We had hours, HOURS to make it to Fellin Park and finish. I could take it easy and still finish before race close. But I was done and wanted to get done. Tom suggested a good push might allow me to finish in under 50 hours, and that became the goal.

The climb down felt just like the climb up, endless. But I just moved and moved, as fast as I could comfortably get my legs to go without feeling out of control. Back down we went, through the endlessness of the Bridge of Heaven climb, around countless switchbacks, across a ridgeline, over dozens of talus fields. But the finish was coming. I wanted to roll down some of the steep slopes to get there more quickly, but I just kept hiking. And then I could see the road down below. Still 1,000 feet below, but there it was. The road that led to Fellin Park that led to the field with the two cones sat that made up the finish line. Tom began to speak more and keep me occupied, and then we were on the road fast hiking toward Fellin. And then Gio and Nikita were there waiting for us ahead. I started crying again. I've not cried so much in my life. I think Tom has seen my cry more than my wife at this point...and all over a race?

And we jogged (I could still run!) in to Fellin park and through the two cones and it was done. I had finished the Ouray 100. A year's focus and effort had paid off. It was done. It is done.

[102.2 miles covered, 40,431 feet climbed, 49:20:50 elapsed]

From Florida?

As I crossed the finish line, I was asked my bib number. I don't recall the following conversation, but it was shared with me by my crew:

Nathan: number 68

Finish line guy: Nathan Gehring?

Nathan: Yes

Finish line guy: from Florida?

Nathan: …

Finish line guy: Holy hell

Upon Further Reflection

Given all the misery I experienced on race day and all the other running experiences I had to forgo over the past year, I have to ask myself "was it worth it?" Was it worth the hours on the treadmill alone, instead of running with friends at track or elsewhere? Was it worth not running the race distances I most enjoy, such as the marathon? Was it worth the expense I incurred to fly out early and stay in the San Juans for over a week? Was it worth it?

And it was. It absolutely was. For one, the course and Ouray and the San Juans are so stunningly beautiful. Getting to spend time out there hiking around all that beauty is so life giving and fulfilling. For another, getting to spend time with my crew and experience the course with my pacers was wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. And I'm so happy Tom, Gio, and Nikita got to be out there with me.

Ultimately, the entire journey has been wildly rewarding. Doing all that training work I didn't enjoy might not have been fun, but was always with a purpose and always felt worthwhile in the moment. Being able to go through that work and then finish one of the 4 or 5 most challenging 100 mile races in North American has been a remarkably rewarding experience. I'm so glad to have done it. I'm so glad to have slayed the dragon that defeated me last year. I feel a deep sense of accomplishment and pride.

And I'm so glad to be done. I absolutely want to spend more time the San Juans. I absolutely do not want to do this race ever again. I've found the threshold of suffering I want to experience. This race was on the wrong side of that threshold. I do not need to enter that mental space ever again. I've learned a ton about how deep my well of self-discipline and ability to endure suffering runs, and I do not need to ever dip that deep into the well again.

Now I'll just spend some time running for the sake of the joy in running. No giant goal for a while. No races on the calendar. Just running. And we'll see what comes next. I have some ideas. They're just ideas for now. There will be no mountains any time soon.

It's done. Ouray 100 is done.

Equipment Fatalities

Generally, I'd wrap up a race report with a short review of critical gear. I'm going to take things in a slightly different direction this time. Instead of reviewing critical gear, I'm going to offer a list of gear casualties. Ouray 100 is a rugged race. Stuff breaks. The following gear was either ruined during the race or during acclimatization hikes before the race:

One pair Ultimate Direction FKT Carbon poles - stepped on while trying to not slide off the side of Hayden Pass
One pair of Black Diamond Distance Z aluminum poles - bent while trying to safely navigate down the peak of Twin Peaks on loose dirt and gravel
One Salomon ADV 12 pack - the chest strapped tore out while putting the pack on early in the race
One Hoka EVO Mafate shoe - sidewall blowout on the right foot. No idea when or how that happened. It's not a total blowout right now, but the show will fail soon.
One Gregory Stash duffel - duffel bag tore at some point during travel

So, I lost some gear. Gear that's not inexpensive to replace. I hope some will be replaced by warranty, though remain unsure of that. But it's okay. It's just another cost of chasing this ridiculous goal.

And with that, I sign off on my 12 (really 18) month adventure to conquer the Ouray 100 ultramarathon.

It is done.

Ouray 100 "Why Bother Going Anywhere Else"

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Sun, 08 Aug 2021 12:53:00 +0000

This is an unusual race report to write. It’s unusual for a number of reasons. For one, this race report really is for myself, to relive the experience and to put all my thoughts and reflections to paper so I have them available to review before next year. For two, because I did not finish the race and I am almost entirely satisfied with the experience irrespective of that DNF.

The Race Ends

So, let’s begin with where it ended, somewhere climbing up steep, steep Hayden trail to Hayden pass. A fleeting moment when I was utterly convinced that I had bitten off way more than I could chew, that I had taken something on well beyond my capability. I told Eddy that I knew I couldn’t turn around and get back down that steep climb. I had been unable to lift my feet well and had been tripping on stuff for a couple hours. But I also didn’t have the aerobic capacity to continue climbing. I had been reduced to climbing 10 to 20 yards, then needing to stop for several seconds to minutes to catch my breath before moving on. The altitude had gotten to me hours and hours ago, and my breathing was now nearly completely ineffective (though my blood oxygen remained very high when last checked back in Ironton.) At this pace, it would take hours to finish the 1,200 feet of climbing in the next mile, much less get back down the other side of Hayden pass. I was stuck. I had no options and began to freak out about what to do.

Except, I did have one option. The option I had given myself for just such a situation. The option that also meant my race would be over, but would get me out of a real jam. I had a Diamox pill in my race vest, a medication to combat altitude illness. I really thought I’d never need this, that I was fit enough to power through whatever challenges altitude presented. I was wrong. I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs to continue the hard work of climbing. Eddy and I found a spot to sort of sit down in the shade on a very exposed bit of trail. I would take the Diamox, then we’d wait 20-30 minutes and then get back to fighting over Hayden Pass and hope the downhill trail on the other side wasn’t as technical and steep as it had been on the way up this side. My race was over, but I still had 4 miles of challenging mountain work to get done for it to actually end.

And I was absolutely and totally satisfied, proud, elated even of the work I had done. I had zero regrets about pulling the plug on this race. It had been beautiful beyond any imagining, had put me in places I barely dreamed to reach, had been just as challenging as every race report and conversation suggested it would be. I had executed my race plan exactly as I had hoped. My crew had been incredible and gone well beyond any expectations I had of them. Even in this moment when the decision was made to end my race, I was following my plan exactly. I had zero regrets and the deepest satisfaction in my participation.

Well, I had one regret. One of my crew/pacers, Eddy, had gotten to pace 12 miles with me. It was a wonderful time together. We got to experience sunrise popping up over the mountains as we peered down from Alpine Mine Overlook on the Weehaken trail into Ouray. Eddy had been so patient with me as we moved at a snail’s pace up Hayden Trail. But I hadn’t made it far enough for my second pacer, Tom, to get to experience any of this surreal, incredible trail. Tom had done so much work and helped in so many ways throughout the weekend, and wouldn’t have the opportunity to get out into the mountains. This was, and will remain, my one regret.

Beyond this, the race was an absolute success. Yes, a finish would have put me over the moon. Getting to see the final 35 miles of the course is something I desperately wanted to do. But I am absolutely satisfied and elated. It feels not at all like failure.

I had also known from very early in the race that I’d be coming back should I not finish. Heck, I likely would come back even if I did finish. This is a race like no other. Everything is bigger, harder, taller, steeper, higher, prettier, than almost any other race. Why bother going elsewhere? Why bother training for something less?

The Diamox settled in, and I was able to climb just a bit better. Instead of stopping every 10-20 yards, I was able to climb for 5-10 minutes at a time with just short 30 second breaks to catch my breath. We reach what we thought was Hayden’s Pass several times, only to be duped by false summits. But we eventually arrived at the pass and began heading down to Crystal Lake. The trail was very steep, but not technical. We weren’t moving fast, but were moving consistently without breaks. As we descended, thunderclaps began overhead. This would be the fourth or fifth thunderstorm I would endure during the 65 miles I remained in the race. Fortunately, just as the first of the booms began, we were heading off the exposed pass and into tree cover. This had not been the case on some other occasions, though I had gotten pretty lucky throughout the race with lightning storm timing.

We finally reached Crystal Lake aid station at mile 65 where Tom was waiting, having set up a tent and sleeping bag. When I had been feeling a bit better, my thought had been to take a short nap here before making my way back across Hayden. That would no longer be necessary. But Tom was ready, just as he had been every time we met on the course.

I sat down in the aid station and shared with the station captain that I’d likely be dropping. I was going to sit for a few minutes before making it official, but the decision had been made when taking the Diamox (a banned substance in competition, for one.) It thundered, it poured, the race ended exactly as it should. I felt really good, and the aid crew tried to compel me to continue on, sharing that I looked far stronger and more lucid than many of the people that had sat in the chair where I was sitting who had continued on. But my entire race plan had been “make smart decisions” and continuing on after needing medication and without an ability to breathe properly was not the smart decision.

And the aid station people were right. Except the lungs and inability to breathe, I felt really good. Legs weren’t very sore. Energy level was high. I wasn’t particularly tired yet. But I couldn’t breathe (turns out I had a partially collapsed lung.) And my race ended at Crystal Lake.

Back To The Beginning

I had signed up for Ouray in the depths of the COVID pandemic. Ouray 100 had found its way on my radar a couple years earlier, and I had planned two spend about five years working up to taking on this race. But during COVID lock-downs, I made the decision not to wait any extra and to register as soon as possible. I wasn’t going to worry about being perfectly prepared or perfectly trained anymore. I was going chase that which scared me. Ouray 100 scared me something fierce. And register I did, on the first day registration was opened.

But enough of the preamble. The race really began as Eddy and I drove out of Ridgway and approached Ouray through a valley that became deeper and deeper. In Montrose, the hulking and steep mountains could be seen, more shadow than defined rocks yet. But absolutely visible and so much larger than anything I anticipated. These mountains were seriously high and, unusually, Ouray was not all that high sitting at an elevation of about 7,700 feet.

Eddy and I couldn’t stop pointing out how beautiful the scene was as it unfolded around us. The valley became steeper and deeper as we drove closer to Ouray, when suddenly we hit the town and one of the most remarkable scenes I can remember in my life. An idyllic little town with zero modernity in this deep, deep valley. On every side sat walls of mountains that appeared to head straight up. And these walls began right at the town’s edge, no separation at all. It was beyond any beauty I had imagined. Ouray blew my mind. In every direction we turned, there was more beauty. Already the race was a success and I hadn’t even checked in yet. This was why I continued to participate in ultramarathons. To see incredible places, to go on incredible journeys, and ideally to share those adventures with others. Little did I know the town of Ouray would only be a small appetizer of the beauty yet to come.

Race Morning

Race morning arrived quickly. My full crew, Eddy and Tom, had assembled the evening before and we had gone through what planning I wanted to go through. I reminded them that my goals were simple. Finishing was not the goal, because I had no idea what to expect. Instead, my goals were to make smart decisions and continue until injury or a cut off pulled me off the course. If a finish happened in the context of pursuing those goals, wonderful. If not, still wonderful.

Now it was race morning. Now it was time to do the work, make smart decisions, and see where I ended up. Now it was time to find out if six months of training in Florida with a weight vest on a treadmill could prepare me at all for this monster of a race.

The race began at 8AM, wonderfully late for an east coaster. I was able to wake up naturally, take my time preparing and eating breakfast, arrive at the race with plenty of time and really relax. But as is true at all races, hours quickly slipped away and we were starting before I realized it.

The race started nice and easily. I started at the very back of the pack, expecting to use all 52 hours. A gentle jog out of Fellin Park, crossing a small bridge and on to a road running along the back side of town. Within a mile, however, we were climbing into the mountains. Nothing aggressive, but definitely uphill. It was time to put my power hiking practice to use. Up we went. Up some more town roads, then onto a steep trail of stairs, through a tunnel not nearly tall enough for me to stand in, across Box Canyon, and finally a sharp right turn on to Camp Bird Road.

Camp Bird Road would be our home for the next several miles. Camp Bird Road is a wide non-technical jeep road that heads deep into the San Juan mountains with a pretty uninterrupted climb. We would climb our first 2000+ feet (of a total 42,000 feet of climbing on the day) up Camp Bird Road. I had committed to not waste too much time taking photos during this race, but found myself continually stopping to look back down the valley toward Ouray. The views halted me in my tracks several times. The road was no average road. We climbed and climbed, the cliffs overhung the road at points shooting 1000+ feet into the air. We passed the Ouray Ice Park, evidently one of the world's most famous ice climbing walls, which appears to be a sheer cliff straight up beyond what the eye could make out. It was continuously stunning. And yet, another runner stopped with me at one corner looking back and said, “and it just gets better from here.” This seemed unbelievable to me. We had these steep cliffs all around us, waterfalls falling from high above, the river running to our left. Everywhere utter beauty. How could it get better?

Camp Bird Road was not tough work. I was able to find a nice hiking groove at pretty low effort and made my way up the road, surprisingly passing people all along the way. This was not expected, but my climbing felt strong and effortless. After some time, we worked through the Lower Camp Bird aid station, too early to need to spend any real time, but a nice checkpoint marked off. The aid captain checked each of our GPS trackers to make sure they were functioning, then on to the first off-road climb we went. Another mile up Camp Bird Road, then a left onto some much more serious jeep trail. This was no longer a road, but rocky and a little bit technical. We were well under treeline for most of this climb. Still nothing to worry about, though the climbing did get steeper. Up and up we went. The climbing was relentless, though my fitness seemed well prepared for it.

Ouray 100 is made up of a series of out-and-backs and loops hitting different little peaks and areas of interest in the mountains surrounding Ouray. This first climb would bring us up to an alpine lake at Silver Basin. Just as I felt I must be approaching the top of this first out-and-back climb, the leaders of the race began to shoot back down the trail. First, sporadically, then pretty regularly, runners came down the mountain until I reached a point where things leveled off and I could see runners hole punching their bibs to indicate they had reached the top of this climb. After I punched my bib at the top of this climb at about 11,500 feet, I did stop to take a photo or two. I couldn’t go home completely empty handed. Then it was time to turn around and head back downhill.

And a theme emerged, that would be the theme for the next 28 hours. I had passed a lot of runners on the way up out of Ouray. Many of them began to pass me back on the way back down. I get little downhill practice and simply am not proficient at doing it. I had done some specific training to prepare the legs, and especially quads, for the damage downhill running does. This training seemed to work, as my quads never felt miserable, but I still moved slowly and carefully downhill. Nobody seemed to run the downhills with the reckless abandon I’d seen at other races, though. Ouray 100 is long, very long, with huge downhills and 42,000 feet of descent. Everyone seemed to be rather controlled and measured on the downhills. But everyone was way, way faster than me.

The first climb was done. All had gone extremely well. I felt confident in my training. And I was completely in love with the area. It was as beautiful as anything I can remember in my life. As beautiful as I remember Grindelwald and Kleine Scheidegg in Switzerland. As beautiful as my idyllic hometown of Heidelberg. It was just remarkable.

On To Fort Peabody

The race would next head meaningfully above tree line with a climb to 12,000 feet to the Chicago Tunnel, then to the highpoint of the race at 13,300 feet and the summit of Fort Peabody. We descended back through Lower Camp Bird aid station. This time a pause and full refill of bottles was in order. Then the climbing began in earnest. Up some more jeep road, which became increasingly less smooth as we climbed higher and higher. Still, nothing that required much attention, but a definite change. Up to Richmond aid station only 2 miles later, but which we would visit several times during the race, then the climb began in earnest to Chicago Tunnel. We were now above treeline, the climbing got steep, and onto single track. The theme remained the same. I was among the strongest climbers among my cohort in the pack and reached Chicago Tunnel feeling really strong. Chicago Tunnel offered the first true high altitude view of the mountains above treeline and it was absolutely breathtaking. I could also see the jeep trail which would take us up to Fort Peabody and even make out a line of runners working up the road, though I didn’t see anyone on the summit just yet. It looked like a very long way to go! Another hole punch, another photo, then back to doing the work. No change, as I began to get passed on the way downhill by all the people I had passed on the way up.

But this downhill was short, 1000 feet or so, then turned back up onto the climb to Fort Peabody. We shared this road with a lot of ATVs making their way up to Peabody, as well. Mostly this was uneventful, but I did pull to the side from time to time to allow some to pass. Though, truth be told, the vehicles were not moving all that much faster than us runners. The uneven ground made for very slow and careful driving.

Up and up we went. And it began to get much, much colder. My climbing remained strong and I was really pleased with how my training had prepared me for the uphills. All those boring hours on the treadmill had worked! As the altitude increased, I did begin to struggle. The final couple hundred feet of climbing to Fort Peabody left the jeep trail and ran straight up a talus field to the summit. I moved slowly and had to stop to catch my breath a couple times. No surprise here, as another runner had shared that I’d “feel like crap” climbing up to the summit. I was feeling like crap. Reaching the summit made it all worthwhile. I was now at the high point of the course and the view was outrageous. Mammoth mountains in every direction and my first view of the Red Mountain where we’d be heading next. The Red Mountain stuck out like a sore, but beautiful, thumb. Evidently made of dark red iron ore rock, the peaks are completely exposed and bright dark red, entirely different than all the other mountains surrounding it. A couple more photos, but quickly as some raindrops began to fall. Then the descent began.

My timing had been impeccable. Not five minutes off the summit and rain began to fall in earnest. Then hail. And, finally, a few minutes later, the first loud crack of thunder and lightning visible in the sky. I threw my Rab Tracer Gore Tex rain jacket (a jacket that had caused me so much mental anguish to purchase because of the cost) and I continued on down the mountain and back to Richmond aid station. On and on it rained as I worked downhill. The jeep trail was now more a jeep creek as the precipitation ran down the road in deep sheets. Keeping feet dry was impossible. But the jacket worked marvelously and I felt comfortable the entire way down. And I felt so fortunate to have gotten off the summit before the lightning storm arrived. In no time, I found myself back at Richmond aid station...and the rain was letting up!

Across The Pass To Ironton

Leaving Richmond aid station, we would be heading onto the first longer unaided section. Up Richmond trail, across the high Richmond Pass at 12,600 feet, then down a steep section of singletrack into Ironton aid station where I would meet my crew for the first time. The trail would become much more technical at this point. Up to Richmond Pass included a mix of single track and a ton of scree covered trail with sharp, angular rocks to cross. The climb was made up of very long switchbacks, and it required putting the head down and doing the work. Up and up we went (a small group of runners had formed as we spent miles and hours yo-yo’ing back and forth), finally reaching a large alpine meadow high above tree line.

The Red Mountains stretched out ahead of us and it was beauty beyond believing. Thunder had been rumbling the entire climb, though it never sounded very close and I encountered no rain on the climb. Over the pass I went, then down into the tree protected single track. Just as I arrived at treeline, the storm opened up. Thunder and lightning, but no rain...yet. Down I climbed, gingerly and slowly as ever. But I knew my crew was ahead, so the progress was steady. This trail was STEEP! And I knew I’d be turning around in several hours to climb back up it and over Richmond Pass making my way to the second half of the course. It was a daunting thought, the kind of thought best left unthought in an ultra.

The singletrack seemed to never end, and then the rain began. Torrential downpour. The tree cover was thick enough to offer me some protection, but not much. Thank goodness I had spent money on a good jacket! Finally, I reached the bottom of the trail and Million Dollar Highway. I knew this would be the flattest section of the course, not quite a mile into Ironton aid station and to my crew. I had suggested they should not expect me for at least 9 hours, and I was going to arrive in just a touch over 9 hours. I couldn’t believe how exact my estimate had been.

Ironton Aid Station

Tom and Eddy were waiting for me, ready for me, and were one awesome crew. It was still pouring when I arrived, so I decided to take my time and sit down to dry out a bit and see if the rain might slow while getting into some new clothes and getting in some calories. My feet were also feeling quite good despite all the rain and water crossings, but I did have some hot spots I wanted to deal with. I cannot thank Tom and Eddy enough. They went beyond anything I expected of them and were the best crew a runner could hope for. No matter my silly request, they handled it.

I would pass through the Ironton aid station three times. This first time upon arrival to the Red Mountains, then again after a counterclockwise loop around the Red Mountains, and finally again after a clockwise loop of Red Mountains. The aid station was a serious affair. A menu hung at the back of the aid station with all kinds of foods available. Chicken nuggets did the trick for me on this visit. I ate a load of chicken nuggets and a few mashed potatoes. Tom and Eddy got my pack refilled in preparation for my first go around the Red Mountains. A full sock change (something I never do in a race) was in order here though we were only 27 miles into the race. Finally, I was up and off again. It was still drizzling, but nothing like 20 minutes earlier.

Red Mountain Counterclockwise and Clockwise

The first time around Red Mountain was all in the daylight. Much of the loop was below treeline and protected, though there were long exposed sections, and the continuing thunder and lightning were more than a bit disconcerting. After a mile or so, I connected with another runner and we spent the climb up to the Red Mountain pass together. She and I had been going back and forth since Chicago Tunnel and, finally, our paces matched for a while. It was so pleasant to have someone to speak with for a couple hours. Her climbing was just a bit slower than what I had been doing on my own, and it was really reassuring to back off the pace just a touch and feel good.

The climb was up wide, clay trail. The trail was covered in running water and crossed a very muddy section, which I would only later learn was an active and very dangerous mudslide! But it was time to do the work, so we picked our way through this mudslide trying to keep out of the deepest of the muck, though I still managed to step in a 12 inch deep bit of slop. We crossed the high pass on Red Mountain at about 12,200 feet and a second pass at 11,700 feet with some spectacular views including noticing that the high peaks had gotten fresh snow in the storm. Then we descended below treeline again and onto some single track. As we headed onto this single track, I had a short coughing fit, though it disappeared in seconds. My fellow runner left me at this point as I was simply too slow on the downhills. Down I worked, alone again, and eventually back into Ironton aid station.

Again, Tom and Eddy did their thing, taking the thinking off my plate and giving me the space to rest and eat. It was also time to get ready for darkness. Only 35 or so miles in, yet the first night was arriving. This was going to be a long and slow race! A quick change into some dry clothes, a headlamp check (the headlamp didn’t work and needed a battery change!), and I was back onto the loop in the reverse direction.

This time it was the steeper singletrack up and would be the broad gentler section for the descent. Again, I connected with another runner as we climbed up the singletrack. Again, a welcome distraction from the work. After a couple miles together, I stopped to eat some food and to put on a headband and the runner continued ahead on his own. Alone again, climbing again. It was now totally dark as I left treeline and continued the climb up to the two Red Mountain passes. A deer darted passed me in the dark, my headlamp just catching a glimpse of it. This would be the only wildlife I’d see the entire race, other than a brief glimpse of a marmot earlier near Chicago Tunnel. Once again, as I climbed, I passed runner after runner. Right at the high pass, I caught up with the runner I had spent time with in the first loop, just in time to say “Hi” and for her to run away from me on the downhill again. Theme of the race for me.

At the high pass, I had a second coughing fit, this one a bit longer. This time it caught my attention. This time I wondered what that coughing was all about. Then it was back into working the long 3.5 miles downhill and back into Ironton. The miles passed slowly, the time passed quickly. But my progress was nice and steady. I came back into Ironton barely slower than the first loop, though had done the second loop in the dark. I was still feeling great, energy was high, I was in great spirits, and I was absolutely in love with this race.

In the aid station, it was time for a longer rest before heading out on the long trek back across Richmond Pass and all the way down to Weehawken trail. I changed socks and shoes, ate plenty, and tried to prepare myself for the steep climbing waiting for me. I also mentioned to Tom on the way in about the coughing and that it had me a little concerned, though I really didn’t want my race ending here. Tom made the smart call and spoke with the medic at the aid station. The medic tested my blood oxygen level, 97%, asked a few questions and didn’t seem concerned based on the small bit of information shared. I may have been a little less than 100% forthcoming in my answers, though I’m not sure of that, either. I felt better about things and was feeling totally fine now that I had gotten off the high altitude.

Now it was time to work through the night, climb steep and high, and meet Eddy in 12 miles at Weehawken aid station where he would begin pacing with me. It was also Tom and Eddy’s chance to get some rest, as I wouldn’t arrive to Weehawken for many hours.

Ironton To Weehawken

The hike through the night was slow and monotonous. Climbing out of Ironton and up to Richmond pass was a terribly slow affair. It was steep and I was having to stop often to catch my breath as I climbed. I had just been feeling great at Ironton aid station, yet found myself having to stop at every course marking to regroup. The 20 and 30 minute miles of the past 43 were now becoming 45 minute miles. Slowly, I climbed to Richmond Pass. It felt like hours of fits and starts before I was finally back at 12,600 feet crossing the pass. My breathing had been ragged the entire way up. My lungs burned. I hadn’t seen another runner in front of me nor a runner behind me. Not even a headlamp in the distance (though I could see headlamps way back on Red Mountain.) I was in a broad pocket of loneliness. Finally, up and over the pass, yet the pace did not speed up much. I was now heading back down the same challenging talus slope that I had come up in the daylight. This was much more treacherous in the dark and I moved slowly and carefully. Fortunately, going downhill, I didn’t have to take any breaks and could keep moving. But it was still very slow forward progress.

And yet, overall I felt good. My energy was high. I was alert. I wasn’t suffering from lack of sleep. My legs weren’t terribly sore or tired and felt really strong. I was just having tremendous challenges catching my breath. On and on I hiked, completely alone in the dark night. The storms were gone. The moon accompanied me. But little else. No wildlife. No runners. Just me and the moon for hours.

Eventually, I found my way back into Richmond aid station. I drank some broth for a bit of warmth, though I wasn't struggling with temperature much at all. The warm, salty broth just sat nicely. I spoke with the race director and the aid station captain for a few minutes, then got back on my way. It would be another four miles to Weehawken, though now I was off the trails and back on Camp Bird Road. Getting to Eddy would be a nice, non-technical hike, though I did have one more obstacle to cross. A creek crossing from earlier in the race just outside Richmond aid station was now a roaring river after all the rain. There were some logs placed to cross the river, but the water was overtopping these logs and moving fast. I gingerly worked my way over the logs without any close calls, but the anxiety was high. The water was moving fast. Now it was just a four mile hike to the next aid station, with nothing eventful happening at all. I was able to open up my hike a bit, pick up the pace, and relax for an hour or so.

Weehawken

After an uneventful hike from Richmond aid station to Weehawken, I met up with Eddy and had a good sit. Sunrise was now approaching. I was 54 miles into the race, and still feeling in really, really high spirits. But the breathing challenges had continued. I shared this with Eddy and let him know I was now quite concerned about what was going on. Fortunately, the Weehawken trail climb was neither terribly technical nor did it reach very high altitude. I knew it would be slow going with lots of rest needed to catch my breath, but the concern was not high for this section of the course. This would be 2.5 miles and 2,000 feet up, then 2.5 miles and 2,000 feet down.

Eddy and I headed out. The progress up was slow. Within a few minutes of starting, we were able to turn the headlamps off as the sunlight began to filter into the forest. Daylight did seem to give me a small burst of energy and the pace picked up slightly, though it had to have been agonizingly slow for Eddy. We climbed and climbed, back and forth on tight switchbacks. Never extremely steep, but never very easy, either. I needed lots of rest to catch my breath, but was able to continue on. In a moment of pure honesty, I shared with Eddy that I had not only been coughing and struggling to catch my breath, but also wheezing a bit.

Runners who had been far ahead now began to trickle back down the trail and pass us. I was surprised that I was still as close to them as I was, considering how slowly I had been moving. Evidently, the pace had slowed down considerably for everyone.

The trail was beautiful. And, as we rose, we’d get peeks through the trees to the valley below. These were Eddy’s first views from up high. They were glorious again. And now the sun began to rise above the mountain tops across the valley. Once again, I was in love with the course, no matter how bad my breathing was. Once again, I was certain I’d be back here next year no matter how this race unfolded today. Because “why bother going anywhere else?”

Eventually, Eddy and I reached the Alpine Mine overlook at the top of Weehawken Trail. Far down below, under the sunrise, sat Ouray. A small, wonderful town buried deep in these mountain valleys. It was spectacular. All the suffering so far had been worth this moment. I was so happy to be there with Eddy, to be there at all. I wanted to continue on and see the rest of this course.

Eddy had some cell phone service up at this spot. I asked him to let Tom know I’d want to sleep when we arrived to Crystal Lake before continuing on. Then we began working back down the Weehawken trail. And the theme emerged again. Runners began to catch up to me on the way down. But now I wasn’t just taking my time downhill, I was moving very slowly and began tripping a lot. Now, even on the downhill, I had to fight a little to breathe. Not much, but for the first time.

Eddy and I discussed the situation. I shared that I was very concerned about going back to 12,000 feet on the next section as we crossed Hayden Pass. After some conversation, it was decided I would give it a go. I had the Diamox in my pack in the event of a real crisis, and I was not going to pull myself off the course. Make smart decisions, continue on until injury or cut off pulled me off the course. At this point, I was still moving well enough to stay ahead of cut-offs and not apparently injured.

We reached the Weehawken aid station and took some time to prepare for the biggest climb of the day so far, the climb to Hayden pass. 3,600 feet up in about 3 miles. This was where the technical work would begin. Steep, at times exposed, and footing that becomes more challenging than anything prior.

I wasn’t feeling too short-breathed out of Weehawken and as we got started on Hayden trail. This didn’t last long. My breathing became ragged quickly. We also ascended higher and higher quickly. This trail was steep! A mile and a half of very slow progress and I reached my moment of crisis. I felt I was barely moving up, but also was certain I couldn’t go back down the trail we had just traveled.

And that is where this story began, where things ended, on Hayden trail taking a Diamox knowing my race was over.

Lessons for 2022

The story of my race was over, but there are some important notes to be made for myself to reread as I plan to return to Ouray 100 in 2022.

Who knew there could be such pride and joy in a DNF? I sure didn’t. But here I am, nearly 100% satisfied with the experience. Yes, a finish would have been great. But it just wasn’t necessary to make this the most rewarding race experience of my life. And now I get to go back next year for another crack at it and to experience it all again!
Respect the altitude. I thought I would suffer and hurt, but that I could just fight through that. Turns out this is not the case. My doctor believes I have a very mild pneumothorax (collapsed lung) from the high exertion at pressures on the lungs far lower than what my lungs are accustomed to. (We are waiting on x-ray results to confirm this.) Basically, my exertion blew out some alveoli and caused my breathing issue. Next time, I will do what’s needed to get to high altitude in advance and acclimatize. My fitness was there. I never suffered from leg weakness or soreness or anything else debilitating that should have stopped me. My race ending was entirely a function of the altitude.
Don’t change my training much at all. I was fit and ready. I was a strong climber and had done what needed to be done to finish this race. I will do the exact same work, though for a longer period of time. I feel confident in this training and that it prepared me well.
Improving my downhilling even a little bit will pay huge dividends. I don’t need to be fast downhill at all. I just need to be confident and able to move lightly across the ground as others did. A tiny improvement is going to buy me loads of time to get this race done. As well as I climb, I just need to be okay going downhill.
Use the exact same race plan. Make smart decisions, don’t quit until injury or cut-offs pull me off the course. This was the perfect plan. Knowing the course now, I can add a bit more nuance to that, but not much more is needed.
The biggest lesson of all, this town and this race are absolutely incredible. I can’t wait to go back and give it another shot. I’ll just keep going until I finish, and maybe after that. I can’t wait to bring my family here, and hopefully some more crew to experience it. This was, simply put, magical.

Just One Bad Run

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Tue, 06 Oct 2020 09:51:00 +0000

Sunday I had a bad run. I had planned to run really easy for about 24 miles. I ended up running just a bit over 21 miles, though much of the last few miles included walking and moving at a very relaxed pace. One bad run. It’s generally a thing to just throw out and never worry about again. Bad runs happen. But I’m left wondering about that one bad run.

It really hasn’t been just one bad run. Over the past couple months, the Sunday long run has frequently been a not great run. I’ve quit really early a couple of times...something I haven’t ever done in the past. I’ve had several long runs that I finished, but that didn’t feel great at all. And there have been a smattering of long runs that I’ve been happy with.

But the Sunday long run has been my training keystone for the past few years. 20 or so miles on Sunday morning was a weekly ritual that was completed without much thought and almost always with joy. And that’s suddenly no longer the case for me. So, it doesn’t feel like one bad run at all. And I’m left wondering why.

Maybe it’s my new training plan for Ouray 100. I may have layered in too much difficult work while not reducing the difficulty elsewhere. I feel like a weighted pack hike a couple times a week shouldn’t be a dramatic thing in my training, and that running over a small Florida bridge isn’t a huge stress increase. But perhaps those bits of new training stimulus added to the tough track session I run on Tuesdays and tempo session I run on Thursdays is just a touch too much. Maybe mix these all together, and I arrive on Sunday just a bit too fatigued to be happy with the long run. It’s certainly a possibility. I am considering adjustments to my training plan, though haven’t made a decision to do so yet.

Maybe it’s the impact of COVID and having no races on my calendar to look forward to and to use for motivation. Yes, I’m training for Ouray, but that’s 10 months away assuming I get into the race at all, and the Sunday long run really isn’t specific to Ouray. Maybe I need more race motivation than I realized. Maybe I was wrong that I enjoy the long run just for itself.

It may simply be that I have changed my training and it’s a bit of a shock to the system. My body is revolting while it adapts. And perhaps in a few weeks I’ll pop out the other side even stronger and the Sunday long run will again be joyful and not the mental grind it is at the moment. This might be the case physically, but it doesn’t explain why the simple joy of running the long run has disappeared.

I have no definitive answers. I don’t know that any of the above items capture why I’ve had several bad long runs recently. Or maybe it’s a bit of all of them. Irrespective of the reason, I sit here frustrated by that one bad run. And I sit here wondering what to change, or if anything should even change, to find the joy in the long run again.

Or maybe it really just was one bad run.

Resetting My Runner's Mindset

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Wed, 30 Sep 2020 09:50:00 +0000

As I begin my nearly year-long journey to participate in the Ouray 100 ultramarathon, I’m quickly realizing one of the biggest challenges will be to reset my mindset about running training. For the past couple years while I focused on my goal to run a marathon in under three hours, I was always acutely aware of the number of miles I was running each week and the average pace of that mileage. That weekly mileage number became a bit of a bellweather to let me know if I was training the way I intended to.

Weekly mileage will not be that bellwether during this year-long training focus for Ouray. In fact, the opposite. I need to break my habit of watching the weekly mileage and making sure I am hitting predetermined benchmarks. My mindset has to reset to allow myself to do the right training each day and let the mileage focus fall away. And that is going to be a really tough thing after two years of really chasing big mileage.

Yesterday offered just such a challenge. When an evening meeting at work ended much earlier than anticipated yesterday, I had the opportunity to go for a run that I wasn’t sure I would get to do at the beginning of the day. On my training plan, if I did get to go, it was supposed to be a power hike and not actually a run at all. For Ouray, I’m going to have to become a far better walker and hiker than I am today. But as I faced the decision to use this newfound time, I also found myself being pulled toward running instead of fast walking. In the 45 minutes I now had, I could run a very easy 5 miles. Alternatively, I might be able to walk a bit over 3 miles with my fastest walk.

It was really challenging to give up those 2 extra miles. 2 miles doesn’t seem like a lot, but make that choice 5 days in a week and a 75 mile week becomes only a 65 mile week. I’ve been siding with the higher number in these trade-off decisions for two years. I am conditioned to seek the higher mileage option reflexively now.

But that is no longer the good decision. I walked for the 45 minutes yesterday. Afterwards, I was still bothered by the 2 miles I missed out on. Yet it was the right decision, no matter how wrong it feels to me. And improving my decision making is one of the biggest focuses of this entire training journey to Ouray next year.

My runner’s mindset needs to be reset. It’s not about raw mileage, but doing the right things to have me ready to hike for 52 hours and cross 14 very high San Juan peaks. That is the singular focus. Two extra miles of running would have done absolutely nothing to improve my chances of succeeding.

Enjoyment Did Not Have Anything To Do With It

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Tue, 29 Sep 2020 10:10:00 +0000

A couple weeks ago, I made my mind up to take on a new adventure and journey. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for at least a year, and have been afraid to really consider. But I have decided to not let that fear prevent me from going on an adventure that really calls to me. Instead, I’ll dive into the deep end and take plenty of time to get myself ready for this journey.

I have decided to run the Ouray 100 ultramarathon next year in 2021. I don’t know that I’ll actually get into the race. It’s possible all participants from the 2020 COVID cancelled race are simply rolled over into 2021. It’s possible we’re still too deep into the COVID pandemic and the race doesn’t happen at all. It’s possible the race director does not accept my meager qualifications for entry, though I do believe I just squeak into the requirements. Even so, I am going to prepare as if I will be running Ouray 100 next year. And that scares me tremendously.

In many respects, I have no business trying to run Ouray 100. I have very limited mountain racing experience. I will have very few, potentially no, opportunities to train in the mountains or even on any real hills. I don’t know how to read mountain weather and don’t have sense for when a lightning storm is rolling in. I’m unaccustomed to the dramatic shifts in temperature that will be encountered during the race. I know little about potential wildlife to be concerned with. There’s simply a lot I’m not prepared for.

And it’s also a very different style of race than what my training has prepared me for. Ouray 100 is high, really high. The race is run in the towering San Juan mountains, tagging a dozen or so of the peaks in the area. It’s a constant shift from climbing up to a peak, then back down to Ouray. The race ascends and descends over 40,000 feet, an unimaginable number to me. I’ve trained primarily for flat and fast running, the kind of running we do in Florida. Ouray really isn’t a running race at all. It has a 52 hour cut-off to go 100 miles, or a 32 minute mile. On flat ground a 32 minute mile is a casual stroll. Yet I expect I’ll need every one of those hours if I want any chance to complete this race.

My training will have to change dramatically. I’m going to have to become a proficient hiker. I’ll have to become much improved on remaining on my feet for very long periods of time. I’ll have to figure out how to improve both my uphill and downhill hiking and running. I’ll have to give up a lot of speed in the process of becoming a much better hiker, climber and descender. Thank goodness I reached my primary marathon goal earlier this year!

I will have to become a far better decision maker than I’ve been in ultramarathons. The races I’ve participated in have been easy enough to allow for bad decisions to be made. The result of those decisions was simply a slower time than a good decision would have resulted in. I will not have that luxury at Ouray. I will need every minute to finish. A bad decision could put me in a lightning storm at the top of an exposed peak, or in plummeting temperatures without proper clothing to prevent hypothermia. My decision making will have to be dialed in.

Fortunately, I do have nearly a full year to figure this out. My training will look extremely boring and monotonous. While I plan to keep a finger on the speed with two weekly running speed workouts, I’m also adding a lot of hiking around the neighborhood in a weighted pack. Often, that will be just power walking down to the bridge over Interstate 95 and then crossing that bridge back and forth for miles at a time. It sounds terribly monotonous. I’m also going to do my best to make nearly every non-workout run a bridge repeat run. Again, get to a bridge and then just run back and forth. So very boring. And I’ll do this for the next year. I plan to purchase a plyo box to do box step ups and jump downs. My hope is the jump downs exert some of the same eccentric force on the legs that downhill running does. All monotonous and boring.

I hope to organize a trip up to the Georgia mountains early in 2021 with some running friends to spend a weekend putting in big miles running the dragonback trails of the southern Appalachian mountains. This will be the big break from the monotony of endless bridge repeats.

I have a guiding principle as I work through this monotony, a quote I heard while listening to the Armchair Explorer podcast yesterday. In an episode in which explorer Ed Stafford discussed his trek on foot to cover every inch of the Amazon river, he stated “Enjoyment did not have anything to do with it.” This struck me profoundly. In the pursuit of big goals and journeys, enjoyment might not be a part of the equation. The enjoyment may come in little bits and pieces here and there. Stafford discusses the tiny amount of enjoyment of taking a bath at the end of the night, but that the day was drudgery and even misery otherwise. This is what my training will be. Drudgery, misery, monotony. Probably not much enjoyment beyond knowing that I’m on a journey to do something I don’t really think I can do.

And make no mistake, I don’t think I’m taking anything on like a trek to cover the entire Amazon. Plenty of people finish the Ouray 100 every year. It’s a really tough race and may include some actual risk and challenges I’m not accustomed to, but it’s still just a race. But to me and what I know of myself and my training, it feels as frightening and nearly insurmountable as a trek along the Amazon. To spend the next year changing myself from a marathon runner who runs ultras to a fast climbing hiker who at least is book smart on the mountains feels like a massive challenge...and one I’m excited to take on.

Enjoyment does not have anything to do with it.

Note: I plan to chronicle some of the training I do and steps I take during this year of preparation on this blog. I’ll probably write about gear I’m testing, fears and emotions I’m facing, and whatever else comes to mind. Feel free to follow along if you find yourself interested. And if you have any tips or advice, I’d be more than happy to hear from you.

My Renewed Daily Writing Practice

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Tue, 22 Sep 2020 09:52:00 +0000

Beginning today, I plan to rebuild a daily writing practice. At least 30 minutes each weekday morning while I drink my first cup of tea or coffee. I will make no demands of this writing practice other than it be daily and 30 minutes. I will allow exceptions to the daily habit for those mornings when I go for a very early run, as I often do on Thursdays. My plan on those days is to make up the 30 minutes of writing at some other point during the day.

I am free to write about whatever I like. Personal, professional, something I've recently read about, something just bobbing around in my head with no real intention. It doesn't matter. Just write, for 30 minutes, every day. I do hope to eventually start pushing some of this writing back to a blog. I do hope that eventually some ideas will feel bigger and worthy of fleshing out into a professional article or even a book. But none of that is necessary for now. The goal is to just write and get back in the habit of writing regularly.

I am a writer who has not been writing. That's a tough thing to come to grips with. It feels inauthentic to myself, incongruous with who I know I am. Yet, I've been doing this for several years. This writing practice is my first step toward getting back to alignment.

What are some things I might write about? That's a good question. And, it makes sense to start to start building that list. A list I can add to and pull up at a moment's notice when it's time to write. I think I'll wrap up this first note here, happily having committed to words my desire my plan of action, and then get started on that list for the remainder of my 30 minutes.

A Little Run In The Sea Of Grass

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Sun, 07 Jun 2020 15:32:00 +0000

We met in a little dirt, dark parking lot that sat on the line between the mass of humanity that is South Florida to the east and miles and miles of endless swampy Everglades wilderness to the west. It was clear immediately. The special combination of heat and humidity so unique to South Florida had arrived overnight for the first time this year. The thermometer on my dash read 80 degrees, at 4AM. The air was so thick with water you could see it floating by in the one street light down the road offering us a touch of visibility. Today was going to be tough.

The FKT4Heroes 100K Loxahatchee Loop

Katie Dodge, Marco Hilty and I were taking on a 100K loop around the Arthur Marshall Loxahatchee Wildlife Preserve in Palm Beach County, Florida. We don’t have many official FKTs in Florida, just a smattering here and there. But this loop felt like just the kind of thing to put on the map. Almost exactly 100K in one giant circle. Mostly desolate. Very few opportunities for water. Total, 100% sun exposure if you aren’t lucky enough to get clouds. Crushed gravel and absolutely flat. I wasn’t aware of anyone that had run the full loop, though bikers do take it one with a bit of regularity and I’m certain some intrepid souls have done it on foot before. The idea was not our own. Two running friends had talked about it for some time, but had not had occasion to take it on. The coronavirus life slow-down offered the opportunity. So I began planning, the team to run came together, volunteers to support us materialized like magic (this run doesn’t happen without the incredible help from Kristy Rini Breslaw, Ralph Breslaw and Helena Radshaw), tricky sections of the course were rece’d, the decision was made to try to raise a few bucks for local businesses who would then contribute goods to COVID frontline workers, and the day arrived.

The loop included almost no access to water, though we’d be near Everglades canals for nearly every step. Brackish water filled with alligators and water moccasins does not make for ideal running fluid. There were a couple places that a car could access, and Ralph was to make the trek to those few spots to save us from our empty water bottles and empty bellies. Kristy and Helena were to spend the day on their bikes, providing water in some of the more desolate sections of the loop.

Wildlife would be abundant, yet was unlikely to be spotted. The Everglades is teeming with flora and fauna. Most of it is very shy. Alligators were a given. Snakes were likely. Bobcats a possibility. Panthers are out there, but nearly invisible. Bugs. Birds. Deer. And most dreaded, horse flies that love to bite and couldn’t care less about bug spray.

The Run Begins

Back in that dark, damp, dirt covered parking lot; we met and got ready to start. We targeted a 4AM start time to get miles in before the sun got on us. The entire week, the forecast had called for an overcast day with meaningful chances of rain and thunderstorms. The day before the start, that all changed. Little cloud cover, no rain and the hottest day of the year so far. And it was clearly that. Within 10 minutes of starting, we were drenched as if having run through a shower and our shoes squeaked and squealed with wetness.

Off into the darkness we trotted, nothing but the spot of our headlamps on the dirt trail in front of us. Here and there, the eyes of an alligator or some other animal would light up on the canals to our left and right. A few stars. No moonlight. Little else could be seen. But all along, we could hear animals rustling in the reeds, alligators grunting feet away, frogs croaking their disapproval of our presence. We didn’t belong, and they let us know.

As the first couple hours passed, Kristy and Helena passed us on their bikes. A quick check in with us to make sure we were good, and they were on their way to the first meeting point at about mile 13. Behind them, the first licks of sunlight began to rise in the east. An Everglades sunrise is unique and absolutely remarkable. The humidity does something to the light. It’s just...different.

The miles passed slowly and easily. We ran at a very gentle pace, with regular walk breaks. For Katie, this would be a new distance PR. For Marco, a match of his longest run. I had run longer on several occasions, but had recently fallen into a cycle of DNF’ing many of my long efforts especially in heat. We took it very easy. We drank heavily. Sweat dripped endlessly.

As the sun rose, the humidity began to break just a bit. For about an hour, we’d get to run with a bit of relief from the weather. But the relief brought with it the horse flies. Fortunately, only about 30 minutes of horse fly bites had to be endured, then they disappeared for the rest of the day.

Our First Turn, Our First Aid

We arrived at the first opportunity for aid with Kristy and Helena waiting water and other drinks in hand. We were also greeted by race photographer extraordinaire Chris Thompson who would end up taking some wonderful shots throughout the day. Thank you to Chris! Most photos are of courtesy of Chris.

After we restocked on supplies, we headed back out into the wilderness. This was the first real turn on the course, sending us north after heading mostly west to begin. Kristy and Helena were riding ahead to the first tricky section in seven miles where we would have to head around one of the water management dams and a variety of trail directions.

North we plodded on what would be the least interesting part of the trail. Less a trail and more a dirt road recessed a bit below the water lines, which were held behind some berms to our right. To our left, farmland and an access road to the dam we had just left. This would continue through to the point were we met Kristy and Helena and then beyond.

At some point, we encountered our first true challenge of the day. Someone noticed a stream of water leaking out of Marco’s pack. His brand new water bladder had formed a leak and he was losing water quickly. My handy-dandy Trail Toes blister kit included some bits of tape that we used to close up the hole as best we could. It wouldn’t be watertight, but it slowed the leak. And Marco was able to pinch it off further by placing the bladder upside down. Disaster averted, we continued on.

On the occasion that we saw the Everglades water, we got our first glimpse of the thousands of gators that had been surrounding us all along. They were visible in nearly every body of water. Sometimes just eyes and the tip of a snout. Other times, the full length of their spiny bodies moving slowly and effortlessly through the water. Always, they were aware of us and when we approached, they’d submerge slowly like a submarine in a war movie disappearing into the depths of the swamp. How many were actually out there just below the surface, who’s to say?

On one occasion, we passed a small pond just to our left. I noticed a little baby gator, no more than 18 inches long. We stopped and saw that there were dozens of tiny baby alligators swimming in this small pond. Then, with clarity of mind, Katie suggested that perhaps the mother gator was lurking nearby and might be less than happy with us so close to these little ones. We continued on quickly.

The day was heating up. We praised glory when a small cloud would cover the sun. We lamented the beating of the rays when the cloud would move on to save some bikers up ahead instead of us. We drank way more fluids than had been anticipated.

The Boat Ramp

After some time, we arrived at the boat ramp stop. This was nearly the midpoint of the loop and our first opportunity to really resupply from stuff we had left with Ralph the day before. We took a nice, long break here to fully refuel and repack. Ice bandanas were loaded with as much ice as they could hold. Food was slammed down. Shoes were changed (though I didn’t touch my feet because they were feeling wonderful.) Marco’s wife arrived with a new bladder for his pack. A few minutes to just sit in the shade and prepare for more heat.

Then we were off again, now heading west on the prettiest portion of the course. Large bodies of water on either side of us with fish jumping and dozens of gators constantly visible. Birds everywhere. A wonderful seven mile jaunt west. I was feeling so good and strong, though I noted that I really wasn’t eating enough. But my legs, they had just warmed up at this point. Things were going great.

After this seven mile run to the west, we turned north and back toward home down Flying Cow Road in Wellington. This would be the one portion of the day off the trails and on road. There is a trail that completes the loop, but there is frustratingly a fence across the trail with no way around it! One can access the trail up that that fence from either side, making it rather useless. But it did force us onto the road for about seven miles. That said, the asphalt offered a nice change of pace, more efficient than the dirt trail.

Somewhere along the previous seven west miles, my major meal of the day had burst open in my pack and run down my back. It was a light brown, baby diarrhea colored thing (actually a Spring Wolf Pack) and Marco asked if I had poo’d my pants. For the remainder of the run, I’d be known as “Poopy Pants”, perhaps my new trail name. It never dawned on me that now I had also missed out on the 400 calories I had planned to eat in that meal.

In the middle of the road stretch at the Wellington Environmental Park, we connected with Kristy, Helena and Ralph again. This was another opportunity to refill, access to a bathroom, even a water hose to spray off with (though the water was too warm to offer much relief.) It would be 13 miles from here until we saw them again.

The road became a dirt road. The dust from passing cars a challenge. Finally, the dirt road led to access back onto the levee system and our old familiar trail at about mile 42. Around this same time, I realized I hadn’t been eating or drinking. For how long, I couldn’t tell you. But my bottles were mostly full, one of my largest calorie sources was smothered across my back side, and my pockets were still too heavy with other food. Katie also began to suffer, needing to walk slower on the walking portions due to discomfort, but running strong on the running sections.

Finally, realizing I was holding Marco and Katie back, I told them I was going to walk for a bit longer to try to cool down and get in some more water. Then my old heat nemesis became apparent. I hadn’t been eating or drinking because I hadn’t been processing what was already in my stomach. My belly was bloated and distended and I was full of stuff just sitting there. Marco and Katie would pull ahead, then I’d reel them back in. Back and forth for a few miles. Finally, I was reduced to just a walk while they continued their steady progress. I knew I didn’t want to hold them up. I decided I would walk to the next opportunity for aid, about 4 miles away, and see if they were still there and see if the slower pace allowed me to process food and water.

A quick side note: I’ve never figured out heat and nutrition. Literally, 100% of my long efforts in heat have ended up with my stomach shutting down. In a 50K, I can force my way through to the end. Longer than that, the hydration and calorie deficit has led to a hole I can’t dig out of. I may simply not be built for Florida running.

Back to the loop, I could continually see Marco and Katie ahead. They slowly crept away, but occasionally would drift back toward me. But it was clear. I was not improving and would be a weight holding them back from finishing. Could I walk it in? Probably, but I wasn’t even sure of that. I hadn’t had any meaningful food or drink in a couple hours and the day had just gotten hotter and hotter. The only decision I had to make was whether to tell Katie and Marco I’d be dropping or to not tell them so that the decision did not weigh on them. Kristy showed up on her bike and slowly pedaled back with me to the final aid stop at about mile 50. My day was done. My DNF habit further reinforced.

Bednars and Beyond

While my run was ending, the day and the FKT attempt was not yet finished! I arrived at Bednars to find Marco and Katie still there resting and waiting for me. I shared that I was done, but that I was so excited for them to make this thing happen. It will be up to one of them to share the story of those final 12 miles.

However, I have some final thoughts to share on this loop and attempt. First, while disappointed that I couldn’t accompany them, it was the right decision and I am truly happy that Katie and Marco toughed out an extreme day to finish this loop and to hopefully put the FKT on the map officially! Katie was clearly in real agony when she left Bednars, yet she continued on without a second thought and without much complaint. Marco was devoid of really any complaint the entire day, just a stoic athlete moving forward through it all. Second, we raised more money than a thought we would, and I’m so happy to help our great local Fleet Feet DelrayBeach running store and the frontline workers they’ll be able to give shoes to.

Katie and Marco did push through to the finish in 14 hours, 5 minutes and 18 seconds. The FKT has been ratified making thisthing official! Marco cursed me out (a little) at the end for the idea. Katie sat miserably and quietly in the trunk of her car after finishing. I have a feeling they’re both feeling a significant sense of accomplishment today, several days later.

The last 12 miles, from Katie’s perspective

Going into the last 12 mile stretch felt automatic. There's something magical that happens to most ultra runners, once you surpass the 26.2 mark for the first time, your mental capacity shifts somehow and 10 miles don't feel long, 20 miles don't feel long and even when things do start feeling long they just go by fast and you are not feeling as miserable getting to the next milestone on any given run. This was definitely the case for me.

Having Marco to run with was nice, as we kept coming up with different strategies to just get to the next mile. First, Marco had the idea to jog for as long as we could until too uncomfortable/hot. That got us about 2 and 1/2 miles in. At that point, we were entering the 50s. I looked back and couldn't believe where the miles went.

Then, we went back to our go-to strategy of walking every half mile. In my head, I tried to do four rounds of run/walk before stopping to stretch my screaming hips and calves. Each half mile took forever, and yet I was always surprised when a few miles went by.

With about maybe 4 miles left, I was stretching every mile. The heat did not bother me, but this run was a good reminder that I needed more time on my feet. Muscle fatigue/tightness was my limiting factor throughout the day.

When we hit the last three mile stretch of paved trail, we decided to run faster just to mix up the feeling in our legs. We ran a strong mile at 10 minute pace, when our cyclist friend Rick joined us to push us home. After some walking and another stretch break, it was time for one more push. Marco kept reminding me that everyone was waiting for us! So we started the last mile push back to the finishing point.

It was so cool having more people involved throughout the day than originally planned. It helped keep us accountable and prepared for each section of the trail. Additionally, it was the major factor in getting me past my "comfortable" ultra range of 30 to 40 miles.

Photo courtesy of Rick Slifkin

Unless noted otherwise, photos courtesy of Chris Thompson and Chris Thompson Visuals

#runninglifelessons: Complicating The Simple

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Thu, 22 Aug 2019 20:51:00 +0000

I do it all the time. Oh man, do I do this all the time. Take something simple and make it really complicated. This is something so easy to do when running, when racing, when training. It's also an easy trap to fall into all over life.

This connected again recently when I began to think about my training plan for the Jacksonville Marathon early next year. First, I wrote out a general plan by hand on a single sheet of paper. It was simple. The date of the race. The date I wanted to start a training plan. Some goals. A basic weekly training pattern. A few shoes I wanted to consider for race day. And a couple shorter training races. That's it. Nice and simple.

And then came step two, the beginning of complicating. I had laid out that I wanted to run two weekly workouts, or runs with a specific purpose at race pace or faster. But which coaching philosophy should I use for those workouts? Daniels, Tinman, Lydiard, and on and on and on...

And how would I determine my target paces for those workouts and for the Sunday long run? Use my last race finish? Or use a VDOT table? Or an online calculator? And on and on and on...

And then came the Google Sheets training spreadsheet. Every run or two for every day for every week for the next 18 weeks. Each run with a target pace, with the exact number of intervals, with the feel for the workout, with the rest between each interval. Every tempo run with an exact distance, a target pace. 126 days, about 160 runs, laid out as if to program a machine. And on and on and on...

And I was just getting ready to start thinking about race nutrition options to consider (Gatorade, Maurten, Sword, nutella bacon sandwiches?), when...BOOM, it hit me that I was falling deeply into the complexity trap when all I really needed was that darn first sheet I had written down at the very beginning! That first sheet had everything I needed 20 weeks away. And it had just about everything I needed to develop my daily running plan on that day in the moment.

I'm really prone to this complicating trap in running, but also in other life matters. Thinking about buying something kind of expensive? I know what I want, but I better list out options and prices and potential discounts in a spreadsheet. I need to nail down every detail even though I know only a few items will really matter in a purchasing decision. Unnecessary complexity.

Preparing for a trip? Oh lordy...things are really going to go overboard. Checklists, overpacking, double and triple checking the overpacking. Realizing I'm mispacked, unpacking and doing the entire thing again. Unnecessary complexity.

Heck, even writing in this here blog. I want to storyboard longer pieces and mix and scramble things. I want to edit once and twice and three times. (Actually, I hate editing, but feel like I should do that.) I want to scour Unsplash and add dozens of perfect photos to even a 100 word entry. And I've done these things in the past. Unnecessary complexity. Really, I just need to sit down, bang out a few words, maybe read it over once (I mean, who's really reading anyway), and push the "Publish" button. Simple.

Complicating the simple seems to be a hobby of mine. In running, it seems to be a hobby of a whole lot of people. Running, like so many things, is actually really simple. One foot in front of the other over and over and over again.

Deep and Utter Disappointment

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Sun, 18 Aug 2019 19:49:00 +0000

Yesterday and today I ran for the first time since Never Summer 100K. Three weeks without a step run. Three weeks intended to heal some lingering injuries. Three weeks designed to improve my health.

I have been dealing with an injury issue that I can't resolve. It first cropped up in the summer of 2017 and has stuck around since then. First, a pinch in the left hip that then spread to the lower abdomen and groin. I've seen my primary care physician and an orthopedic sports medicine specialist and a physical therapist and a chiropractor. I've had X-rays and MRIs and injections and range of motion tests. The issue has been impossible to nail down. A torn hip labrum. An adductor strain. A psoas strain. Severe inflammation.

It has been extremely frustrating. The issue doesn't prevent me from running. I've raced two marathons, run a third for fun, race two 50Ks and Never Summer all with the injury present. I've run around 7000 training miles. I can run. And usually I can do exactly what I set out to do. But sometimes the injury really fires up and I can't run intervals the way I'd planned to. Or I have to stop several times during a long run because the pain manifests as pressure similar to the urge to poop. Or I can't walk up a set of stairs the next morning due to hip soreness. But mostly I can run, so I just continue running.

These three weeks without running were intended to really give whatever this unidentified injury is a good solid rest. If it truly was just a matter of sever inflammation, three weeks should largely help resolve that. Psoas or groin strains should feel a lot better. Three weeks is quite a bit of rest. I should feel meaningful improvement in the injury, at least for a while until the miles pile up again.

So, yesterday I headed out for my first run with high hopes. Not high hopes that it would be a good run. There was no chance after three weeks of no activity other than some yoga every other day (really tough stuff for me, but not aerobic running fitness) that the run was going to feel good. And it was a ragged mess, struggling to make it through a bit more than five miles. No surprise. But there was a surprise. My groin was tight. My abdomen became aggravated immediately. My hips unhappy. I wrote it off to first-day-back gunk and moved on.

Today I went out to run longer. Still a bit of a mess. My legs screamed at me by five miles in. Evidently, the yoga's really been doing a number on my quads (perhaps an answer to my "how to prepare quads for downhill running question!") But the groin, abdomen and hips were also super unhappy. I was immediately right were I had been a month ago. It's like I'd not taken a single day off. No improvement, none.

I was met with deep and utter disappointment. How could three weeks of total rest not improve this at all? How could I immediately be back in the same place I was before? It doesn't make sense. Just as nothing about this injury has made sense.

So I'll continue to blunder through. Mostly able to run what I want to run. Mostly able to train the way I hope to train. And next time I think about taking time off, I may simple ignore the impulse because, why?

#runninglifelessons: Practice Over Mastery

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Thu, 15 Aug 2019 09:39:00 +0000

I think I'll call these little life lessons learned while running Running Life Lessons. Even better, #runninglifelessons for a bit of cheesy hashtag absurdity. Very creative stuff, I know.

This week's anecdote is something that's struck me over and over in life, and a lesson I fail to really grab on to. It just slips away and getting through takes over. It's particularly evident in running, but just as true everywhere else, I think.

Practice Over Mastery (And Over Surviving)

I recently sat down to start writing out a training plan for the Jacksonville Marathon. Jacksonville is going to be my next (and hopefully last) attempt to run a marathon in under 3 hours. 3 hours will be fast for me, fast for many people, and completely and entirely pedestrian relative to the true fast people...a topic for another time.

Anyway, as I began to write the plan out, it struck me that this plan really wasn't all that different than my last race plan nor the one before or any other. It was made up of the same pieces basically put together in the same order. Run six days a week, maybe some doubles, a total of about nine training bouts per week. One of those runs is hard and fast intervals, often at a track. Another is run at a tempo around my target race pace or a bit faster. One is a long 35KM run. Everything else is just some jogging around with some strides here or there, maybe a few hills sprints. But just running.

It's the same structure I used for my first marathon, for the Boston marathon, for the Georgia Death Race, for Never Summer. Little things were tweaked here or there, maybe some extra hill work or stairs, but really the same thing.

It's practice. Every day, every week, every month; practicing the same things. Practicing pace, practicing being comfortable with discomfort, practicing the discipline of lacing up the shoes and walking out there door each day. There's no mastery involved. There's no "Hey, I've figured this out!" moment. Just more and more practice to hopefully be a bit better than yesterday.

And I think that's true everywhere. I know there's no mastering my profession. I know this, yet have a habit of pursuing and hoping for mastery, or worse, thinking I've kind of attained it. I haven't, not by a long shot. Instead, each work day should be viewed as another day to practice that profession, to get just a bit better than previously. Each day should include a deliberate goal to improve something, not just to show up and do the job, not just to make it through another day, not to determine I've figured it all out and now get to coast along happily meandering toward retirement.

And it's true personally. Instead of surviving everything that life throws my way, but actually trying to get a bit better at life each day.

And it's small, micro-improvements. In running, you don't even notice them. Today's run feels a lot like yesterday's run which feels not all that different than the run three months ago. Then, one day you just try running a bit faster than you did before or a bit farther or something a bit more challenging (12,000 feet high in the mountains, perhaps!), and you can do it and it's not too bad and you have improved and the practice has paid off. Professionally, you don't even have a race or a pace to test yourself. You just notice one day that ideas flow more easily or you communicate a bit more clearly or dots connect that didn't used to. In life, I don't think there's any benchmark at all, just faith that a little improvement is a good thing.

Screw mastery. Just keep practicing, in whatever it is you're doing. The challenge for me is remembering this lesson and then practicing practicing. I'll keep practicing.

JAX Marathon Training Plan

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Sun, 11 Aug 2019 18:48:00 +0000

What the heck. I'm using this space again anyway. Might as well just put all my running and fitness thoughts here, as meaningless as they are to anyone else and as self-absorbed as they may seem. At least it will help me rebuild the habit of regular writing even if trite and low value stuff.

Prior to Never Summer, I had decided to take the month of August off of running entirely. I hadn't taken a serious pause in a couple years at least and have had some lingering mini-injuries. A month off certainly wouldn't hurt things. I've been faithful to that commitment so far and haven't run a mile since Never Summer. But I'm getting the itch to get moving again, and the yoga I've been using to do something just doesn't serve the same need for discipline daily running does.

So yesterday I decided to start working on a training plan for the Jacksonville Marathon, my next (and final) attempt to run a marathon in under 3 hours. I know, both not a truly fast marathon time and also quite fast for the vast majority of runners. Always a funny place to be in.

The training plan begins to develop:

Eek! That's a lot of expensive shoes to try!

This didn't scratch the running itch. I won't make it through August. But it did help me not run today and firm a commitment to stay off the road until next Saturday. 6 additional days is a heck of a lot better than 0.

Running Is Life

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Thu, 08 Aug 2019 12:12:00 +0000

What an aggrandizing, over-zealous title. But there's truth to that title in a small way.

For some time, I've realized that in every running race there are these small moments that are microcosms of big life themes. Lessons learned in only minutes that could take years to understand in the broad context of a life. For some time, I've thought about writing about them. But it's always felt like self-puffery, like an excuse to tell you about my latest running exploit, like a way to brag just a bit more. And perhaps there's some truth to that.

Despite that, I'm going to try writing about some of these moments anyway. For one, I've missed writing and really want to begin again. For another, I want to put these moments to words to help my own learning of the lesson taught. And finally, just maybe someone else will get something out of it other than "man, this guy likes to talk about himself."

Some of these will be small, little, almost nothings. Others will hit on really big themes. Some will even appear as trite banalities such is "like life, running is about a journey and not just reaching a goal" although I'll do my best to minimize those.

So I invite you to join along as I share one thing learned while out running and racing that applies broadly to life. I'll try to do this weekly for as long as the ideas strike me. I'd love to hear your feedback, if something really resonates or if you think I'm way off base. And I'll begin with a short vignette from the Never Summer 100k ultramarathon this week.

Lesson: They're Just Regular People

This thought has been swirling in my mind for some time, but it really connected with me as I climbed up the steep incline to the summit of North Diamond Peak at the Never Summer 100k race. The idea is a simple one, but a bit shocking, as well.

Growing up, I'd flip through National Geographic magazine and read other stuff describing explorers of the world, of wilderness, of exotic locations. People trekking to the north pole, climbing Everest, diving to the bottom of the ocean. We would occasionally drive to Switzerland for family vacations, and there would always be a TV channel in the hotel playing video of a mountaineering expedition climbing some alpine ridge to summit a mountain. These were fascinating stories of exploration and adventure to me.

In my mind, the people that did these things became superhumans with born abilities that the rest of us did not have and could not cultivate. They were other and better than the rest of us. They could do things the rest of us could only dream of doing. They were unique and special.

Thunderheads loom above as we climb high up Diamond Peak

As I climbed North Diamond Peak with a line of other racers, it really struck home with me how wrong that thinking had been. Here I was, just a regular guy in a line of regular people, after just over four years of meaningful running training; climbing an incredibly steep mountain summit with a thunderstorm only inches over our heads to then run several miles along an exposed alpine ridge. And this was just a short piece of the entire race for that day!
There's absolutely nothing superhuman about me, no unique born abilities that others don't have, nothing special. As I looked around at the others climbing with me, I suspected many of them would say the same about themselves. Sure, some people may have been born with a bit more natural talent at running and hiking and climbing, some were bigger and others smaller, some stronger and more muscular and others skinnier and more lithe, but everyone was pretty much a "regular" person and certainly not a superhuman.

As my racing adventures have become more adventuresome, from early local races to now full-blown high elevation mountain ultramarathons, this idea that most of these people aren't superhuman has been percolating. Of course, there are some outliers at the very top of any sport who have extraordinary abilities, but I bet even those people are more regular than not. There is nothing special about me, except I did some training and signed up! It's both a liberating thought and a frightening one.

The question out of the lesson then is, what other things have I decided I could not do simply because I had the belief that those things were reserved for superhumans? Maybe something professionally? Perhaps another athletic endeavor? Maybe something in day to day life? What have I passed up that I really should try taking on? I almost think it's exactly those things that I've attributed to "only for superhumans" that are exactly what my heart desires to pursue, but fears to do so.

What about you?

2019 Never Summer 100k - A Tale Of Two Races

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Thu, 01 Aug 2019 01:54:00 +0000

I wasn't going to write this race report. I really wasn't. I had decided my race report writing was self-indulgent blathering about materially selfish endeavors. Then I had another runner ask for a write up. Shortly thereafter, I listened to a podcast where the guest discussed the privilege of being able to visit these places, and the importance of sharing about these places so few of us ever get to experience. In this person's mind, it would be selfish to not share with those who do not or cannot visit. Serendipity. So, now I've written a self-indulgent bit of blathering about my materially selfish endeavor.

I recently completed the Never Summer 100K in Gould, CO. It's a newer race in the remote wilderness of the northern Colorado Front Range. At the pre-race dinner the night before the start, even Coloradans discussed how few of them knew about these mountains before they ran Never Summer. And almost everyone I met had run in a previous year and said the same thing...they had to come back because of who beautiful and special the course was.

The course trail features just about everything one could imagine in a mountain ultra: single track through thick forest, snow fields, alpine ridges (WOW! I need more of these!), alpine lakes, boulder fields, endless creek crossings, mud (and mud and mud and some deeper mud), inclines of what felt like 89 degrees climbed on all fours (probably about 40 degrees), declines equally steep, portions of trail where there was no trail at all, a bit of road, some jeep trails. Oh, and some serious elevation for a lowlander, five crossings well above 11,000 feet. Everything.

Pre-Race

The logistics for this race are phenomenal. It's in true wilderness. No hotels anywhere nearby. All available accommodations something short of rustic. Camping is really it. Camping in a tent, a camper, a car or a cabin. Running water...well, there's snow melt flowing in the nearby creeks. But the logistics are phenomenal. The race allows you to book a car camping site at the start line right on Ultrasignup. The drive from Denver International Airport to the Gould Community Center is gorgeous. The race hosted a potluck dinner the night before, a dinner after finishing the race, and a breakfast the morning after the race. We had no food to plan other than a dish to pass at the potluck and a pre-race breakfast. Remote wilderness, but so easy.

I had traveled to this race with one of my training partners, Eddy. Eddy's a hell of an ultramarathon runner, much faster than me. It was also his first mountain ultra. And it was my first high elevation ultra. Georgia Death Race had more elevation to climb and descend, but never crossed 6,000 feet. Neither of us had any idea what to expect from the Never Summer course and elevation. Would we be able to climb? Would we even be able to breath?

Race Number One

Race morning was a bit chaotic. Eddy and I woke up around 4AM, nearly a half hour before our alarms. We had both had the same thought, being so close to the starting line should make getting ready a breeze. We barely made it there. I forgot to brush my teeth. Eddy just made it to the start out of the port-a-potty. A poorly executed start.

It was cold, but not overly cold. A long-sleeve shirt was enough to stay relatively warm in the mass of people at the start line. The sun rose as we waited for the race to head out. The racers were the fittest looking bunch I've seen at an ultra. Before I knew it, we were off.

The first two miles ran along a wide, gravel path with a very gentle incline. It was a great, easy warm up and the pack stayed close together. Late in the second mile, we turned up our first climb of the day, to the top of 7 Utes Mountain. And it was the climb you can't practice in South Florda or really anywhere on the east coast. 3 miles upward, climbing every step, each quarter mile a bit steeper than the last. And a theme for the day would develop. About half way up, we stopped to remove a layer of clothing as we really heated up from the climbing. The view during that stop gave us our first glimpse of the endless mountain vistas we'd experience all day.

Climbing 7 Utes

Layer stripped, and it was time to start climbing again. The trail was still relatively wide, not a congested conga line up a narrow trail like the beginning of Georgia Death Race. It was hard work, but very comfortable. Near the top of 7 Utes, we encountered snow for the first time. SNOW! I had hoped all along we would have a little snow to really give us that mountain feeling. Then we were above the tree line and on to the 7 Utes summit at 11,478 feet.

7 Utes Summit

And the wind was cold, very cold, above the tree line with no protection. I had left my long sleeve shirt on and felt quite comfortable. Eddy had dropped to a singlet and was clearly a touch uncomfortable. We took a few moments to absorb the beauty of where we were. It was truly incredible. In every direction, rolling hills and craggy peaks and snow covered blocks of granite.

After a few quick photos - I had promised myself to make time for photos while being in this incredible space - we got moving again to not get too cold. And we were off for our first big descent of the day down the other side of 7 Utes. It was steep and frightening and went on and on. These descents are what I feared most. I have yet to find a way to train for these quad crushing downhills in flat Florida. Sure, a treadmill on decline gives some of that stimulus, but it's nothing like a 30 degree decline with rocks and roots and trees to avoid, fear of tripping and face-planting forcing me to put the brakes on. I had no problem climbing up with the locals, a fact all day long. But the downhills were another matter as runner after runner would pass by easily gliding down the descents.

Descending 7 Utes - Absolutely Beautiful Views While Crushing Quads

Off 7 Utes, we had our first relatively mild section of running. Small rollers and a climb or two around the mountainsides with views of the Crags eventually brought us to our first alpine lake, Lake Agnes. During this section of running, Eddy and I agreed we had been working a bit harder than we had hoped and decided to back off a bit. I had come into the race wanting to enjoy the day so long as I finished under 23 hours, the time required for a Western States lottery ticket. We were way under that pace and could tell we'd been putting in quite a bit of effort.

As we dropped down to Lake Agnes, another theme developed...spectators. I had never been at an ultra with an actual number of spectators. But here they were. Dozens of people who were camping around Lake Agnes or had hiked up to find us, cowbell ringing and encouragement and cheering echoing throughout the valley. How very cool. Incredible mountain views and heavy encouragement ringing from every direction. And then the lake came into view...

Lake Agnes - Incredible to think this sits at 10,500 feet

We continued around Lake Agnes for a bit and onto our first scree trail of the day followed by our first snow crossing. I had been looking forward to a snow crossing, but was surprised to find this one on a steep downhill. The two runners in front of me slid down it on their shoes just as if they were wearing skies. I decided to try the same, certain I'd end up on my rump in a moment. To my surprise, I safely found myself at the far end of the snow still on my feet. Off the snow, we headed onto a jeep trail and eventually into the Michigan Ditch aid station.

Heading toward Cameron Pass

I grazed and refilled bottles with VFuel at the aid station waiting for Eddy to arrive, who had fallen a bit back somewhere along the way. Eddy took just a few moments to eat some food, then we were on our way into our second big climb of the day. A roughly 1,500 foot climb brought us into high elevation again at around 11,300 feet.

Then we headed down into our first really significant descent of nearly 3,000 feet and a few miles into Cameron Pass and the Diamond aid station at mile 17.2. Diamond aid station is an important stop, the final aid station before the climb to the high point of the race, North Diamond Peak. Eddy and I took some time here. I gorged on salted avocado quarters and bacon which I would seek out all day, plus some gummi bears and other sugary goodness. We both cleared our shoes of dirt that had accumulated from several small creek crossings. Eddy dug through a drop bag to determine if he had anything he wanted to carry along. Then we headed out knowing what lay ahead was going to be a real doozy, and the most beautiful part of the entire course.

We started out along a bit of dirt road, then spent a short while running down Highway 14 before heading into a broad trail that went up and up and up. During this climb, it was my turn to stop and change out of a layer of clothing due to overheating. Of course, I knew the likelihood was that the wind above treeline might again be cold, but the day had gotten warm. After a couple miles of climbing on this broad trail, we turned onto a narrow bit of single track through dense trees that appeared to go straight up. Every step was a fight and the trail became steeper and steeper, eventually demanding that we zig zag left and right while going uphill to create our own switchbacks. And, through the trees, we could see people appearing no larger than ants way up on an exposed ridge line above to the North Diamond Peak summit, the high point of the race.

My attempt to capture the steepness of this climb

The barely-there trail continued up and out of the tree line. Unbelievably, as we came out of the trees, the trail seemed to disappear entirely and became even steeper! The summit was now visible, but looked a mile away. Step after step, we fought up the steep incline, Eddy dropping to all fours and me leaning heavily on my trekking poles. All around us, other racers fought and huffed and swore as they willed their legs up another step. Slowly, but steadily, the summit got closer. A quick break on a rock outcropping for some nutrition and photos before the final ascent was called for. The scenery was a thing out of this world

Just leaving the tree line

Nutrition up high

Crags and peaks everywhere

Finally, we headed for the summit. We could now see the expressions on the faces of those who had reached the top. The wind was sharp and cold, but the difficult climbing kept us plenty warm. And then, less than 15 feet from the summit, the booming crack of thunder rocked the entire mountain range. The cloud cover hung just feet above the summit which was just feet above our heads. We continued up only to be met by a mountain rescue ranger running off the summit telling us to side hill the summit for our safety. More thunder rumbled and rolled as we worked our way around the summit. I'm certain summiting would have been much easier and quicker than this side shuffle along the edge of an extremely steep mountaintop. But the thunder was more than a touch frightening and we had no desire to defy very forceful orders from the rescue people. We did not get to summit the high point of the entire course at 11,826 feet, but taking on a thunder storm on an exposed ridge line at high elevation seems to make up for those 15 missed feet as far as experiences go.

Having worked our way around North Diamond Peak summit, we encountered a massive alpine ridge line. For what seemed to be miles in front of us lay a completely exposed set of peaks and saddles. And along the entire ridge were runners fading off into the distance. We'd be descending and climbing 3 or 4 of these peaks before we next got to drop out of this high elevation. And the thunder kept cracking the entire way, although the darkest clouds seemed to fall behind us after a bit.

The Ridge Line!

On this ridge line, I also realized that I had cell phone connection. I had been trying to text my wife a Happy Anniversary message all morning, but the message would not send despite some moments of apparent signal. I tried something new up here, a quick FaceTime call. Lo and behold, I was suddenly face to face with my wife and son while hiking across an alpine ridge line at 11,500 feet in utter remote wilderness! A few moments for anniversary wishes, a few more to show my son and daughter the scenery and I was back focused on the task at hand, but with the weight removed of not having been able to reach my wife on our anniversary.

The first of dozens of creek crossings

After this alpine ridge line, we headed off the Never Summer mountains stopping briefly at the Montgomery aid station for more avocado and bacon and then down to 9,500 feet. As we headed back into the tree line, it began to rain. Just a drizzle for now and nicely cooling, as the day was warmer at lower elevation. Then the rain became a bit harder. Finally, the rain turned to sleet and hail and was absolutely freezing. Eddy and I took off. We ran (relatively) hard to stay warm. We kept moving as hard as we could because this rain was cold! For what felt like hours, the freezing rain and hail pelted us. We encountered our first really significant creek crossing with no way to avoid getting knee deep in fresh snow melt water. We were cold. We knew we were cold, but were moving well enough and creating enough heat to cope with it. And then we arrived at the Ruby Jewel aid station at mail 29.4

The aid station was a scene of carnage. Runners were freezing and not certain how to cope all over the place. Runners in emergency blankets. Runners borrowing clothing from aid station workers. Runners grabbing trash bags or anything else they could find to create makeshift clothing. Runners dropping out, 25 total at this aid station alone, I believe. The volunteers were awesome (true at every aid station), tending to runners, offering hot broth (a life saver!), doing whatever they could to keep runners safe and moving, identifying those who seemed to be in particular trouble and making a challenging situation bearable.

The moment I stopped, I began severely shivering. The long shirt I had removed earlier was soaked, so I quickly put on my thin Salomon jacket instead. Then my gloves, but these were also soaked and only made my hands colder. The jacked helped, but not enough. Fortunately, I had purchased a Rab Xenon X jacket just before the race fearful that it might get very cold at night and had stuffed it in my pack, despite being a bit bulky. It was a lifesaver. I immediately warmed and was able to eat and drink and think straight.

The race directors warned that the upcoming ten miles were some of the most challenging on the course. Particularly remote and rugged trail with a significant climb and no aid for over 10 miles. Eddy and I knew we needed to spend extra time refueling and filling up with liquids here at Ruby Jewel. Eddy had also put on a coat and gloves, and we were fortunate to be warm enough to do what needed to be done at this aid station.

After a good 15 minutes, we headed back out onto the trail. The rain stopped shortly after we left and I was too warm only a few minutes later. And the coat was back off and into the pack. We both hoped for no more rain.

These next 10 miles may have been the most beautiful on the entire course. Single track trail, creek crossings, water falls, valleys with high ridges. The course worked it's way up slowly to our final true high elevation climb, but the steep and aggressive climbs were behind us. We slowly wended our way around various mountainsides consistently gaining elevation. The rain had stopped and the sun shone from time to time. The air was comfortably warm as we met new runners and crossed paths with some we had met earlier. Neither Eddy nor I was in a rush, always resettling on taking it easy.

Kelly Lake Trail

For about four miles we continued up this green lush valley until the entire mountain opened up as we reached the high point of this climb, again well over 11,000 feet. On each side of this open valley were towering peaks and in front and behind us, granite massifs as far as the eye could see. I continued to climb strong, often passing many runners. Par for the course, on short downhill sections I would immediately be passed by those runners again.

A short break on the Kelly Lake trail climb

Eventually, we found ourselves approaching the largest snow field we'd encountered the entire day. We could see runners ahead slowly crossing this snow field, at least the size of a couple football fields. And then, beyond that snow field, Kelly Lake. We had passed several alpine lakes throughout the day, but Kelly Lake was something different. The other lakes were not at nearly this elevation, not above the tree line, not around snow. But here sat Kelly Lake, over two miles in the sky, stretching before us, craggy and rugged mountain peaks on all sides. Just stunning.

We worked our way across the snow field, and discovered that we next had to cross a boulder field for about 100 yards. This might have been fun on another day, without 35 miles and 10,000 feet of climbing in our legs. But on this day, it was a bit torturous, every boulder feeling unstable and legs even more unstable. Slowly we worked across these boulders only to discover other runners 30 yards lower on the boulder field moving very easily. We had missed the easy line and made the job much harder than necessary. Then, as we approached the finish, the first drops of rain began to fall and the sky darkened quickly.

Eddy and I were both concerned. Now we were very high, the wind was very cold, and another rain storm built. This time we were smarter. We quickly stopped and put warmer clothing on and begin moving down the mountain as quickly as we could. The rain picked up as we dropped below the tree line and back into a forest. It poured, a freezing rain again, but we were fortunate to drop elevation quickly and get some help from tree cover. The rain continued for about 15 minutes or so. We dealt with it much better this time and continued on our way.

But the race directors had been correct. This 10 miles went on forever, were extremely rugged, and drained us. Both Eddy and I found ourselves in one of those dark spots that always comes up in an ultra. We were short on calories and short on motivation. But we slowly reached the Clear Lake aid station, which we would visit twice with an out and back up to Clear Lake in between. The report on the race had been that the first 40 miles to Clear Lake aid station were the most difficult, and the 20+ miles thereafter much easier and more runnable. All day, Eddy and I had talked about conserving energy and legs for those final 20 miles. But as we approached Clear Lake, it became clear that we were both suffering. We had survived the elevation without either of us having any severe elevation effects. Both a small headache at different times, but nothing more significant. But the steep downhills and the cumulative climbing had had its toll. Hopefully, the final 20 miles would be easier so we could keep moving decently.

Race Number Two

We approached Clear Lake with a plan to sit down, change socks, regroup and prepare for the easier section of the race. The most difficult of the climbing was done. We wouldn't cross 11,000 feet again. It was time for a reset. Unfortunately, as we arrived at Clear Lake aid station, it was raining again. We decided to not change socks or touch our shoes. Eddy slammed a Red Bull and I ate several salted avocado slices, seriously the best ultra food in the world. Then we headed out for the 2.2 mile climb up to Clear Lake.

Clear Lake...cold, dreary, still impressive

My climbing was still strong and I slowly put a gap on Eddy. I let him know I'd get up to the top of the climb and wait for him there. However, as I reached the top, the rain started again and a cold wind blew in. I decided to continue back down to the aid station, knowing I'd pass Eddy on the way to let him know why I continued.

I moved slowly, really slowly, on the way down. My quads were shot. Somebody, please tell me how to train for trail downhills in Florida! I was about a half mile ahead of Eddy when I passed him on his way up. We spoke momentarily, but both wanted to continue because of the cold. And it was starting to get dark.

Eventually, I reached the aid station and heard something I've never had to worry about at an ultra before...cut-offs. People were discussing the cut-offs at various aid stations and we weren't far off. A new experience for me. We had been taking it easy, but I didn't realize that easy. However, we were now going to get started on the easy part of the course. Smaller climbs, lower elevation, reportedly runnable. Eddy arrived back to the aid station only a few minutes after me, having made up a ton of time on the way down. We got ready to head out into the dropping sun with 8 hours to cover 20 miles for a finish under 23 hours. The cut-off is 24 hours, but a sub 23 hour finish is needed to earn a Western States lottery ticket. It sounded simple and we headed out.

The next 20 miles can be described in one word: mud. Sometimes super slick mud. Other times, knee deep mud. Occasionally, both. Shoe sucking, soul draining mud. Nearly every step of the way for the first 12 miles we dealt with mud. It was slow. It was miserable. It was dark. And it was so muddy. The shoes got heavier. It was not runnable.

During the first 12 miles out of Clear Lake the only item of note other than mud was crossing a high mountain prairie in the dark. As we crossed, we heard loud grunting. It wasn't too close, but it was loud and large. Clearly a moose. We couldn't see it in the dark, but we could hear it snort and grunt evidently unhappy with our presence. And it was frightening. A few miles later, it happened again. This time much closer and much louder and much angrier. This time, I was able to find the moose with my head lamp. Fortunately, it sounded much nearer than it actually was. But this big bull was angry and loud and continued to grunt and warn us to get out of there quickly. There was no incident, but it left both Eddy and me spooked and glad we weren't running alone.

And then, more mud. For miles and miles, we slipped and slid through the mud, looking for any path to avoid even a few steps of it. The aid stations were more frequent now, but it took ages to reach the Canadian aid station and even longer to get from there to Bockman aid station. But we did finally reach Bockman aid station, 8.4 miles from the finish. In Bockman, we were told the mud was over and life would be easier. 23 hours getting closer and closer, hearing the mud was ending was a godsend.

Unfortunately, it wasn't accurate. Sure, the mud was a bit less than previously. And there was a long section on road that was mud free. But probably half of the next 6.2 miles were still covered in slick mud. Also unfortunately, Eddy and I had been speaking less and less as we headed into the night. Not because of frustration with one another, but because we were both in funks and tired. And during a climb in one of these quiet moments, I got out ahead of Eddy. I was on a mission and not paying attention. This was a long, shallow climb. I had put my head down and worked for about 30 minutes without paying attention, passing several other runners along the way. I looked back and saw no headlamps at all. I waited once, and then again later, for a few minutes, but never saw another lamp. Finally, I decided I needed to push on and finish, hoping Eddy had been able to connect with a couple of runners I passed whom we had spent time with earlier.

Over the final four miles, I felt the strongest I had felt for hours. I hiked hard uphill, and ran small sections downhill. I reached the final aid station 2.2 miles from the finish, drank a quick coke cup, and moved on. I tried to run, failed, hiked hard. My headlamp went out, but I refused to stop to change the battery. 23 hours was weighing on my mind (ultra-brain...I had 1.5 hours to go 2.2 flat miles) and I pushed and pushed, using my phone flashlight to light the trail. I saw runners ahead, and then the lights of the finish. I ran the final quarter mile and was done.

22 hours 5 minutes, a good 3-5 hours longer than I anticipated. It had been hard, really very hard. It had been much harder than Georgia Death Race, something I still don't understand.

It had been beautiful, brutal, gorgeous, devastating, and the most remarkable racing experience of my life.

Thank goodness Eddy had been with me. The rain, the mud, the effort, the moose may have been too much for me to deal with alone. Eddy finished about 20 minutes behind me and had connected with some runners we had swapped places with all day, also earning a Western States lottery ticket, his first.

What a race. What a remarkable part of the world. Do this race. Just do it. It's a privilege to get to experience.

Some more photos:

Approaching Kelly Lake

My feet were great despite being wet all day. But I did have one giant blister on the ball of my left foot. I knew it was happening with about 10 miles to go and ignored it, focusing on finishing. That was the right choice.

La Poudre Valley on the drive out

Driving out

Performed remarkably. Will never be white again.

2018 Georgia Death Race - Separating Night And Day

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Wed, 04 Apr 2018 02:37:00 +0000

The trees and the rocks and the trail had to wonder what the big deal was. They'd seen this a thousand times over the centuries of watching guard on Duncan Ridge. But for us runners on that ridge who noticed, something otherwordly and unbelievable was taking place. No, not that silly little Georgia Death Race we were participating in. But something far more epic. Something none expected. Something that would likely stick with us for the rest of our lives.

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Climbing along Duncan Ridge

The 2018 Georgia Death Race was all set to begin just south of the Georgia / North Carolina border at Vogel State Park at 5AM. Runners had arrived at the finish line the night before for a pre-race meeting full of little tips and tidbits about the race. When my crew (the indefatigable Nick Stump and Eddy Souza) and I arrived at the pre-race meeting, I was stunned. Stunned by the hills that gave way to quite high peaks as we drove closer and closer. Stunned by the view out of Amicalola Lodge windows. Stunned by the size of the race event relative to other ultramarathons I'd participated in. This was no small affair with a bunch of local runners, but loaded with hundreds of seriously fit looking runners all clothed in race t-shirts and hats from some of the most famous and gnarly races I'd heard of. I was utterly intimidated and we weren't even toeing the starting line yet. I hadn't climbed a single foot of the 16,000 feet of climbing that lay ahead, but was already fairly convinced that I was out of my league.

As race morning arrived, I'd slept very little. I never sleep well before a race I give a damn about, and was not surprised. Problem was, I hadn't slept well the night before since we had to be on the road so early driving from South Florida to northern Georgia. And I hadn't slept well the night before that either after my son arrived into our bedroom feeling ill. Even so, my energy was high. This was going to be an adventure, maybe the adventure, that I had been looking for since I began pursuing endurance events 3 years prior.

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We arrived at Vogel State Park about 30 minutes before the race was set to begin. The air was cold, really cold for a South Floridian. Despite being dressed like I was prepared to run the Iditarod, I still shivered violently in the 30 degree temperature. I checked in with the race team and picked up the railroad spike I would have to carry with me for the next 74ish miles.

The full blue moon was crystal clear in the cool, crisp air. It was bright enough to light the way without need of a headlamp. Runners gathered and quickly tried to clear their bladders and bowels one last time, then made way to the start line for final words from the race director, Sean Blanton. Nervous pacing and chatter among runners, final words of encouragement from crew standing nearby, a moonlight rendition of "Happy Birthday" sung by 260 runners to the race director and then we were off.

And immediately into a climb. We ran up a nice gentle incline along a paved road, which eventually turned into a not-so-well maintained paved road and, finally, single track trail shortly thereafter. As we headed onto the single track, Sean yelled a reminder to us that we should be walking as everyone had blazed out at far too fast a pace. The trail rose into the night between the trees crossing small creeks, generally narrow enough to jump over. We continued to climb in a solid row of runners unable (or unwilling) to pass or be passed. There was some small chatter among runners, but it was eerily quiet for an ultramarathon as everyone focused on getting a sense of the trail and persistent effort required to rise into the mountains. The moon accompanied us along our journey, coming into view and then leaving it again as we followed the contours of this first bump in our path.

Twenty minutes later, the first small climb was done and we began our single-file descent down the trail. The pace quickly picked up, and I had my second realization that I was out of my element. The climbing had been comfortable, easy even. I had trained well for it. But descending downhill on a steep trail covered in roots and rocks, that was an entirely different story. It was tough and scary. One poor foot placement and I imagined myself falling face first into one of the sharp rocks littering the trail. Fortunately, this first descent was short and over quickly, well before real doubt had crept into my mind.

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The big climb had arrived. Only three miles into the race and barely warmed up, and it was time for us to fight our way up nearly 2,500 feet and the highest peak we'd reach all day. This was the climb I had lost sleep over in the weeks leading up to the race. It was the big ugly one on the elevation profile provided by the race. It was long, sustained and sometimes steep.

And after about an hour and a half of head down climbing and consistent effort in the dark, we were at the top. I had climbed strong, really strong, for someone coming from the flat lands and the effort felt very sustainable. We were no longer a single file line of 260 runners. The field had been ripped apart by the climb. I was on my own with no runners or headlights in sight behind me and a small group of runners just a turn ahead of me. Sunlight was filtering through the trees, but sunrise was still a long way off.

The terrain along the ridge we had reached slowly rolled downward, but was not overly steep and not overly technical. It was comfortable running. I quickly reeled in the group in front of me and settled in behind them. I was not comfortable running alone in this desolate place. Eventually, we descended into the first aid station. I moved quickly through this station only 8.1 miles into the race. And that's when it happened.

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As a couple other runners and myself reached the top of the next climb out of the aid station, we could see the beginning of sunrise to the east. The sun was rising above a peak well below the ridge we traversed. The valley below was now being lit up and had been filled with thick, pillowy fog. A beautiful sight.

But the real magic was to our west. The full moon had now fallen below our own ridge, but was still hanging above the next ridge over. The entire valley to the west was cloaked in the darkness of night, not a ray of sunlight reaching beyond our ridge, only lit by the strong light of the full moon.

We ran along for several minutes both simultaneously in sunrise and daylight and darkness and moonlight. We were spellbound, running along in a moment that wouldn't be believed even if someone had taken a photo. It was the line between two worlds, between night and day, between moon and sun. And we were there with it, basking in it, not quite believing it. We were at the top of the ridge, a part of the structure which separated night and day. And then the sun reached higher into the sky, light spilled into the western valley, and the spell was broken.

Who would ever forget, or believe, this experience?

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The next 12 miles turned into a miasma of misery. The elevation profile had deceivingly made these miles appear to be mostly downhill with only a small bump upward here and there. The reality was far different, a series of a dozen and a half peaks climbed and descended as we continued along the ridge. None of the peaks on the ridge was overwhelming on its own, the largest having perhaps a few hundred feet of climbing. But progress was an extreme mental challenge. Just as one peak was reached and crossed, the next peak on the trail could be seen across the valley before the descent began. An endless pattern of up and down emerged.

And another pattern emerged. I continued to climb strongly and efficiently. I passed many runners on the climbs, while few passed me. The effort was high, but manageable. I wasn't huffing and puffing like others. I didn't need breaks on the way up, as many runners needed.

But on the way down, the roles were reversed. The runners I had just passed easily on the way up went flying by me on the way down. The trail had become technical and steep, with rocks and roots taunting me with their sharp edges at every step. While other runners allowed gravity to pull them down the slopes, lightly stepping from safe positions to safe position, I moved slowly and deliberately trying to remain in control. The effort to do so was massive. My legs were getting shredded. Doubts really began to creep in. How could I run another 55 miles when my legs were on fire trying to make it down just a few of these descents? How long could these endless peaks continue? Wasn't there some reasonably flat section on that elevation profile I had studied?

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Eventually, I reached a couple race volunteers who pointed me down a turn off the trail to Skeenah Gap, the first aid station where my crew would be waiting. Their comment to me was another mighty surprise, "Just about 1.5 miles down to the aid station." Down?!? I hadn't noticed this in the maps. Worse yet, not only was it 1.5 miles down, but this was also an out-and-back section bringing us off the trail to a road that our crews could access. Each step down carried the weight of the knowledge that this would be a step I'd be taking back up in the very near future. The mental challenge of this knowledge was massive. The bright spot, knowing Eddy and Nick and hopefully a chair were waiting at the bottom, was the only salvation.

Headed into Skeenah Gap

Once at the aid station, it was time to take a break and assess my situation. Nick and Eddy were great getting me set up with more drink and food, asking the right question and reminding me "not to be a bitch." I had intended to change my shoes at this point from a pair of Nike Wildhorse to some Altra Escalantes. But the course was more technical than anticipated and my feet were feeling great and I didn't want to mess with a good thing.

After about five minutes, it was back onto the course and the long 1.5 mile climb out of Skeenah Gap and back onto the trail. And then, right back into the soul-crushing crossing of endless peaks. Up and down we went. Doubt grew and grew with each painful descent.

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As time passed, I found myself increasingly alone. The first 22 miles I had generally spent in the company of others. It was much easier to follow someone else's feet as they picked smart lines through the terrain. But now I was fending for myself. I had to pick my own lines through the trail. I had to watch my feet and the course markings. I still felt solid during each climb, but downhills became increasingly painful and difficult.

I was finding my way to the lowest point mentally I'd experience all race. Low points are to be expected, and I was fully prepared to continue muddling through. And muddle I did. I still ran the flats and easy downhills, but the pace was slowing.

And the timing was unfortunate. The terrain was changing. The hard and steep climbs and descents were becoming more moderate with occasional switchbacks to ease the grade. Other hikers and tourists were showing up. I crossed Toccoa Hanging Bridge, something that would generally fascinate me, and barely noticed. I was grumpy and in pain and not moving well and failed to notice things were actually easier.

And then trail offered a bounty and I had no choice but to accept.

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Before the race, I had told my crew I wanted to use a stick as a hiking aid during the race. The race rules did not allow trekking poles, but made no comment of something provided by nature. I had mostly forgotten my desire to use a hiking stick when suddenly the perfect stick lay right in the middle of the trail. The stick was smooth and devoid of bark. It was the perfect length for my height. It was dry and light, but very strong. It was perfect. And it was the beginning of a change in my mood.

I reached an aid station where I jammed calories in and found a random Red Bull sitting near the aid station. I was assured it was fine and drank it greedily. The avocado slices with salt were also magic. My energy and mood almost immediately improved as I left the aid station. A couple miles later, after a brief in-the-woods potty break, and my spirits were high. Downhills were still tremendously painful, but everything was different as I proceeded on.

Another aid station, more quick calories, and I was back on my way feeling better than I had in hours. And the trail provided a second bounty, another runner. We stuck together for the next several miles into the Winding Stairs aid station pacing one another, chit-chatting, commiserating in our suffering. The other runner had completed an Appalachian Trail through-hike in his youth and knew the area we were running well. The conversation was fascinating to me, probably boring to him. And the beauty of the trail came back into focus as we passed a mountain creek lined with rhododendrons. These were some of the easiest and quickest miles of the day and got me back to Nick and Eddy in high spirits.

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Winding Stairs aid station would be the last time I got to see my crew before the finish. Eddy and Nick were again on-point getting everything ready for me, working through my pack to make sure I wasn't carrying extra weight and making certain I was all set for the longest uncrewed section of the race. They packed me up with warmer clothes and my headlamp accessible as nighttime was prepared to set in over the next few hours.

Out of Winding Stairs, the course immediately headed into the longest and easiest descent of the race. A gentle dirt road led runners down for nearly three miles until we were back on single track. This section was fast and easy, excepting a short stop I had to take when I feared I had missed a turn. This was running I was ready for!

Back on the trail, the course was beautiful and relatively easy. Still up and down, but not nearly with the intensity of earlier in the race. The climbs were moderate, the descents gentle and untechnical. I was still in tremendous pain even on these easy downhills, but my stick and I made steady progress and reached the next aid station at Jake Bull with relative ease.

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We had been warned. Leaving Jack Bull put us onto perhaps the toughest section of the course. Not due to the difficulty of the trail, there was little trail to run. Not because of the steepness. But because we were about to embark on a gentle climb of over 3 miles across paved and dirt road, and the next aid station was 11 miles away and night was falling. We were warned that the climb felt endless.

And yet, I climbed well. I passed several runners on the three mile climb on the approach to Nimblewell aid station while hiking hard. About a mile and a half out of Nimblewell the climb ended, and Sean Blanton had a bit of a nasty surprise for us. For a mile or so, I could hear music and figured it was the aid station. It was too early for the aid station, but I assumed my GPS was incorrect. Unfortunately, it was a "false" aid station, a trick to mess with us runners. Just a couple people with a large speaker playing music. But they did have water, a blessing as I was running dry. Now it was time to head down again on single track into Nimblewell.

And any downhill running was over for me at that point. The long hike had left me unable to run at all. I tried and both legs nearly cramped almost immediately in the quads and groin muscles. 12 miles to go, and I'd be hiking in the rest of the way. It was dark, the trail was tricky and often water covered and I was moving slowly. It was going to be a long trudge, although not an all-out death march. I could still hike strong, just not run.

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Nimblewell aid station was a true beacon in the dark replete with Christmas lights and projectors. Some wonderful vegetable soup, more salted avocado, a bunch of ginger ale (which I momentarily feared was actually Grey Goose Vodka) and I was back on the trail for the final nine miles of the race.

At Nimblewell I had been warned that I'd work my way to Amicalola Falls Park for the next six miles, then run right past the finish line (another Sean Blanton special) before heading to the 685 stairs up to the top of the waterfall, simply to turn around and run back down a trail to the finish line.

The pull of the finish line was strong. I hiked as hard as I could, alone on the dark downhill trail. Twice I was certain I had missed a turn, checked the Livetrail app to learn that I didn't, and continued on. Then, after what seemed like endless hours of quiet and loneliness with nothing but the clicking of my stick on stone, I could hear cheering. Not loud, but clear as crystal. Cheering in the middle of the night in the backwoods of the northern Georgia mountains had to mean the finish line. Then a road lay ahead and a volunteer pointed me left...onto the most technical descent of the entire race.

Rocks and boulders lined the trail. The going was exceptionally slow despite very little ground to cover. Every step was treacherous. Eventually, I reached the bottom and could see the finish line. Around a corner, and there stood Eddy alone in the dark.

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As I passed Eddy, I could hear the waterfall. I asked him how far to the waterfall and Eddy responded that that it was about 200 yards on the left. I also asked what time it was. Eddy said about midnight, which meant I had an hour to go up and down and finish in under 20 hours. In about 200 yards, I crossed a road onto a paved trail. But where were the stairs? Up the trail I climbed, the waterfall crashing to my left, but still no stairs. "WHAT THE HELL, EDDY!!!!," was my only thought as the paved trail seemed to continue forever. Of course, Eddy hadn't been wrong. This paved trail was the beginning of the waterfall climb. I simply expected stairs in 200 yards.

Eventually the stairs came into view, Sean Blanton's almost final middle-finger to runners. Over 600 stairs straight up along the waterfall. It was back to hard uphill climbing and, like the rest of the race, I still felt strong climbing. I did take a moment to stop when the 700 foot tall waterfall came into full view lit up perfectly by the nearly full moon. Then it was back to climbing stairs.

The top reached, it was time to head back down to the finish line. I would finish this race facing my nemesis, going downhill. And what a downhill it was. After a short portion on the road, back onto the trail we went. Steep and difficult. I bounced from tree to tree to make sure I didn't simply roll down to my death. The noise of the finish line become louder, the lights came into view and then I could hear the creek. Sean's final gag.

As I tumbled down the trail, I could see the finish line...on the other side of a creek. The trail continued to a bridge, conveniently covered in race tape making it clear the bridge was off limits. The only way to the finish line was through the creek. Not deep, but 15 feet across with a rocky riverbed, it wasn't an exciting prospect. Then I stepped into the creek and the cold waters immediately soothed my sore feet. Through the water, up a small incline and Sean was meeting me at the finish.

Done in 19 hours, 53 minutes and 2 seconds.

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Warming up after the finish

The 2018 Georgia Death Race was the most physically demanding thing I've ever done in my life. Finally, I feel I've completed a truly noteworthy event. Florida ultramarathons, while challenging and painful, never gave me that feeling. At the risk of sounding trite, this was a truly epic adventure. It was far more difficult than I had anticipated.

And there is zero chance I could have finished without my crew who gave up a weekend with families to be with me. Who drove 12 hours each way to get me there and get me home. Who stayed up all night tirelessly helping me along.

The question I've been asked is "what's next." Going into the race, I was committed to no more ultramarathons for a while. When I spoke to Eddy and Nick during the race, I said never again. On the drive home, I was certain I would never run another mountain ultra.

But it's in my blood now. The climbs. The moon and sun together. The suffering and pain. Playing guardian between night and day. The adventure. Someday, I'll do another.

After I learn how to run technical downhills.

100 Mile Ultramarathon Mental Tips

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Mon, 20 Feb 2017 18:37:00 +0000

I'm going to be helping crew someone running their first 100 mile ultramarathon. As the race approaches, I've been thinking about my own 100 mile races and what might be helpful for someone to know particularly as it relates to the mental side of the 100 mile game. While I'm still a neophyte at these races, I think I've learned a few lessons along the way.

So, in no particularly order, and under the assumption a person has done the basic work to have the requisite fitness for a 100 miles, my tips for the mental side of 100 mile ultramarathoning:

Decide what's negotiable and what's non-negotiable before the race begins. In the dark moments, you'll want to negotiate everything with yourself. Anything you've left as an open question will become available to negotiate away. My most recent 100 miler, I had a stated goal of finishing in under 24 hours. However, I kept a private goal of trying to get under 20 hours. Even though I was way under 20 hour pace at the time, in the first real dark moment it became very easy to negotiate my way to giving up that private goal and settling for the sub-24 hour goal.

Know your motivations. There are the obvious answers, but I've discovered sometimes it's the less obvious that get you to the end. My first race, I wouldn't quit although I probably should have because the person who suddenly decided to pace me when I was fading made it so clear she really didn't want me to quit. No matter how painful it got, I did not want to let her down. I was also pushed forward (as slowly as it may have been) that I was at an invitation-only race and someone else might not have been there so I could have a space. In my second race, I wish I would have remembered that the faster I finished, the sooner my crew could get rest. Had that been at the forefront of my mind, I might have finished in under 20 hours. Frankly, I've also been motivated by how cool it would be when I get to post my finish to Facebook. Silly, of course. But a driving factor nonetheless. Motivation can come from all kinds of places and in a variety of shapes and forms. When running really long, it's critical to keep these motivations in mind and find new ones along the way.

Form. As fatigue sets in, form deteriorates, both in running and walking. As form deteriorates, things start to hurt. As things start to hurt, form deteriorates even more and things start to hurt even, even more. It's a vicious cycle with one solution. A relentless mental focus on maintaining form. This saved me at Daytona 100. I was 65 miles in, had felt absolutely great for the first 100 kilometers and then suddenly had terrible pain in a knee. I was reduced to a snail's pace. After a few minutes, my pacer convinced me to try a short run. At first, it was a no go. But after a couple tries, I really focused on forcing good running form and the pain receded. I was running again! However, had I had that relentless focus earlier, I would likely have prevented the worst of the pain from the beginning.

Have a plan. Follow the plan. And plan as many things as you can: when you plan to eat, when you plan to refill nutrition bottles, when you'll take salt and reapply lubrication and changes shoes and socks. Every little detail can be planned. If you have crew, let the crew keep you on plan. It becomes remarkably simple to forget even the most basic things deep into a race. In my first 100, the person pacing me asked me how much water I'd been drinking. As I thought about it, I realized I hadn't had a sip of liquid in a very long time, perhaps hours. And be completely ready to adjust the plan on the fly. Things aren't going to go according to plan. So make the adjustments that are needed. But refer back to the plan to make sure you're not forgetting anything.

Finally, if the goal is to finish the race, making the commitment to finish no matter what is the most important of all. (Disclaimer: risking potential injury falls outside the "no matter what" commitment.) I ran across the perfect description of commitment on the Science of Ultra podcast this week: "commitment is making the choice to give up choice." Choose to finish, leaving no other alternative available.

Phantom Ponies And Bare Bums

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Sat, 11 Feb 2017 23:57:00 +0000

Not everything in an ultramarathon is inspiring or spiritual or life changing. In fact, much of a race is mundane and mechanical and even easy to forget about entirely. Occasionally, there is not much more than discomfort and pain. And sometimes, there are moments that are not inspiring nor mundane and not necessarily painful, but utterly and comically absurd. This was one of those moments.

So much of the 2016 Daytona 100 Ultramarathon had gone exceedingly well to this point. Sure, there were some dark points. Yeah, I was slowing down. But, by and large, a great day.

Of course, in a 100 mile race the unexpected or overlooked seems to always happen. And I knew this particular problem might happen, but forgot to discuss it with my crew and forgot to be prepared. I had overlooked this problem despite having dealt with it in training a couple times. That evil, nasty thing nobody likes to talk about...groin chafing.

76 miles into my race and I noticed the first hint of that chafing feeling. Nothing bad, but an instant "UH OH" moment. "UH OH" because some bad bloody chafing could end my race and I wasn't carrying anything deal with it. "UH OH" because I had just left my crew who drove on ahead to the 80 mile aid station. I had packed plenty of chafing solutions, but those were somewhere off in the dark distance, in the buildings of Daytona miles ahead. "UH OH" because I wasn't thinking clearly.

Solutions began to bubble forth in my brain. The first solution, stop trying to run and walk to my crew and minimize the damage. Of course, walking is one thing. But walking to prevent thighs from rubbing another thing altogether. So I began to walk with this bizarre "I'm riding a horse" kind of gait. This horse-riding and damage-reducing walk seemed to help for a while, but slowly the discomfort increased again.

A second idea struck! Readjust my shorts so that the liner was no longer sitting on the same location! Yeah, that definitely helped as I continued to walk along while riding my invisible horse. But it required constant adjustment as my shorts slid back into their natural place. And my wonderful pacer (oh yeah, I forgot to mention I had someone running with me during this pants adjusting, horse riding moment) began to give me kinda funny looks as I continually jammed my hand down my pants.

I really need a good long term solution to get me to my crew without ending up a bloody mess and ending my race. We'd made it less than half way to my crew vehicle while moving at about 20 minutes per mile and my race goals were slipping away. And then the absurdity struck. My half-witted brain put the puzzle together. The solution was so obvious and yet so preposterous, it took a while to connect.

It was night and very dark. We were running -- well, horsey-ride walking -- in the dark along the beach away from civilization. We were alone with only the occasional passing car to see us. I was wearing a rather long shirt and a coat. When I got the liner moved off the chaffed area, things improved dramatically.

The solution? Oh yes, the solution. Absolute genius! I pulled my shorts off my ass. Pulled them straight down and walked bare-assed! No more liner rubbing against the damaged skin! No more further damage occurring! Ultramarathoning genius of Einstein-ian proportions!

Of course, I still had a couple miles to go to get to my crew vehicle where a variety of lubricants waited. And now I was walking with pants pulled of my hinder, still riding that mysterious and difficult to see stead that kept my thighs from rubbing, and my joints beginning to stiffen from too much walking and too much cooling down. And my poor pacer along for the ride.

Adding to this foolishness, we began to enter the outer limits of Daytona. Some late-night drinking establishments at first...oh, the stories the patrons must have told one another! A restaurant. A grocery store. Street lights. Some condo buildings. We were entering civilization and street lights and people, but still no crew vehicle... no relief. My rear-end (and much more!) a gust of wind away from being exposed to an ever increasing number of drunken vacationers and revelers! What a sight it would have been. Bum out, legs stiff, bizarre and stiff walking manner, delirious look on my face, a race bib pinned to my clothes in the middle of the night. And my poor pacer at my side likely trying to hide his face.

Then, FINALLY, the traffic light I knew to be the location of the 80 mile aid station came into view. My crew would be waiting. Lubricants, compression pants, new shorts, solution upon solution upon solution. Just waiting, a half mile or so ahead.

10 minutes later and the ordeal had ended. The absurdity was over. The humorous figure I was casting across all of Daytona disappeared into the ether. My tuchus was covered. The phantom pony evaporated into thin air. Only the stiff joints and muscles after for miles of awkward walking lingered. And the worst of the damage seemed to have been avoided. (I would learn in my shower the next morning how wrong I was on that last point!)

Ahhhh, the joys of running ultramarathons. I think I recognized the humor of the moment as it was occurring, but I was in no mind to appreciate it. Oh, to have been on of those barflys watching me pass by!

10 Perfect Miles, And We Weren't Even Supposed To Be There

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Thu, 09 Feb 2017 11:04:00 +0000

They weren't even a part of the course. About 10 miles, from Mickler Road until we entered the beach somewhere around South Ponte Vedra. Yet these 10 miles made it clear that ultramarathons weren't just trail runs. That running on the roads could be just as beautiful and just as connected to nature as any trail.

10 miles of intense loneliness. 10 miles of straight roads crawling over rolling beach dunes. 10 miles of bird and wildlife noises to the right and the crash of waves to the left. 10 miles of the bluest endless sky overhead.

10 miles with the ocean ever present to the east. I couldn't see that vast expanse of water. A dune covered in sea grapes blocked the view. But I could smell it. I could feel its weight. The air carried the water. And the waves, crashing and crashing and crashing. The ocean was there, only feet away.

10 miles that stick in my brain, that I remember again and again. And we weren't even supposed to be there. We were only there because nature had dictated it. Nature had washed a beach away and forced the race director to reroute the race. Nature had demanded we experienced this bit of itself, despite human's best efforts for that not to happen.

10 miles of nature preserve continually to the west. Estuaries filled with endless wildlife. Birds noisily starting their morning. The distinct bang of a shotgun as humans entered to hunt. A lizard or two, or perhaps a hundred. I dreaded knowing later in the race I would lose this preserve, and run through city. But that was hours, maybe even another day, away.

10 miles of absolute, unequivocally perfect weather. Cool air, but not cold. Perfectly sunny, but no heat from the sun. No humidity, a constant light tailwind. Later in the day, it would get a touch warm. In the evening, a few drops of rain. At night, a bit of a chill. But for those 10 miles, utter perfection.

Yes, 10 miles on asphalt. 10 miles on that seemingly endless road. But 10 miles as connected to nature as any trail could ever offer.

And it was then I really understood what I'd seen some other ultramarathoners write about or heard them talk about. That ultramarathoning isn't synonymous with trail running. That there's something special about running the roads. No, not better than trails, but not inferior either. Different and wonderful and a worthwhile pursuit.

10 perfect miles, and we weren't even supposed to be there.

(This is my first of a few stories from the 2016 Daytona 100 Ultramarathon I plan to write. I thought this might be more fun and more interesting than a formal race report. And, boy, do I wish I had gotten a photo of the rolling roads on this 10 mile stretch.)

Weekly Training Thoughts - Feelin' Great!

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Mon, 21 Mar 2016 20:28:00 +0000

March 14th-20th - Due to some unexpected planning I must get done, this post will be a bit abbreviated. No in-depth thoughts on each sport, just some high level thoughts on my training week in general. The big take-away...I'm feeling great with my training!

Running has really been clicking for me. It seems the month away from running was just what the body called for. I just feel stronger, faster and more efficient than prior to the break. In fact, the running has gone so well since I resumed in March, that I completed my second fastest half-marathon ever on my long run Saturday. The only time I ran faster, I was 23 years old. And I felt very comfortable the entire time and, in a race situation, would have been quite a bit faster. Perhaps 10-15 minutes faster. (An important interjection here. My "faster" is still very, very slow relative to fast people.) After so much time running slow and preparing for ultra-marathons, I'm learning I sort of enjoy running a bit less slow.

I did have just a touch of IT band pain Sunday on my recovery run. It was a small relapse on what has been an otherwise smooth recovery from the pain that stopped me at Skydive Ultra. I'm hoping it's just a matter of a little too much, too quickly; and that a small pull back will put me back on the path to full recovery.

Swimming was also a success this week. I reached the longest single swim I plan to complete as I prepare for Swim Miami at 8,000 yards on Sunday. I'm not fast. I'm not super-efficient. But I can keep things moving along for an extended period of time now. I could have swam another 2,000 yards relatively comfortably. I was also able to test my nutrition plan: Tailwind to drink and a tablespoon of almond butter at ~2 miles and ~4 miles. That seemed to work well. I plan to swim two more 8,000 yard sets before race day.

On top of being able to swim the distance, I also felt really good swimming this week in general. So much so that at one point during the week, I actually posted the following on Facebook:

That comment is a huge deal for me. I have never, ever felt like I belonged in the water before. I still don't swim well, but something's changed just a bit. I can feel the catch (sometimes.) I can feel the pull (occasionally.) I can feel good body positions (from time to time.) Until the past week, these concepts were just words without any real understanding. But this week, I felt them on several occasions. I could play with them a little. I can pull a bit harder or let water flow past my arm instead. I can feel my feet sink or pull them up above the water. Not all the time. Not even most of the time. But sometimes.

As for the bike, I've decided to give up for now. At least until after Swim Miami. Six days of swimming and six days of running just aren't leaving me with time to get on the bike. Plus I wonder if the lack of bike training is at least partially involved in the improved running?

That's it for the week. Next week's training thoughts might be a bit light, also. I expect to have less time for either running or swimming this week. Perhaps I'll change things up and consider it a recovery week.

Whatever you training looks like, keep moving!

Weekly Training Thoughts - The Long Swim Gets LOOONG

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Mon, 14 Mar 2016 23:47:00 +0000

March 7th-13th... Another week of completely unimportant and mostly irrelevant training is in the books, and I have more thoughts to put to paper...or whatever you want to call this medium. I ran across a thought this week about training and racing and why I do all this work and spend all this time training when I'm just some schlub who's never going to be fast and never going to gain anything material out of it all.

My profession, my work feeds my stomach. But training and racing feeds my soul. After family, nothing is more rewarding and more fulfilling than hitting the trail or going for a swim. It drains me and it fills me at the same time. Heck, I don't even need the racing. The training is enough to fill the soul. The racing just offers some delicious icing, and motivation for training to be a bit more focused.

Training feeds my soul.

On to the week. There are two big observations on training this week, one running and one swimming, and one bit of exciting news...at least for me.

Running...Six Days A Week

My new running plan has me running six days per week. This is more regularly than I've ever run before, which generally included running four (sometimes five) days per week. Six days means lower volume, but more frequently. And I seem to be responding well to this. My three recovery runs per week really seem to help keep things loose and not too sore allowing me to push harder on the two high intensity days and one long day per week. So far, I'm a fan even while contemplating skipping today's recovery run due to a sore knee.

Speaking of that knee, it's not 100% yet. The long run seems to be the issue. I had no problems with the knee during my two speed workouts. And the knee was fine on my recovery runs. But after my long run Saturday morning, the knee became uncomfortable again. A couple minutes of pigeon stretch, and it felt good as new. But still, not 100%.

My workouts went great. The best example of this is my long run Saturday. I'm still keeping this long run relatively short (1 hour 35 minutes this time), but decided to really try running with more pace than I have before. While not fast, the run was fast for me. I never felt like I was working too hard, but completed 11.3 miles at an average pace of 8:23 minutes per mile and targeted two extra bridge crossings along the way. I could have held that pace for quite a bit longer and was overall very pleased. And that was indicative of pretty much the entire week.

Biking

What's there to report here other than it was a total failure on the bike. I got on the trainer for 1 hour on Monday, then never touched the bike again. I thought about riding Thursday, but didn't feel like it. I considered riding Sunday, but didn't want to battle the daylight savings switch. I just didn't ride. Not good...not good.

Swimming

I felt off all week on my swimming...slow, lethargic, sinky. Just not a good week in the pool. That said, I met all my goals for the week. Right around 20,000 yards (18,575 officially on Garmin Connect, but that doesn't include kick sets nor about 500 yards I lost while trying to figure out my new watch...more on that below!) And, most importantly, I finished my 7,000 yard pull endurance set on Sunday and found a pair of googles comfortable enough to wear for the length of a 10K swim! I was slow on the 7,000 yard swim, but really focused on staying long and efficient, and didn't worry about pace much.

The googles, Aqua Sphere Vista's, are so damn comfortable relative to other goggles. They feel silly large on the face. Fortunately, I have no problem with looking silly. They did, however, slowly leak a little water in. I think this only occurs when pushing off the wall and not during swimming, and is so slow I only had to clear the goggles every 1,500 yards or so. But still a minor annoyance in what would otherwise be a perfect long-distance swimming goggle for me. I think they'll do the trick for Swim Miami 10K, especially if the leak does only occur when pushing off. There'll be none of that in Miami!

Overall, I'm satisfied with the week of swimming. Finishing the 7,000 yards comfortably means I'm right on track for the race. I still think the low energy and lethargy have to do with higher swim volume plus the reintroduction of fairly intense running. I'll just keep pushing through.

Something Fun!

I'm extremely judicious about spending money on fitness equipment...a tough task in the triathlon world. Almost everything I own is used or heavily discounted. But I decided to splurge for my birthday and bought myself a new fitness GPS watch, a Garmin epix. It was, of course, heavily discounted at REI. And I've been having lots of problems with my Garmin 910XT lately including bad elevation readings, odd yardage on open water swims and battery charging difficulties. Nothing dramatic, but annoyances. The 910XT will become my permanent bike computer, and the Garmin epix my full-time watch as a daily wear watch, an activity tracker and fitness device.

So far, I'm loving it. I haven't had occasion to head out to the Everglades and run using the built-in navigation. But soon. In addition to real navigation, the watch has excellent battery life...hopefully enough to get me through my next 100 mile ultramarathon. It feels more rugged than the 910XT, and has a variety of other upgrades. Of course, it's a total splurge and I could have been totally fine without it. But what the heck!

That's another week of training. Overall, things look to be on track both for Swim Miami and Daytona 100. Swim Miami is going to be a huge challenge for me. The distance still sounds daunting. The amount of time spent laying face first in the water is overwhelming. Even finding someone to toss me a water bottle every lap is going to be a challenge. But I think it will all come together.

Whatever you're training looks like, keep moving!

Weekly Training Thoughts - A Ragged Return to Running

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Mon, 07 Mar 2016 17:18:00 +0000

It's time to write my first weekly training thoughts post. I'm wondering how to approach this. Matter-of-factly, with statistics and hard numbers on my training? A stream-of-conscience bit just rambling on with musing about last week's training? Perhaps something humorous, having a good laugh at how seriously I take my training while being a mediocre performer. I think that works...self-deprecation and all. I may suck at humor, but at least it'll be fun to write!

March 1st-6th... The past week of training really had one focus, reintroducing running. Since my spectacularly failed attempt to run 100 miles at Skydive Ultra, I hadn't really run at all. Just a few short test walks and runs in February to see if my knee was going to laugh in my face or was feeling a bit better. February had been a month to rest the running spirit. March is to bring running back, and this was the first week of doing so.

A Ragged Return to Running

I ran five days during this first week of March. Two really, really super silly easy recovery runs of 30 minutes. There's really not much to say about those runs other than I ran 'em when scheduled. Two runs with intensity. One long (and I use that word with a chuckle) run.

The two intensity runs were kind of a new thing for me, speed work. The first run was a 45 minute fartlek run on Tuesday. No structure, just faster and slower as it felt right. I was even able to push myself on a final sprint to that territory where the day's lunch becomes a bit unsettled in the stomach...a highlight of any intense workout! I really had fun with this run! I might hate it this week when I do it at 4:30AM instead of in the afternoon. The second intensity run was 45 minutes of tempo build on Thursday morning. Now, I'm not fast. When I say tempo, this is a lot of people's long run or even recovery pace. But it's fast for me. And it was the third day of running after a month off...my legs weren't super happy. Overall though, the intensity runs were a fun new addition. I may even enjoy them in a few months.

The long run...well, an hour and a half isn't really long, is it? But it's my long run at this point as I rebuild as if from scratch. I did, however, run faster than I was running long runs in the past. As I get closer to Daytona 100, and these runs become much longer, I'll become more specific and slow it down. For now, shorter and faster rules.

There were two additional items of note this week for my running. First, new shoes. My beloved Asics Gel Hyperspeed 6 have been discontinued (a runner's worst nightmare), so I'm on the hunt for new shoes. For now, I'm running in a pair of Nike Zoom Streak LT2's and will be adding a maximalist shoe soon for long stuff. I'm not sold on the Streaks. The biggest issue, the platform seems REALLY narrow and I often felt like I might just tip over to the side. They're light and well-cushioned, but that narrowness is a bit disconcerting. Evidently, I really like a wide sole...this shoe is not that! I'll probably order a pair of Asics Gel Hyperspeed 7's soon to see how the update feels. The shoe hunt is on.

The second item is the status of my left knee, the killer of my Skydive Ultra 100, the occasional bane of my running existence. The knee wasn't perfect this week, but it wasn't bad. I'm quite sure the issue is IT band syndrome and nothing more (nor less) severe. It felt good for my first couple runs. The Thursday intensity run, I actually cut a few minutes short as I passed home due to a touch of discomfort in the knee. And the final half hour of my Saturday long run also included some discomfort. However, nothing that is concerning at this point. My final Sunday recovery run actually seemed to resolve a bunch of the discomfort in the knee. Fingers crossed that I'm on the road to knee nirvana. If I keep my knee happy, I should arrive at Daytona 100 ready to crush a solid middle of the pack finish!

I'm running again, and that's the big take away! Not much mileage (24 miles on the week), but almost exactly the amount of time I had planned. I'm running by time in 2016, not mileage.

And finally, on the running front, I'm officially registered for Daytona 100. This thing is real now!

Swimming

As was the case in February, swimming remains a big focus in March as I prepare for the 10K swim at Swim Miami. But for this week, I was taking a bit of a swimming rest after more than doubling my biggest swimming month in February.

Swimming didn't go great this past week. Every workout felt flat and slow. Lots of leg cramps. Overall, just not a good week of swimming. I suspect the addition of running and some intense running is the culprit. I'll adjust, eventually.

Overall, about 11,000 yards of swimming. Still a good week for me, but not my new 20,000 per week target.

Oh, and I seem to have a raging and recurring case of swimmer's ear. Ear plugs may be in my future. I wonder how I'll hear the Master's swim coach call out the swim sets and paces?

Biking

I didn't touch the bike last week. Not once...well, once to move my bike out of the way in the apartment. I can't figure it out, but biking is just the sport I enjoy the least and by quite a margin. Maybe it's all the equipment. Maybe it's the time necessary. Maybe it's feeling vulnerable to cars out on the road. Probably it's lack of comfort in the saddle, which is a symptom of not enough riding. Oh...how to resolve that. I'm not comfortable, so I don't ride. But I need to ride more to get comfortable.

I was fine not riding this week. With running back in the mix, I was prepared to let other stuff wane for a week. But, it's time to get back to biking, even if it's just short stints on the training.

So that's the week. Not really all that much to report other than the running bit. I'm so happy to be running again. Fast or not, it's really my zen place. Whether the run is at 4AM or late in the evening, it's so easy for me to just relax into the rhythm of the steps and figure out solutions to all the world's problems. Only trouble is, I never remember those solutions at the end of the run!

Whatever you're training looks like, keep moving!

February Training Thoughts

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Wed, 02 Mar 2016 21:14:00 +0000

I'm going to try something new on my little corner of the internet here. I'm going to use this space as my own personal training journal, and will try to keep up with an entry every Monday reviewing the past week's training as I prepare for the Swim Miami 10K, Daytona 100 Ultramarathon and the big goal, Ultraman Florida in 2018. This is sure to interest nobody, so I'll be writing in a way that is meant for me. Feel free to follow along, if you so desire.

For this first entry. I'm going to write down my thoughts for the entire month of February. It makes sense to look at the entire month because it comes off my failure at Skydive Ultra 100 at the end of January, and an entire month of heavy swimming focus with virtually no running and just a little time on the bike. So, let's look at February beginning with the swimming.

February Swimming

February was the biggest month of swimming in my life. I didn't have a real yardage target going into the month, but did want to try swimming every day of the month. I swam 27 of 29 days in February. My pool was closed on February 1st for chlorination treatment, so I'm comfortable missing that day. February 4th I also missed as I was stuck at the office for an unexpected late meeting. This miss hurts more. Overall, I'm quite happy with my February swim streak, however.

Total swim yardage measured by my Garmin for the month was 71,320 (or roughly 40.5 miles,) which does not include kick yardage and some drills amounting to perhaps another 10,000 yards over the month. That's about 40,000 more yards than my prior largest month in September 2015 as I finalized my Great Floridian Triathlon training. The finally three weeks of the month, I settled into about 20,000 yards per week which feels like a heavy, yet manageable, swim load for me.

I was able to sneak in one open water swim session on the final Friday of February with Boca Raton Triathletes. It's always a great time out there, and this one was particularly interesting as our swimming beach happened to also be the set for the filming of the new Baywatch movie. I even think I caught a glimpse of Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson filming an action scene running down the Boca Inlet jetty.

On the set of Baywatch. These are not actual lifeguard stands, but movie props.

How did I feel about all the yardage? Well, not surprisingly, there were many moments of fatigue in my shoulders and arms by the second week. There was one Masters swimming session when this became most apparent. We were swimming 150 yard pull sets. I'd feel great for 100 yards, and then it would feel like someone pulled the keys out of the ignition and I could just barely coast the final 50 yards. Just no power left at all.

That said, I feel like this massive (for me) amount of swimming has been tremendously beneficial. I spent several days working on balance in the water and body position, and think that has improved a bit. My swim fitness is definitely better. And, perhaps most importantly, I've had several "ah ha" moments over the past couple weeks when I finally felt like I understood what the catch and pull was supposed to feel like. They were brief moments, generally no more than 100-200 yards. But I think it's a significant sign that something is starting to connect.

February's swim training culminated with a 5,000 yard pull endurance swim on February 28th. I felt comfortable and smooth throughout despite fatigue and finished in 1:21:19. It was a nice, steady swim with only 20 seconds difference between the fast and slowest 1,000 yard "laps." Now, to double that distance in the next 40 days.

For March, I intend on trying to maintain the 20,000 yards per week target, but doing so in 5 days of swimming per week instead of 7 days. The first week of March, I'm resting a bit from the swim as I reintroduce running into my schedule. But by the second week, I hope to be back at 20,000 yards.

February Running

February was all about rest and recovery for running. I ran the Ancient Oaks 100 Mile Ultramarathon in mid-December. I tried to run the 100 miler at Skydive Ultra at the end of January...a big, fat fail. February was to include very little running, a bit of walking and mostly just letting sore joints and ligaments heal.

I succeeded in my goal. I didn't walk or run for the first two weeks. On February 14th, I completed my first measured walk at pace. Then I ran four times easily for 30 minutes between the 14th and the 29th. Nothing intense. Nothing of length. Just real easy recovery runs.

As I head into March, I plan to try an entirely new running plan. I'm going to run more frequently, six days per week, but for shorter distances. And I'm going to do something new for me, speed work. The plan is three bona fide recovery runs per week, two runs with intensity (Tuesday Fartleks, Thursday tempo), and one sorta long run. I'll do this for a few months until I want my training to become more specific and long in preparation for Daytona 100.

February Biking

I haven't been biking since the Great Floridian. Maybe 10 hours total in the saddle in the past four months. February's goal was to reestablish a habit of biking, nothing more. I kind of succeeded.

I have formed a good habit of jumping on the bike trainer every Tuesday and Thursday after my kids finish their swim team training and before they head to bed. These have been short and easy sessions, 30 minutes to an hour, with the sole purpose of getting back on the bike. I wasn't perfect about hitting these sessions in February, but did do them much more often than not. I plan to continue this into March.

I also compelled myself to join a Sunday longer group ride twice in February. Nothing super long (40 and 60 miles), but again getting back on the bike regularly. I also don't need a ton of length with no Ironman planned in 2016. I do need to keep building bike fitness and comfort as I look to Ultraman in 2018.

However, February wasn't a complete success with biking. I had hoped to start bike commuting to work once or twice per week, 20 miles each way. I haven't done it. I haven't even brought the bike I want to use for that to Tune Cycles to get it ready. I think I'd enjoy this commuting, but I'm also quite concerned about car traffic. I've just seen too many stories about people (including some I know) getting hit by cars behaving stupidly. I'm still struggling with how to proceed on this idea.

Beautiful sunrises help make the bike more bearable

But, overall, I'll take it. I'm back on the bike with some regularity. The joy for biking isn't there (perhaps a symptom of trainer riding) and it feels like a chore. Hopefully, with some more time in the saddle, that changes.

February In Review

Overall, I think February training went quite well. I'm feeling recovered from overdoing the running exploits, I'm back on the bike a little and I've made a ton of progress with swimming. Swimming the 10K at Swim Miami feels far more doable than it did a month ago. Another month of good yardage should really help out. I'll be slow, but I'll probably make it to the finish.

February was a success...on to March. More swimming, and the sweet return of running!

Anatomy of a DNF

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Sun, 31 Jan 2016 15:08:00 +0000

When you're out to push your limits, eventually those limits will smack you in the face.

This weekend I participated in the Skydive Ultra 100 mile ultramarathon. I didn't finish. I didn't even get close. It was pretty much a disaster. And I should have seen it coming.

Since I completed my first 100 mile ultramarathon at Ancient Oaks six weeks ago, I had done very little training. This was intentional. I had gotten pretty beat up at Ancient Oaks and tried to take lots of time to recover. Very little running. Not much intensity. But lots of time swimming and some biking to keep up fitness.

Race Preparation

I had been running some, however. My biggest difficulty at Ancient Oaks was blisters on the balls of my feet. As I prepared for Skydive Ultra, I focused on figuring out that blister issue. I read Fixing Your Feet and spoke with blister experts. On several of my training runs, I tested taping techniques, ENGO patches and different socks. I felt good about the blister situation. I felt like I had a handle on it.

I also put in just a couple hard runs to see how recovery was going, to see how my body was feeling. These runs included some intensity, but were kept short...under seven miles. I completed a couple long-ish runs, but without intensity. While I felt some creaking joints and discomfort on some of those runs, I always came away thinking I was recovering well and ready for Skydive Ultra.

The DNF

I always knew there was a chance things wouldn't go well at Skydive. Right after Ancient Oaks, I thought about dropping out of the race. I had gotten pretty beat up during that first hundred. During the first couple weeks of recovery, I thought about moving to the 50 mile race. But eventually, I felt like I was in a place to take a shot at 100 miles and didn't seriously consider that I'd DNF.

The race began great. Skydive Ultra had a new course this year, a 7.25 mile loop. I was committed to not making the mistake I made at Ancient Oaks, going out way too fast. The first loop felt great. My pace was perfect, I felt strong, I was running right at the pace I wanted and it felt absolutely effortless. My feet felt great and taping technique seemed like it would really do well. I had zero inclination of what was about to come.

Lap two started like the first, strong and feeling great. However, about 1 mile in, my left knee began to hurt...a lot! And the pain was increasing rapidly. Within another mile, the pain was so significant that I couldn't run any longer. But I could walk. And I could walk fast, 12 to 13 minute miles. Walking was completely pain-free and, in fact, the faster and harder I walked, the better my knee felt. I began considering my options: drop out of the race since I couldn't run or keep walking and see if I can finish the race that way. I kept walking. I finished my second lap, then my third, then my fourth and the pace kept up. The knee was getting sore even when walking, but I could keep moving well.

That all ended on the fifth lap. My pace slowed and the knee became very painful even when walking very casually. A 16 minute mile, then an 18 minute mile, then a 21 minute mile; all at intensity and pain levels similar to the 13 minute miles in the previous laps. The writing was on the wall. I could keep moving, and it was fast enough to finish under the race cut-off. But it was utter misery. I took a break at the mid-loop aid station and considered dropping out there, then decided that I'd at least finish my lap. I could barely move as I began walking again until my knee loosened up. Then more 18 to 20 minute miles. I eventually arrived at the end of the loop and decided to take 30 minutes before dropping out to really consider that decision.

30 minutes later and only 36 miles into my race and I dropped. My first DNF.

And I should have seen it coming.

"Sore Left Knee..."

In retrospect, it was so plainly obvious I wasn't ready for this race. I simply didn't listen to my body. This is exemplified by one training run and my Strava entry for that run. 16 days before the race, I went out for a higher intensity run to see how I was feeling.

The title for my run says it all:

There it is, plain as day. My "are you broken test" reveals a sore left knee, yet I wrote it off as nothing. That sore knee should have been the big blinking red light telling me to reconsider racing. I missed it. I probably would have missed it had it hit me in the face.

The DNF was predictable if only I had been paying attention.

What's Next

So, I've been taught an important lesson (well, actually several, but I'll save those for another day.) That lesson, listen to my body! If I go for a test run and something doesn't feel right, listen to that signal. That's the first "next" for me. I'm going to become much better at paying attention.

But what else? This DNF is going to be fire. My next 100 mile race, I'm going to really prepare instead of winging it. I've got blisters figured out. I feel good about nutrition. Next I'm going to pick a race and follow a serious periodized training plan. And I'm going to nail the darn thing. I'm thinking Daytona 100 in December might be perfect.

But first, I plan to take a couple months off running to really allow my body to heal and to learn how to swim well, finishing with a 5K or 10K swim at Swim Miami. Then it will be time to focus on nailing a 100 miler.

Until then, you'll find this sticker on the back of my car. A little reminder to keep that fire lit.

2015 Review and 2016 Preview

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Thu, 31 Dec 2015 13:21:00 +0000

2015 was a huge year from a fitness perspective for me. Perhaps not "cheap", but my goal of seeking fitness was certainly met. I pretty much met all my goals in terms of fitness during the year, and I tacked on a monster bonus achievement at the end of the year.

The 2015 race list:

Skydive Ultra 50 Mile ultramarathon - 10:43.07
DTR Endurance Challenge 50K ultramarathon - 5:29.03
Pompano Power 5K Open Water Extreme Ocean Swim - 2:25.01
Great Floridian 140.6 Triathlon - 12:53.49
Ancient Oaks 100 Mile ultramarathon - 29:41.51

I don't race much, and prefer training to racing. But I had two major goals for 2015: 1) complete my first ultramarathon, and 2) complete the Great Floridian iron distance triathlon. The first goal was met in January at Skydive Ultra. The second goal was met in October. Those two pieces alone made for a successful year, especially once I discovered I had placed in my age group at the Great Floridian Triathlon.

2015 was a success. Perhaps not as cheaply as I would have liked, but a success. I met my goals. I actually did well in my races. I didn't experience any major injuries. I began planning for 2016, and set one major goal...complete a 100 mile ultramarathon.

Then I got invited to Ancient Oaks 100 Mile ultramarathon...4 days before the race. I went for it because why the hell not. Then I finished (in large part to the help of others!) A monster bonus achievement! It wasn't pretty. It wasn't fast. Recovering from the race has been slow. But whoda thunk I'd sneak in a 100 miler into my first real year of endurance events? WOO!

What of 2016?

Then came the let-down. I had for a couple months been building up my big goal for 2016, to finish my first 100 mile ultramarathon. I had a plan in place. I'd take my first shot at 100 miles at Skydive Ultra in January. Knowing many fail at their first attempt at 100 miles, I had planned to take a second shot in December at Daytona Ultramarathon. But now that goal, that first 100 miler, had disappeared.

Post-race blues were magnified. I couldn't run while I recovered from the 100 mile effort (I still can't run with any intensity or length.) I was done reaching a massive goal...a journey had ended. And I no longer knew what to make of 2016. I needed to figure out what to do for 2016 and get my mind focused on that...and quickly!

I haven't quite finished formulating my 2016 fitness plans, but have a basic outline. First, the big new goal for 2016 is to run my first multi-day race. A multi-day race is a whole different beast than single day races, and I love the idea of pursuing something new. I'm considering the Race Across Georgia, but haven't made a decision yet and am hoping something more local materializes.

In 2016, I also continue to plan to build toward racing Ultraman Florida in 2018. Toward that goal, I plan to participate in a one or two half ironman triathlons and perhaps a seriously long open water swimming event. I'm also going to go to Skydive Ultra at the end of January and give 100 miles another shot. Assuming I'm well-recovered from Ancient Oak, I'm going to take many of the lessons and make a sub 24 hour finish a real goal. That will require figuring out problems with my feet and blisters and being much more cognizant of the amount of time spent in aid stations. I estimate I spent at least 3 hours at aid stations during Ancient Oaks. Finally, I'm still considering Daytona 100 at the end of the year. I'd like to give the 100 mile distance a shot with real preparation, planning, a good taper and see what happens. However, if things go well at Skydive, I may go the opposite direction for the remainder of the year and focus on shorter distances and speed...perhaps find out what I can do in an open marathon with solid training. (I've never run a marathon.)

2016 will also include spending more times with my kids on fitness. My son loves triathlon and wants to start a kids' triathlon club. I may look into this with him. He and I will definitely be running his and my first 5K together. My daughter is not a big fan of fitness, although she tolerates swimming reasonably well. I plan to explore different sports and fitness endeavors with her in 2016 to see if we can find something she enjoys more.

2016 For This Blog & Myself

In 2016, I'll continue using this blog as a space to write about my fitness endeavors. However, I'm also going to add posts here about whatever strikes me worth writing about. It could be fitness related, or completed unrelated to fitness. This space is just going to become a place for me to scratch out thoughts on whatever strikes my fancy. In fact, I've set out a few non-resolutions for 2016, more habits than resolutions, that I look to do more of in the new year. This blog will be a space to achieve some of those habits. So, I leave you and 2015 with my non-resolutions for 2016:

Sleep more and eat better.
Put down the phone & laptop more often, and enjoy people & nature more frequently and fully.
Read books on paper (I love the convenience of ebooks, but have found I just read much less than I used to since I switched to ebooks.)
Write...every day. Even if it's garbage. Just write.
Reengage with my profession.

Ancient Oaks 100 Ultramarathon - Lessons and Such

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Tue, 22 Dec 2015 14:29:00 +0000

2015 ended with a bang for me on the fitness front. The Tuesday of race week, I received an invitation to Ancient Oaks 100 Mile Ultramarathon. Mental and physically unprepared, deep in training and untapered, no crew or pacers lined up and without equipment and nutrition nailed down, of course I accepted the invitation for my first attempt at the 100 mile distance. A completely irrational and possibly irresponsible decision.

I had heard so much about this race, about how special it was, I simply couldn't pass up the chance to run it. Plus, while I wasn't specifically trained to run 100 miles, I did still have ironman fitness and was four weeks into a 100 mile race training block. I wasn't completely unprepared.

That's a forced smile...I hurt

As I did early in the year with the DTR Endurance Challenge 50K, I'm going to write about the lessons from this race instead of a formal race report. But first, I have to send out a special thank you to a person who I credit almost 100% with my finishing. I arrived at the race with no crew and no pacer. Becky La Baron simply adopted me at around mile 48 and paced me nearly the entire way to the finish.

100 miles is serious business, fitness alone won't cut it. - I'm fit. Probably as fit as I've ever been in my life. I thought that would be enough to carry me through 100 miles. And the reality is, my fitness was strong enough for the distance. I ran well for the first 50 miles, and then fell apart due to a variety of other reasons not fitness related. Poor nutritional choices, blisters (my god, the blisters!), bad pacing and no game plan, mental unpreparedness all came back to haunt me in the race. My preparation was basically to throw everything I could think of in the back of my car, every pair of running shoes and socks and clothes and food, and just keep trying stuff throughout the race. Kinda the kitchen sink approach...not a great plan. If I ever decide to run 100 miles again, I'll focus at least as much on the non-fitness things as I will on the fitness. 100 miles is serious business. Lackadaisical attitude isn't going to cut it.
Racing on a whim ain't the smartest idea - So, I said above I'm fit. Sure, it's true. But I wasn't 100 mile run fit. I had raced the Great Floridian Triathlon less then two months ago, and carried that fitness with me. I was just four weeks into building for my first 100 mile attempt at Skydive Ultra at the end of January. I didn't have ultramarathon-specific fitness despite being pretty fit. Second, since I only received my invitation four days in advance of the race, I hadn't tapered. In fact, the Friday/Saturday/Sunday before the race, I had put in serious run mileage as a part of my Skydive Ultra training. So, not only not tapered, but I was actually pretty heavily fatigued going into the race. At shorter distances, general fitness might be sufficient and not being tapered might be manageable. At 100 miles, those things just accumulated to conspire against me.
Going out too fast really can destroy a race. - I went to Ancient Oaks with no expectations. I didn't expect to finish, but kinda hoped I could. I didn't have any expectations for pace or finishing time. I decided to go so late that I simply arrived free of expectations. And when I began running, I found the trail to be so much fun that I hammered the pace for about three laps (~10 miles.) It was just too beautiful and fun and without expectations I could do whatever I wanted. I knew it would come back to haunt me later in the race, but didn't really know if I'd ever make it to later in the race...no expectations. Well, that 10 mile block took me about 1 hour and 40 minutes to finish. I completed the first 33 miles of the race in 7 hours. And then proceeded to slow down dramatically, requiring another almost 23 hours to finish the next 67 miles. I went from running sub 9 minute miles to crawling along at 19 minute miles. So that whole "don't go out to fast" thing...yeah, that's really a thing. Lesson learned.
Motivation to continue comes from weird places - I didn't arrive at Ancient Oaks with a steely-eyed resolve to finish. I was prepared to DNF and simply view the race as a training run for Skydive Ultra. But I finished. And motivation to continue despite a strong desire to quit came from some very unlikely places. One motivation was the continued nudges from Becky. She wasn't letting me quit. Plus, by mile 80 or so, after Becky had herself put in 30+ miles pacing me to a finish, I began to feel guilty even considering quitting. She had sacrificed tremendously to help get me that far. I owed it to her to finish. Another place I drew motivation from was the race itself. Ancient Oaks is a bit unusual. The race is held on an ancient nature sanctuary and the people who run the sanctuary are very protective of it. So, the race stays small and cannot be a commercial venture. The race has no entry fee and only about 60 people get to race each year. I felt that, having accepted my invitation, I owed it to race director Mike Melton and to anyone who didn't get to participate because I accepted the invitation to finish. There were lots of other little moments of motivation (e.g. I hated the idea of quitting, finishing 2015 with a hundo would be cool, etc...) along the way, but these were the two unexpected biggies. I never expected to feel like I owed others the finish, but that sense of owing became the ultimate motivator.
Fixing my feet - I have a huge problem to figure out before I ever consider race a 100 miles again, my feet. I knew going in my feet would hurt tremendously. I knew my toes would eventually be miserable, they hurt even during longish training runs, and I'd likely lose several toe nails. I did not expect to have dramatic problems with blistering. Blisters are simply never an issue for me. The race was a completely different story. My feet hurt as expected, but I never had toe issues. I won't be losing toe nails and don't even have a black toe. But the blisters...oh the blisters. The sole of my right foot had a blister about the size of a tennis ball. My left foot had a matching, albeit slightly smaller, blister. And there were another dozen or so smaller blisters covering my feet. I'm frankly stunned that I was able to finish the race with these blisters. There were points late in the race I knew there was an issue, but I decided to simply continue and not remove my shoes for a look. Had I looked, that might have been the end of my race. If I ever hope to have a better 100 mile race, I need to figure this issue out. Was it a one-off due to lack of preparation? Perhaps. It's time to go to work on it.

There were tons of smaller lessons along the way, but these were the five biggies. #1 is perhaps the least and most surprising. I expected 100 miles to be difficult, but I really had no concept of what a different beast it is compared to any other race distance. There is simply no comparison.

A Few Word on The Enchanted Forest

Me, on a tree, feeling crappy

I can't end this sort of race report without a few words on the really spectacular setting for the race. The Ancient Oaks 100 is held in The Enchanted Forest Sanctuary in Brevard County. The trail was a roughly 3.5 mile long mix of sand, single track trail and wooden path. And it was spectacular. The oak trees were stunningly large and old (likely the reason for the race name.) One section ran through a tunnel of 15 foot tall saw palmettos. At night, hogs could be heard rooting and snorting in the bush. It was like stepping back in time. It was truly magical at times.

Despite what was a tremendously difficult race, I'm so glad to have gone. The race was spectacular, the people involved were incredible (thank goodness for the wonderful volunteers...heroes!), the huge contingent of spectators who came just to hang out with us were constantly motivating, and the sanctuary was stunning. Finishing the 100 miles may be the least exciting part of all the positive at this race.

I'll finish with one final lesson. It's a lesson learned at this race again, but really throughout 2015. Impossible is an excuse. 18 months ago, I would have told you with absolute certainty that it would be impossible for me to finish a 50 mile ultramarathon or an ironman-distance triathlon or a 100 mile ultramarathon. Within 11 months, I've completed all three. Yes, of course, there are genuinely impossible things. I can't turn into a shark or jump to the moon. But by and large, impossible is an excuse to not try the epic.

Daytona 100 "Race" Report

noreply@blogger.com (Nathan Gehring) — Wed, 11 Nov 2015 01:33:00 +0000

Well, this is a report about a race. But I didn't race in it. Instead, I jumped to the other side of the aid station and volunteered at the inaugural Dayton 100 ultramarathon. And I learned so much. And I left so afraid. And I'm completely in awe of the spirit, resilience, strength and determination shown by so many of the people who raced. These are my thoughts about all those things, and about where I might go with this blog in the future.

Learning

43 Hours Later

I learned volunteering at an ultramarathon is really, REALLY hard. My role at the race was as on-course support rolling along with the middle of the pack on their 100 mile journey, offering assistance where need, making sure unmanned coolers had ice and water, providing assistance to aid stations that needed it, keeping an eye on runners. Doesn't sound too difficult until you realize these duties needed to be provided from 8AM Saturday until race close at noon on Sunday, at times covering 50 miles. It ain't no easy task

I had the good fortune of being involved in a very organized race. The race director, Dave Krupski, is a very experienced ultramarathoner and brought that experience to the race. Aid station extraordinaire, Susan Anger, organized all of us volunteers and kept the train rolling down the track from Jacksonville to Daytona Beach. I had the good fortune of having my brother-in-law, Kris Kramer, agree to join me and help. He was a godsend and I would have jumped ship had he not been along.

Sleep deprivation was a constant battle. I made the unwise decision to sleep in my car the night before the race (we arrived to Altantic Beach very late and a hotel room just didn't seem to make sense for three hours of sleep, at best) and there was very little sleep to an unseasonable hot night...a theme for later in the race. So, Friday night I slept perhaps an hour, my brother-in-law maybe an hour longer. Then the race began and there weren't many moments to rest. We got to hop in a bed in Dayton for two hours Sunday morning, and both of us grabbed some short naps along the way. But all in all, we slept perhaps five hours over a 48 hour period. Sleep deprivation is an interesting thing. Everything became hysterical from the mundane observation that a bathroom was clean to the absurd like the litany of drunks wandering around and fighting in Daytona at midnight.

And it wasn't just Kris and me who suffered and scarified. There were dozens of other volunteers who put in equal or more effort than we did to keep runners going, to keep people safe and to make the event great.

Suffice it to say that I learned how much effort sacrifice volunteers put in at races. I learned that I will more resolutely go out of my way to thank each volunteer, to shake their hands and to make sure they know they're appreciated and their sacrifice is recognized.

Afraid

I'm signed up for my first shot at a 100 mile ultramarathon at Skydive Ultra in January. Frankly, I'm pretty convinced I won't finish. I'm afraid of what it takes to finish having watched so many runners suffer and continue for hours and hours at Daytona. I'm afraid of the pain. I'm a baby. I've never had to suffer severely during any previous race. Heck, I've barely dealt with pain in those races! I cannot imagine enduring hours upon hours of misery. I'm afraid. We'll see how it goes in January, but I'm afraid

Spirit, Resilience, Strength, Determination

This was the biggie. I was blown away by the spirit of the racers, the spirit of volunteers and the spirit of crews. This was simply humans being human without the bullshit; wanting to help one another to reach a silly and yet important goal. Whether it was a foot rub for a runner who was suffering from sore feet, or a bottle of water being shared from one runner's crew to another, or just a hug when a runner felt low; the humanity and connection among all of us was so clearly on display. And, yes, there were moments when that spirit was broken when a runner couldn't continue and had to bow out. But in those moments, others came to pick them up and make sure they were ok and get them out of the sun to a safe place. It was so encouraging in a world where we're bombarded with all the terrible humans do.

The resilience and strength and determination of runners to continue in the face of dramatic pain, of harsh conditions (near record highs, no relief from the sun, horrible humidity), of blistered toes and upset stomachs, of hallucinations, of sheer exhaustion was absolutely incredible. As I said above, I don't have these things. I'm certain I'll fail at my 100 mile attempt. I've been able to rely on modest genetic gifts and not had to suffer in this way. And I am absolutely in awe of those who can suffer in so, and who choose that suffering in order to be reward with the gifts on the other side. I want to know what makes these people function, how they make the decision to continue when every instinct and every indicator says stop. How do they continue when the mere act of standing brings tears to their eyes...and there were many tears shed at Daytona 100. I don't understand it, and it's fascinating to me.

In fact, I'd love to speak with these people and write here about what drives them. I'm a supremely quiet person and not one to reach out to someone to speak, but I may just try doing so just to scratch this curiosity about these people. I'd love to learn about and share their motivation, share what they think about at that moment they want to quit, learn what drives them to give it a shot in the first place.