It is not about the finish, it is all about the struggle. W.J.
Talking Man - Byron
Half of the Best Crew Ever
Awesome Erin
Other half of Best Crew Ever
All bad things begin with Drum. Every once in a while they turn out good. I admire Drum for her infectious spirit more than she can possibly imagine. When she found out I was going to do Lean Horse she offered to be a pacer for me. I told her I appreciated the offer but I didn’t think I could bear the guilt of having her travel to South Dakota if I dropped from the race. In true Drum form she signed up for the 50 mile, gets Greg and Kevin to sign up for the event, and somehow convinces Erin and Byron to crew.
The TX gang is all here on Friday afternoon. It is HOT in Hot Springs, South Dakota. Not a HOT bed of a metropolis, just big blue sky hot. We all pushed our limits by training in the heat and humidity during the summer and think we are prepared. It’s only 100 miles for me, 50 miles for the dynamic duo (Greg and Drum), and an easy 50 kilometer fun run Kevin.
I’m in bed by 8:30 p.m. This has to be the quietest hotel I’ve ever stayed in. It helps when all of the guests are running an ultramarathon the next morning. I’m up at 3 a.m. for the pre-race rituals. Eat, lite stretch, and coffee. I turn on the TV and the movie Jerry McGuire is playing. It’s the scene where Tom Cruise is on the phone shouting “Show me the money!” and “I love the black man!” It’s one of my favorite movie scenes. I’m thinking it’s going to be a great day for a 100 mile run.
I walk next door to the convention center to catch the bus to the start line. The TX gang is all smiles and happy faced. Slapping hands and hugging. We are actually looking forward to getting our respective event started. All thinking happy thoughts, “Did you hear it might rain this afternoon? It will not be so HOT after all.” Kevin says it’s time to get on the bus. What the race director really said is, “Sorry folks, the busses are not coming. Every one find a ride to the start line.” Thankfully we have a two member crew (the fantastic Byron and Erin) and cars. We find a pair of stray runners, load them into the car, and head out to the start line at mile 16 of the Mickelson Trail.
I find myself in the middle of nowhere on a rails to trails course at sunrise. As I stand in the middle of the nervous energy of the runners I’m thinking, “What have I done to myself now.” The landscape is beautiful. Rolling prairie leading to the pine covered Black Hills of South Dakota. The temperature is cool, there is a slight breeze, and not a cloud in the sky. My head is in the game. I have done my part. I trained hard, I did my homework, and I have a great running plan. Let’s get it on!
It is a no frills start as almost all trail runs are. 10-9-8…2, 1 GO! Just like that a long line of runners heads out on the White Line. I feel great. Runners are chatting about where they are from, goals for the race, all the training they have done, and the weather. The first few aid stations are quick in and outs. Top off the water bottle, grab some food for the trail, and thank the volunteers. The volunteers and assorted crews at the aid stations did a fantastic job throughout the day, night, and following morning. Somehow they just seemed to know what I needed before I could even think of it. One runner’s support crew adopted me and took to calling me NEON. How awesome is that!
At the Pringle aid station I make my second tragic mistake (the first was waking up). I had placed several post-it notes with Erin’s cell number in a Zip-lock bag with my I-pod. The notes were pre-printed with, “The WJ is at mile ….” I handed one of the notes to a nice lady and asked her to text Erin. This is how I communicated my initial update at Pringle Station. Stupidly, I placed the notes back into the Zip-lock bag and into my drop bag. No more updates would be made and the use of tunes for a distraction forever lost.
While departing Harbach Park aid station (mile 28ish) I am stilling running well and feeling great. Consistent 9:15 to 9:30 miles, exactly what my running plan called for. A half mile out from Harbach Park I turn onto a short 1.5 mile out and back spur. In less than 3 miles I’m out of water and the first wave of nausea sets in. Thankfully the race director has set out a self-service water only aid station when I return to the trail. I take 3 papaya tablets and chase them with water. I have 5 miles to the Mountain aid station.
It’s called Mountain aid station for a reason. It’s a 5 mile climb to the high point of the course. It’s a little after noon and the never ending hill is killing me. No shade and the temperature feels like it’s rising 10 degrees for every mile. The nausea sets back in, I start walking, and start conserving water. Just before reaching Mountain I see several teenagers walking down the hill carrying water and cups. Sometimes small miracles have major impacts. By the time I reach Mountain I’m convinced my day is over and I will not have even finished half the race. For a brief delusional moment I hope I might see Byron or Erin, knowing good and well that it’s not my turn.
Sometimes the best race day plan is not good enough. The best ever training program is all for naught. The endless miles and miles of running day after day after day comes down to a pivotal decision. Do I quit or do I continue? It’s a big mental challenge. One I believe you must experience and overcome in training to know if, when, or how to continue. I opted to sit it out for a while and take in as much fluid as possible before heading back out. After 30 minutes I pulled myself together and got my ass back on the trail. Two things got me going. First, from that moment forward I no longer tried to go 100 miles. I only wanted to go from one aid station to another. Each aid station became a small victory and many small victories ultimately became a monumental accomplishment. Second, I had people waiting for me and I could not let them down. For some crazy reason that I don’t truly understand, the gang from Texas had become one with me. Had I been there alone I would have hitched a ride back to town.
I left Mountain feeling better about my condition and disappointed that the original 20 hour goal had become a lost cause. The run to the next aid station was mostly downhill and I regretted deeply that I must face the return to Mountain later in the day. 5 miles later at the next aid station I found a chair in the shade and sat it out for another 30 minutes. I thought if I stayed there long enough Byron and Erin would eventually find me and take me home. I kept muttering, “It is still not your turn for help. Greg and Drum haven’t finished.” I wasn’t angry at them, just trying to come to terms with the hard reality that I would be on my own for a lot longer. The next aid station was the turn and a chance for another small victory. “I can make the turn, all I have to do is get on the trail.”
Whatever is worse than extreme nausea – I have it. On the way to the turn the sun and heat are brutal. I agonize between walking and a slow jog. The whole time a refreshing creek mocks me as it flows alongside the trail. I kept looking for a place where I could get back out if I managed to haphazardly fall in. Anything to cool myself down and get off my feet. You can sense when a runner is hurting before you ever reach them. It was hard finding myself on the receiving end of, “Hang in there man,” and “Do you need anything,” and “Are you ok?” More than any other group of runners it is the ultrarunner that truly understands the physical and mental anguish the trail can deliver. The high level of camaraderie and compassion within this group is remarkable.
I reached the turn at mile 48. I’m certain if the turn had been at mile 50 I would have quit. I had to make it at least half way. I am exhausted and opt for another sit-down. An elderly lady waiting on her son asks me why someone would choose to run 100 miles. “Because it was the stupidest thing I could think of.” She laughed and walked away shaking her head. After 20 minutes, two salt caps, and a few more papaya tabs I’m back in business. On the way out an incoming runner asked how I was doing. Jokingly I replied, “Dead man running.” Little did I know that I would be starting the worst 5 mile experience of my life. The memory alone is painful and difficult to put down in words. Karma is a bitch.
I managed to make a half mile before I started walking. I could not think of enough good thoughts to run another step. I felt bad for myself and worse for the TX gang I carried inside. I had let them all down. The sun, dehydration, and altitude were winning and the WJ was losing badly. If I had a Post-It note the message to Erin would have been, “WJ is at mile 50 – SEND HELP!” Just past mile 50 I bent over a fence railing and started the first of many dry heaves. I would walk a 100 yards, double over, and heave. Each episode more heart wrenching than the last. I was rapidly disintegrating without any hope of recovery. Walking a straight line became an enormous challenge. I was determined not to pass-out in the middle of nowhere on a sun baked trail. I devoted every last ounce of energy and mental ability I had left on trying to walk in a straight line. In retrospect I’m convinced this extreme focus on one task and only one task broke the cycle of dry heaves. Again, a small miracle having a major impact.
As I turned into the Oreville aid station my adopted cheering squad was there, “Hey NEON – how’s it going!” Sadly, it was the last time I would see them. I think their runner eventually dropped. I never had the chance to say thanks for their kindness and generosity. I sat down in the same crying chair as before. Immediately upon sitting both legs (calves, hams, quads) and the right bicep severely cramped. The worst pain you can imagine. The slightest movement created one spasm after another. A volunteer brought me some coke. As soon as the coke touched my mouth the tongue started to cramp. I sat in the crying chair too tired to swat away the flies and watched runner after runner come and go. I was devastated. The next aid station is Mountain. To get there I will have to climb a 3 mile hill. Victory, if it came at all, would not come easy. I was absolutely certain the 24 hour cutoff could not be reached. 40 minutes went by faster than Mr. Bolt runs the 100 meters.
During the 40 minutes I drank 60 ounces of coke. I remember this really irritating lady telling everyone to eat bananas. She told me 2 or 3 times while I sat in the crying chair. When I finally stood up she started yapping at me again about bananas. I walked over to the table, filled my water bottle, and grabbed a banana for the trail. I ate that damn banana. Turns out bananas have magical powers – I WAS RUNNING!
I soon as I swallowed the last bite of banana the nausea was gone and the cramping never returned. I felt energized for the first time in a long while. An irritating banana lady and a coke - both small miracles with a major impact.
When I reached Mountain I felt like a super star. I was standing – not sitting at the aid station. Talking to the volunteers, and wishing runners well. A complete and total transformation. Guess who was at Mountain? That damn banana lady. I made her day when I thanked her for the banana advice. I never did see her again. While at Mountain I stuck with the miracle cure. 20 ounces of coke, fill the bottle with water, and a banana for the trail. It’s a recipe I stuck with for the next 43 miles.
I left Mountain running as well as I did in the beginning. Only happy thoughts. 5 downhill miles to Harbach Park (Custer SD). Surely Byron and Erin will be there. I cruised into the aid station. Two ladies said people were looking for me. More happy thoughts – help is nearby! I will not be defeated at Custer’s Last Stand.
The sun was beginning to set at Harbach Park. I was way behind the planned schedule. As an afterthought I had placed a flashlight in the Harbach Park drop bag, knowing I would not use it. Was the flashlight a crazy idea with no purpose or another small miracle?
I left Harbach Park with my banana and flashlight in hand. I believed I would crush the 24 hour cut-off. The trail is meant for night running. It is smooth, wide, no rocks, no roots, no ruts. While there was no moon to be seen the stars were magnificent. Several times I was compelled to stop running and gaze upward at the wonderment of the universe. For the longest time I thought there was a patch of light cloud cover. I finally realized what I had mistaken for clouds was actually the Milky Way. This moment on the trail was worth all of the afternoon’s the pain and suffering.
Somewhere on a lonely stretch of dark trail I see a headlamp coming towards me. I must be delirious. I hear a lunatic riding a bicycle shouting T-Roy!!! Where in the hell did he get a bike?! Byron you will never know how awesome a feeling it was to see a happy face and hear a friendly voice. Byron filled me with great stories on how well Kevin, Greg, and Drum did and told me about all the folks in TX following the gang’s progress. It was truly an inspirational moment. After a few minutes of running Byron and I made it to the Carroll Creek aid station. Erin is standing there with a big happy face smile, gives me a giant hug, and asks how I’m doing. I told Erin, “I would be crying right now if I had any fluid left in my body.” Erin, as I’m writing this on the flight back to DC I’m actually shedding tears. Thank you so very much for being there.
For a blonde – Erin has some brains. She snatched my drop bag from Pringle and brought it with them during their search for me. My head lamp and FRESH SHOES! Major league happy thoughts now. While I was hugging Erin, Byron is running around getting me a chair, telling me to sit down, pulling of the shoes, and getting the FRESH SHOES on. How great is that for a crew?! After another 20 ounces of coke and an I love you to Erin and Byron, I was back on the trail – banana in hand!
Only 30 or more miles to go.
There are no witnesses and I’ve been told that somewhere between Carroll and Pringle I saw two full moons on a moonless night. Small miracle or emerging porn star?
Next stop is Pringle. I have been doing really well for the past 20 miles. I feel like the pace has picked up. I’m actually going by road kill instead of being run over. Mindful of my earlier lesson I do my best to make sure the other runners in the brotherhood are OK before moving on. Erin and Byron have the routine down pat. Fill bottle with ice and coke, when empty fill with water, lift ass out of chair, place banana in hand. Byron tells me the rest of the TX gang will be waiting for me at Argyle. Another emotional boost! I now know I own this race, I will finish, and I will damn well do it RUNNING!
This time when I see the headlamp I know Byron has found another bike. Very exciting to have company again! I let him know I need my stash of Icy Hot. The knees and legs have finally had enough. I just need to coax a little more work out of the toothpicks. Byron rides ahead and has a chair waiting with the Icy Hot. Right away he starts rubbing down the legs. A coke magically appears in my hands. Byron looks at Erin and says, “You’re the massage therapist you should be doing this.” In an instant Erin is on her knees working my legs. “Do your legs always feel like this?” she asks. The best response I can manage after 76 miles is a palms up - dumb ass grin. I can’t even remember what happened two minutes earlier let alone what lumps and bumps might exist in muscle tissue. The quick leg massage lessened the oncoming pain. Next thing I know I’m on my feet with banana in hand.
The next two stops are under 4 miles each. Why I find this motivating is beyond me. Nevertheless I take off and run some of the fastest miles of the day. I over thought the short distance to the Lime Kiln (a.k.a Key Lime Pie by Byron and Erin) aid station. I started to worry about what a large consumption of bananas was going to do to my intestines. How many bananas can a person eat and still survive? At Key Lime Pie I decided to forgo the banana. I chugged a coke, drank some chicken broth and headed out to Argyle. Passing on the banana turned out to be a mistake. It didn’t take long for the stomach to start turning over again. I reached for my supply of papaya tabs and kept moving. By now Byron’s mantra, “Forward progress, keep moving!” is forever imprinted on my brain. I just kept saying forward progress keep moving over and over. Eventually I made it to Argyle.
Just before Argyle the legs were beginning to revolt for a second time. Erin jumped in again and rubbed down the legs. I stood up and the legs felt much better. Erin’s magic hands made sure this massage treatment would last to the end. The dreaded Argyle road was next. A twisty, hilly, gravel coated monster. I left the aid station in good spirits. Only 16ish miles remained, I was certain the TX gang would arrive soon, and I had a banana in hand.
As soon as I turned onto Argyle road guess who I found? The TX gang! More motivation, more pep talks, happy faces, and picture taking. I’m going to kill this road. This is my last trek to run solo. At the Morph station Byron joins me for the final 10ish miles. The man can talk. I only had to be with him for 10 miles. I can’t imagine 58 hours in a car with him. Erin, how did you do it? People will want to know your secret! Truthfully, the constant positive banter and conversation took my mind off the run. I was able to maintain forward progress and keep moving without having to concentrate on running. I felt like I was on an easy Saturday morning run from the club with a couple of RAW runners.
One aid station left before the finish. I am running out of my mind. I must have been because I just kept running. I blew through the Coldbrook stop with the TX gang just standing there watching. Byron stopped to fill my water bottle, ran back to join me and we knocked out the final 4 miles. What a great feeling knowing the end was at hand.
Erin jumped down on the bike path for the final 50 yards to the finish. Having Byron and Erin finish with me was important. They had sacrificed in order for me to succeed. I do not believe it is a debt that I can ever repay.
After the finish. It's all good now.
While I am thrilled to have finished, it is not the finish I care about. Somewhere out there on a desolate trail in South Dakota I found a lost piece of myself. The struggle had to be so great that it forced me to look deeper into my soul than ever before. The challenge within was by far more difficult to accept and overcome than the physical challenge of the run. Hopefully I’m a better person for having survived the experience.
