DNF: Umstead 100 Mile Endurance Run 4/6/13 (Race Report)

On April 6, 2013, I had a DNF (Did Not Finish) at the Umstead 100 Mile Endurance Run when I dropped out of the race at Mile 37.5 due to Achilles injuries. 

Photo courtesy of Ashby Spratly

The Umstead 100 Mile Endurance Run consists of a 12.5-mile course that participants must complete eight times to earn the finisher’s buckle, and the terrain of finely packed gravel roads up and down rolling hills through the beautiful forests of William B. Umstead State Park in Raleigh, North Carolina is a long-distance runner’s dream come true.  After completing my first 100-mile race on the rugged single-track trails of the Pinhoti 100 in Alabama this past November, I was eager to experience this course on luxuriously smooth roads where the technical trail obstacles that normally reduce me to a frayed mental state would not be a concern.  This Umstead event, which includes two elaborate aid stations and a handful of smaller unmanned water stops along the course, offers the ideal conditions for a race of this distance, and the dedicated volunteers actually outnumber the runners so that the needs of every participant are addressed with the utmost care. 

A 100-mile race under ideal conditions is still a 100-mile race, though, and the distance demands a level of training and respect that I did not properly acknowledge in the months leading to this event.  After completing Pinhoti 100 and the Pine Mountain 40 Mile Trail Run less than a month apart at the end of 2012, I was stopped in my tracks with an IT band injury that left me unable to complete any run longer than 10 miles for almost two months.  During this down time, I gave in to burnout and a loss of motivation, and I even broke from the Paleo eating lifestyle that had served me so well through the previous racing season.  I fortunately bounced back from my lull with new personal course records at the Mount Cheaha 50K in late February and at the Publix Georgia Marathon in March, but these improvements were too little and too late in the big picture of my Umstead 100 training.  On the morning of April 6, I showed up to a gunfight with a knife. 

I woke up two and half hours before the 6:00 AM race start after a surprisingly refreshing sleep in one of the historic four-bunk cabins less than a half mile from the start area.  The cabin, which lacked any heat or electricity, was cold in the 39-degree overnight weather, but my warm sleeping bag was comfortable, and, since none of the other three reserved roommates showed up, I enjoyed the dark solitude and the pleasant experience of dressing for the race without having to worry about waking others.  I could not have asked for better pre-race circumstances, and I was confident that my good luck would continue for the remainder of the weekend.  After catching up with friends inside the large main headquarters camp building, I walked out into the predawn darkness with my headlamp and made my way to the back of the pack of runners. 

I was in no hurry when the gunshot sounded to start the race, because I had planned for a conservative pace of three hours for each 12.5-mile lap from the beginning, with the intent of holding this pace as long as possible with enough flexibility to allow for slowing down even more after the first few laps and still making the 30-hour time limit.  Although Umstead 100 was billed as a much easier course than Pinhoti 100, I was cognizant of my less-than-stellar training this time around, and, as such, was adopting the same basic strategy that had led to my success at Pinhoti.  Run the first marathon in less than six hours, run the second marathon in less than seven hours, run the third marathon in less than eight hours, and finish the rest of the distance in less than nine hours.  After walking steadily up the first gradual hill, I settled into an easy plodding jog that would mark my fastest pace of the entire event. 

After leaving the half-mile road from the race headquarters, the course followed a 0.75-mile out-and-back Airport Spur side route with gentle gradual elevations and a view of the Raleigh airport in the distance.  Despite the easy topography, I reminded myself to take short walk breaks every couple of minutes to ensure a relaxed pace.  I was considerably more relaxed and cheerful along the first couple of miles of this course than I usually feel at the beginning of long races on more technical trails, and I enjoyed conversing with other runners around me as the morning sunlight appeared.  After turning around on the Airport Spur out-and-back and passing by the headquarters road, the route continued on the main Headquarters Spur for another mile and half before starting a counter-clockwise loop. 

Shortly after the beginning of the loop, I enjoyed a beautiful nonstop downhill run for one mile before I reached the bottom of a valley and crossed a creek bridge.  The smooth gravel road then climbed for a gradual one-mile ascent that was relentless enough to force everyone ahead of me to a walking pace.  I knew that there were a great many previous Umstead finishers competing in this race, so wisdom dictated that I should take walk breaks on the course whenever I saw everyone else start to walk.  I have never met a hill that I cannot walk, so I enjoyed the opportunity to hike along while meeting new friends.  I caught up with a couple of friends from previous races and enjoyed their company as we crested the hill and maintained alternating runs and walks on several subsequent lesser descents and climbs. 

A massive aid station on a bridge greeted us at the bottom of a hill just before Mile 7, and I was surprised to see every type of food imaginable underneath the series of tents.  I grabbed a couple of orange slices to supplement the Sport Beans that I had been eating at every half hour mark on my stopwatch and continued on.

The next two miles of the course, affectionately known as the Sawtooth Section, followed the smooth road up and down several steep climbs and descents through some scenic countryside above winding creeks and old trees that were still bare from the winter season.  Countless runners had advised me before this race to walk every single hill along the Sawtooth Section, and I quickly understood why.  Even at my brisk hiking pace, these short hills demanded respect. 

Photo courtesy of Mary Shannon Johnstone

Even along this toughest section of the course, I was overjoyed at how different the Umstead terrain was from any other ultramarathon that I had participated in to date.  Instead of constantly negotiating rocks or tree roots on narrow trails, I was able to turn my brain off and simply move forward on the smooth gravel roads that were wide enough to allow me to run alongside friends. 

The ease of the running terrain and my happiness at sharing the weekend with friends old and new kept me from being concerned when the Sawtooth section of the course summoned the initial warning signs from both of my Achilles tendons.  After finishing the Publix Georgia Marathon with my fastest time on that pavement course three weeks before, I had exercised lightly for a few days before enjoying a solo Saturday morning training run in the cold pouring rain, and returned home to discover an unusual tightness around my Achilles tendons on both legs.  The tightness in my left Achilles and lower leg had resulted in a mild heel pain similar to plantar fasciitis symptoms, while my right Achilles had swollen to a noticeable lump.  Knowing that my extended recovery from my IT band injury over the winter had reduced my fitness and slowed my recovery rate from long distances, I had taken advantage of the remaining two weeks before Umstead to massage both of my Achilles tendons with a foam roller on a daily basis while icing both legs at least twice a day.  The tightness in both of my lower legs gradually subsided as the race date drew closer, and I decided that I would be fine for a 100-mile attempt as long as I wore my compression sleeves.  The initial signs of Achilles tightness in my right leg and an increasing pain in my left heel as I approached the Mile 10 mark of this race did not go unnoticed, but I was confident that I would be okay as long as I kept my pace in check.  I looked down at my stopwatch and decided to slow my already-relaxed pace, since my stopwatch indicated that I was approaching a first lap time of two and half hours, faster than my preplanned three-hour lap times. 

After enjoying another extended gradual descent along the loop to a clear power line stretch at the bottom of a valley, I slowed to a walking pace to the hill climb that took me to the end of the loop and back to the Headquarters Spur that would take me back to the main aid station at the start/finish point of each loop.  After proceeding with a series of short run intervals and one-minute walk breaks on the rolling hills of the Headquarters Spur, I arrived at the end of the first lap in roughly two hours and 35 minutes.  I felt great at the end of this first 12.5-mile lap, but promised myself nonetheless to take my pace down another notch so that I would finish my second lap in roughly three hours.  I sat down at the main aid station for less than a minute to remove a small pebble from inside one shoe, and then continued down a hill from the headquarters while I greeted runners behind me on the out-and-back with smiles and high-fives. 

I returned to the Airport Spur out-and-back section mindful of the need to slow down even more, so I made sure to take walk breaks with increasing frequency.  Even at my reduced speed, I was still leapfrogging several friends on the course, and we all congratulated one another on great progress so far.  The temperature was steadily rising even during these morning hours, but I was still comfortable in my white long sleeved shirt. 

As I made my way back to the main loop and enjoyed the one-mile downhill stretch to the creek bridge once again, I caught up with two unfamiliar runners and soon found out that they had both finished Umstead a few times in previous years.  I stayed with these runners for the next couple of miles at a seemingly effortless pace, although the slight aches in my lower legs were noticeably worsening.  I assured myself that I was well on track for my plan of finishing the first marathon distance in six hours, and that I would then be able to relax my pace even more to stay on track for a strong finish.  I continued to take Sport Beans out of my vest pocket every half hour, and I soon decided to supplement this nutrition with a half-and-half mixture of Gatorade and water in my water bottle when I arrived at the halfway point aid station once again. 

My second trip through the Sawtooth section was more cautious, but no less optimistic, as I leapfrogged one friend by passing her on the hill climbs only to be passed again on the descents.  The weather was warming up, but I enjoyed the clear skies and beautiful scenery all the more as I turned out of the Sawtooth climbs and enjoyed the long downhill stretch to the open power line clearing.  I reminded myself that I needed to apply sunscreen before my third lap to protect myself in the open areas. 

During the final miles of the second loop, fatigue started to get the better of me, but I remembered that this was a routine lull for races of this distance and that, after all, I was about to reach a marathon distance.  The pain in my left heel had become more pronounced, and my right ankle was becoming uncomfortably tight, so I slowed occasionally to stretch the Achilles on both legs.  I finished my second loop in roughly two hours and 50 minutes, pleased that I had successfully slowed down as planned.  I was also starting to feel slightly dazed, though, and knew that my choice to slow down even more would not be a choice at all. 

I sat down for a couple of minutes at the main headquarters to gather myself, and was approached by one of the main helpful volunteers who refilled my water bottle and asked me if I wanted a hamburger from the aid station table.  The idea of consuming some protein at this point to alleviate my daze appealed to me, so I gratefully accepted the hamburger and ate it as I walked back out to the course.  In retrospect, I believe that I made a mistake eating a whole hamburger at Mile 25 when the noon hour was close at hand and the heat of the day was climbing to its peak, but logic does not always prevail when one has completed the first quarter of a long race while dealing with leg pain.  Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to stop at my drop bags, which were located at a tree stump alongside the course near my cabin, and change out of my white long sleeved shirt into one of my trademark fluorescent orange short sleeved shirts.  Sadly, I neglected to apply sunscreen from my drop bag, and I would later regret this oversight.

I walked the entirety of the Airport Spur out-and-back, since my right Achilles and my left heel were both hurting by this time, but I still summoned the strength to run on a couple of the short descents on the way out to the main loop.  When I reached the one-mile downhill, I jogged nonstop, hoping that the Achilles pain would magically go away.  I stopped running at the creek bridge which marked the lowest point of this stretch, and realized that my body temperature had shot up from the run.  I started the slow hike up the long hill climb, surprised at how hot the temperature seemed to be in the open area of the road, despite the fact that the weather predictions only called for highs in the 60s.  Apparently, I was not the only runner who was caught off guard by the early afternoon sun.  As I trailed behind two men, I saw one of them walk over to the side of the road and vomit while his friend stopped to make sure that he was okay.  Both men soon resumed walking and started reciting military cadences as they climbed the hill.  I soon caught up with them and wished them well as I passed by, only to see the two of them pass me minutes later on a subsequent downhill after the pain in my left heel forced me to a walk. 

I passed the Mile 31 mark of the course and gave myself a figurative pat on the back for finishing a 50K distance in seven hours.  I had completed almost one-third of a 100-mile course in only seven hours, and had 23 hours to complete the rest of the distance, but pessimism still washed over me in waves.  My training over the past several months had left me ill-equipped to spend the rest of the day on my feet, and I was realizing that my Achilles problems in both legs were more serious than I had previously imagined.  I have soldiered through enough ultramarathons to make a distinction between normal wear-and-tear physical pain and pain of a potentially debilitating nature. 

I was wincing with almost every step as I walked into the midpoint aid station, and one of the volunteers led me to a chair.  I accepted a chicken sandwich, but only ate a few bites.  The volunteer, who seemed to know exactly what I needed before I asked, told me that he was going to leave me alone for a minute or two so that I could simply enjoy sitting down, but that he would be watching in case I needed anything.  After a couple of minutes, I staggered up out of the chair to resume my march of pain.  The volunteer asked if I were okay, and I replied that I was alright to keep moving, although the last thing on Earth that I wanted to do at the time was leave the chair.  The volunteer must have read more into my expression, because he put his hand on my shoulder and asked me once again if I were really okay.  I thanked him profusely and told him that I would be fine to continue the rest of the lap. 

The ups and downs of the Sawtooth section were murder on my inflamed Achilles tendons and my pace had slowed to a deliberate walk, but those two miles of hilly road were otherwise uneventful.  I reached the end of the Sawtooth road and, when I turned out of the trees onto a road under the sun, I knew that this was going to be my final lap of the race.  I did not feel any sadness or regret at this epiphany.  The situation simply was what it was.  I was participating in an event that my poor winter training season had not prepared me to complete, and I was paying the price with my two injured Achilles tendons that had lost their conditioning for keeping me on my feet for this amount of time.  Runners have to respect the distance, because the distance does not forgive, and I had shown up for Umstead 100 without respecting the distance.  I ascertained that this third loop would take me a little less than four hours to complete, and that I would not make the 26-hour final lap cutoff if I continued to walk the course at that pace.  I had never voluntarily dropped out of a fixed-distance race before, but I knew that I would rather spend one month recovering from 37.5 miles than be pulled from the race at 87.5 miles and spend six months to a year recovering with the same end result of a DNF.  As if to prove the wisdom of my thoughts, my left heel exploded in pain when I stepped on a stray pebble on the smooth road. 

I reached the top of a gradual hill climb that completed the loop section to lead me back along the Headquarters Spur road and sat down for a couple of minutes on a bench next to one of the unmanned aid stations.  I felt my right calf underneath my compression sock and was dismayed to find that it had swelled to a golf ball size lump right above the Achilles.  My left Achilles was also inflamed, and, although no lump was present, the tendons hurt to the touch.  I shrugged, stood up, and continued walking.  Despite my pain, I still smiled and waved to encourage the runners who were approaching the main loop in the opposite direction.  This race was no longer about me, and I realized that I could at least offer helpful words to other runners. 

I had known all along that my chances at Umstead 100 were less than favorable, but I was still mildly annoyed at the degree to which I was falling short of even making a memorable dent in the distance.  I reminded myself that, up until a couple of years ago, I would have never imagined myself even completing 37.5 miles, and I was also happy that I would be completing 37.5 miles in roughly nine hours despite injury setbacks. 

I arrived at the main headquarters aid station and saw two friends from my local trail running group, Georgia Ultrarunning and Trailrunning Society (GUTS) standing by the route waiting to pace some other runners.  When they asked me how I felt, I shrugged and told them that I was done.  An unwritten rule among friends in my trail running group is that we do everything possible to talk runners out of dropping from races, and my friends encouraged me at least to go back out for one more loop to get credit for a 50-mile Umstead distance, and then see how I felt after that.  When I replied that I was dealing with a lot of Achilles pain, one of them helpfully suggested that I visit the massage tent inside the main headquarters building before making the decision to drop out.  This idea made good sense to me, and I complied. 

I passed through the electronic timers that marked the end of the lap, and walked into the headquarters to see Denise, a massage therapist whom I had known from several previous race events in the Carolinas, waiting with an unoccupied massage table.  She took a brief look at both of my lower legs, and expressed concern after I flinched when she touched the Achilles area on my left leg.  She called one of the EMT medical volunteers to look at the leg.  The EMT briefly inspected both of my inflamed Achilles areas and advised me that I needed to stop the race, ice my legs several times on the spot, and make my way to an Urgent Care Center to treat my left Achilles as soon as possible.  I assured her that I had dealt with Achilles tightness injuries a few times before, and that I would probably be fine after icing my legs and letting my legs heal for a couple of weeks.  One of the other EMT volunteers offered to take my electronic ankle timing band to the race officials and notify them that I was done.  My Umstead 100 race was over. 

I kept my lower calves on ice for 20 minutes as recommended by the EMT, then grabbed my headquarters drop bag to limp over to the shower building.  Along the way, I spotted Race Director Blake Norwood, thanked him for putting on a brilliantly-organized event, and promised that I would return to Umstead another year to take care of unfinished business when I was better trained for the challenge.  The walk to the shower area was not pleasant, but I was all smiles as I encountered friends and acquaintances, because I had an instinctive feeling that I had avoided a brush with a harmful long-term Achilles injury by stopping my race when I did.  I showered, dressed in everyday clothes, and returned to the headquarters area, where I spent the rest of the afternoon encouraging various friends who were resting between laps, and offering help wherever needed.  During this time, I occasionally made my way inside the main building to ice both of my legs periodically to reduce the inflammation. 

As early evening approached, I eventually made my way back to my isolated cabin, slept for nine hours in my sleeping bag as cold seeped between the boards of the cabin windows, and drove the six-hour trip back to Atlanta at the break of dawn the next morning with good music playing from the stereo speakers and mixed emotions wandering through my mind.  I resolved to enjoy two weeks of complete rest to see how both of my legs would recover with daily massage and stretching therapy.  Right now, six days after the event, my Achilles tendons still do not feel fully recovered, but the improvement is noticeable, I am walking around pain-free at work and during routine errands, and I can even stand and walk on tiptoes without trouble.  My next two weekends are going to feel strange without any training runs, but absence makes the heart grow fonder, and I know that I will feel better after the break.  I have no races for two months until my next event at the Chattanooga Mountains Stage Race in mid-June, so I have returned to fundamentals by taking time to reboot my Paleo lifestyle and return to optimum fitness over the next few weeks. 

My goals and strategies are evolving, and I have decided that I need to focus on slowly building up my endurance running skills through everyday training, instead of signing up for frequent races and using the races themselves as training runs.  For a long-distance runner, I have never really done a whole heck of a lot of running during normal non-race weekdays, and I believe that I will do well for myself by simply building up my weekly mileages for longer stretches between events to allow my body to develop its own tolerances to the mileage.  This will be a gradual process, and, in fact, it will likely be a lifelong process, but I am excited at the possibilities.  I have proven to myself that I can finish long distance races time and time again, but something that is worth doing is worth doing well, and I like the idea of training specifically for fewer key events each year instead of spreading myself thin with frequent events as I have done for the past few years. 

I am grateful that I did not back out of my Umstead 100 attempt as I had debated doing for weeks before the race took place, because I would have never known whether or not I was capable of completing the distance if I had not tried.  I had a fun vacation weekend at the Umstead State Park, and enjoyed meeting several new friends so that I can enjoy crossing paths with them at future races.  Ultrarunning has become a fulfilling activity in my life, and I would not trade the experiences for the world, even when reality drop kicks me to the floor when I show up ill-prepared for a race. 

Thanks to Race Director Blake Norwood and all of the Umstead organizers for one of the most fun events that I have had the pleasure of experiencing.  Thanks to the countless volunteers who were trained to sense what the runners needed before the runner themselves could.  Thanks to my friends old and new, who kept me company on those wide gravel roads. 

See you on the trails. 

Jason

Publix Georgia Marathon 3/17/13 (Race Report)

On March 17, 2013, I completed my fifth Publix Georgia Marathon with a finish time of 4:28:51, earning my second fastest marathon time and a new personal course record.



Minutes before the start of the Publix Georgia Marathon at Centennial Olympic Park in downtown Atlanta, I made my way my designated corral to look for the 4:10:00 Pace Team, with whom I had decided to run so that I could top my previous personal marathon record, 4:20:10, that I had earned at the 2009 Chickamauga Battlefield Marathon.  After searching for a short while for the trademark pace signs and realizing that there was no pace team to be found in the corral, I made a spur-of-the-moment decision simply to run happy with no specific pace in mind.  I would use my stopwatch to follow the Galloway intervals of four-minute runs and one-minute walks to keep some energy in reserve for the duration of the race, and just plow forward with no concern for a finish time.  With my orange clothing, I was showing a complete indifference to the Saint Patrick's Day holiday, so a similar dismissal of any pace goals suddenly seemed refreshing.

During the weeks leading up to this event, I had gradually overcome my burnout and started to rediscover the joy of running simply for the sake of running, with no competitive aspirations in mind.  This paradigm shift, driven by a combination of economic realities and a simple desire not to let my running seem like a job, has been governing my 2013 race schedule.  I have signed up for only half as many races as in previous years, and will be enjoying longer breaks between race events in the latter two-thirds of the year to prevent future burnout.  The idea of simply enjoying long runs on local routes with friends instead of crowding races together seems like the best idea for now.  My upcoming Umstead 100 race in early April that I signed up for during a rather overconfident phase this past fall has fallen from the pedestal of priorities, and I am approaching that event with a “Whatever happens will happen.” mindset.

As I approached the start line with my corral, I was amused at the sight of a few outlandish Saint Patrick’s Day costumes in the crowd, and told a few friends that people-watching would be my only goal of the day.  The Publix Georgia Marathon has always been a fun race for people-watching, even when it does not take place on a holiday.  The route twists, turns, and climbs through several prominent Atlanta landmarks where different volunteer aid stations compete for the most fun themes and designs, and where friendly faces can be found on every corner to encourage weary runners to keep moving.  The strong spirit of fun and commitment that the local running community invests into this race is what always brings me back, despite the peripheral hassles of an inconvenient race number pickup location, parking fees, and traffic.  Regardless of my level of fitness or lack thereof, I always find something to smile about when I cross the start line and am on the scenic course with a simple task of moving from one point to another in front of me.  Over the years, the Publix Georgia Marathon has become an outstanding local event.  Reminding myself just to enjoy the tour, I turned on my stopwatch and ran across the start timer.



The first two miles of this course are deceptively easy, as runners follow downhill roads out of downtown Atlanta and through Georgia State University.  After standing in 55-degree coolness for a couple of hours with friends at the start area, my body warmed quickly during my first few run intervals, and I knew that the rising temperatures would sneak up on me, as they always do each year during this late-March race.  Slow and easy is the name of the game on this gradual downhill stretch, though, and I enjoyed the relaxed effect of getting my mind around the feel of the race after the short warm-up.  I was not carrying any food or water with me on the course at all this time around, since past experience has taught me that I can usually find plenty of both along the route.  I took a couple of swallows of water at the Mile 2 aid station and kept running as the course descended to one of its lowest points on North Avenue before leading runners along a gradual uphill stretch to the historic Martin Luther King, Jr. neighborhood.

I always love running through the mix of historic buildings and revitalized construction along the Edgewood Avenue trek that leads the way to Little Five Points.  I heard a female voice along this section and discovered the source as I ran by a band that was fronted by an attractive blonde who was singing and playing keyboards.   I let my mind wander into the landscapes of infatuation for the next half mile or so before turning off of Edgewood Avenue into some beautiful Little Five Points neighborhoods.  I noticed at each subsequent mile marker that I was cruising along at just under 10-minute miles just by running comfortably and adhering to the intervals.  I knew that I would be thankful later on for not starting out too quickly, and I was soon grateful that I had failed to locate the 4:10:00 Pace Team before the race start.

A long and gradual hill to the Carter Center is the first ominous hint of challenges to come farther along the course, but I soldiered effortlessly on the climb as I joked with other runners on the narrow road.  An aid station around the corner offered cups of jellybeans, so I accepted one and took my first mouthful, pleasantly surprised to find that these were gourmet jellybeans.  Enjoying the mix of chocolate, cinnamon, and other such flavors, I continued to finish the cup as I arrived at the Mile 7 split where the half marathon runners turned left for their journey home and the rest of us continued east toward Candler Park and Decatur.



The most mentally grueling section of the Publix Georgia Marathon for me is the stretch of rolling hills from Mile 7 through Mile 11, because fatigue starts to take hold while I realize that I am not even at the halfway point of the course yet.  The uncertainty about whether or not I can finish the race always festers in my psyche during this time.  My mind was assaulted with simultaneous self-defeating assertions that this day was just not my day, I was just not feeling it on this day, I was burned out on running, everyone would understand if I dropped out of the race right now, today’s poor performance would not define me as a runner, I might have been coming down with an illness, I had put on too much weight over the holidays, the mile markers were placed too far apart, I was still recovering from the Mount Cheaha 50K race three weeks ago, I did not want to get heat exhaustion on this first hot weather weekend of 2013, road marathons were the devil’s work, humans were meant to sprint short distances instead of running 26.2 miles on pavement, my choice of running attire was not working for me, my new shoes were uncomfortable, the Top 40 songs that the aid stations were playing from the loudspeakers always sucked, the people behind me would soon pass me, I would end up with an embarrassing finish time if I managed to finish at all, and I was envious of the dogs that were lying on the front lawns of the houses along the route.

I was thankful that the IT band injury that had plagued me all winter was not a problem during this race, but I was also paying the price for my loss of fitness and weight gain that had come with the slow recovery from that injury.  During a road marathon, just 10 or 15 extra pounds can make a drastic difference, and, although I was much lighter this time around than I had been for previous races on this course, I still berated myself for not exercising harder during the injury recovery.

I stayed true to my four-minute runs and one-minute walks through these early sections of the route, though, and the miles somehow stacked up one by one behind me in my wake.  An ultrarunning friend, Mike, was riding his bike up and down the course to encourage friends, and I appreciated his company every time he stopped by.  My spirits were eventually lifted when I spotted a handful of friends from previous races and leapfrogged with them by moving slightly ahead during my run intervals and falling behind during each subsequent walk interval.  As I ran down a long straightaway leading to Agnes Scott College in Decatur, I congratulated one friend, Charlie Gregory, a runner from my Saturday morning Galloway training group who was completing this race as his 100^th marathon.

As the route turned through downtown Decatur and crossed over the half marathon timer, I noticed by my watch that I had completed the half distance in less than two hours and 10 minutes.  I felt better halfway through the race than I had in previous years.  I am sure that weighing roughly 50 pounds less than I had the year before helped a lot, but I also credited my resolve simply to run by feel without pushing for a particular time.  I was fatigued, but I still felt as though I would be able to adhere to my run/walk intervals indefinitely.  I was starting to pass more runners at Mile 14, as the route followed a generously flat road leading away from Decatur.  A couple of cups of Powerade from an aid station just before Mile 15 gave me some quick energy that I would need as I approached Emory University.


Photo courtesy of Di Sha

One of the two noticeable improvements in this year’s course became evident as I took an unfamiliar turn that led me straight into the prominent entrance gate of Emory University.  The scenic run through the campus that followed was one of my favorite sections of Publix Georgia Marathon, although a couple of hills served as a premonition of the Druid Hills sections on the other side of the campus.  The infamous Druid Hills route greeted me soon enough as I left Emory and began a determined climb up Lullwater Road.  My nonstop run along this initial hill of Lullwater Road was soon rewarded when I reached the next aid station, where volunteers gave me Oreo Cookies.  Mike rode alongside me on his bike as I reached the end of Lullwater Road and climbed a gradual ascent on Ponce de Leon Avenue before turning once again into the Druid Hills neighborhoods.

My ability to run the hills had improved over the past year, so I was able to stay true to my run/walk intervals without taking additional walk breaks on the climbs this time around.  As I soldiered on through Mile 18 and Mile 19 and the countdown in miles took me closer to the finish, my confidence started to soar.  A series of steep hills along the Mile 20 stretch did not slow me down at all this year, and I casually took on the challenge with my normal intervals.  I knew that I would be rewarded soon with a long gradual descent once I reached the Virginia Highlands area.

The midday temperatures were rising along with my confidence, though, and I could feel the sun beating down on me on the exposed roads once I reached Piedmont Park.  My disposition was given a small boost when I realized that a particularly irritating out-and-back section in the park was shortened for this year’s race to make up for the extended trek through Emory University a few miles before.  Even so, I was noticeably battered by the heat by the time I left the park for the final four miles of the race.

I started to establish modest goals using my run/walk intervals, telling myself at the beginning of each run interval that I only had to run four minutes before taking a break.  This strategy was a lifesaver, and I soon found myself passing many runners who had resorted to walking up all the hills.  My body temperature was starting to rise with the heat, though, and staying true to my run/walk intervals took all of the energy that I had to offer.  I reached the Mile 24 aid station in a daze, downed two cups of Powerade, and kept moving.  I still had the presence of mind to thank police officers and volunteers who were monitoring traffic at tricky intersections, but I was also surprised that I could even remember my own name at this point.

I calculated my pace for only the second time of the entire event, and realized that I was not quite moving fast enough to beat my previous marathon record of 4:20:10.  I accelerated all that my legs would allow, though, because I was determined to finish this race in less than 4:30:00 and earn my second fastest time, along with a new Publix Georgia Marathon personal course record.  Keeping up my run/walk intervals in the heat was quite a beatdown, but I did not give in, because I knew that the intervals would get me to the finish line in the most efficient way without collapsing.

The final mile of the Publix Georgia Marathon is an exercise in mental strength, since the CNN Center building that stands by the finish area can be seen the entire time.  This CNN Center building seemed never to come closer, but my run intervals kept me passing other runners along the way.  During the last half mile, I summoned the rest of my energy and ran nonstop to the finish area at Centennial Olympic Park.  I crossed the finish line in 4:28:51 to earn my second fastest marathon time.  For the first time in my running history, I had placed in the top half of the overall finishers for a pavement marathon.



This race had taken a lot out of me, and I almost passed out after walking away from the finish line and collecting my medal.  I was apparently not the only one, though, because a guy walking in front of me suddenly leaned against a truck and broke down sobbing.  I stopped to congratulate him, and walked with him for a short while to make sure that he was okay before continuing on my own into the park and struggling to stay upright and coherent while I congratulated a few friends.  When I reached my truck, I had to sit for a few minutes and gather myself before driving home.

I believe that I could have finished this marathon in close to four hours had I kept up the same peak fitness that I had during the fall season for my Pinhoti 100 training.  As is, though, I am grateful that I did not experience any IT band pain during this pavement marathon and that I stayed true to my established run/walk intervals without taking any additional walk breaks.  When I talked with friends at the finish area, I told everyone that I was going to drop out of the Umstead 100 race in early April, but I have since changed my mind.  My fitness is not ideal for that race, but I am going to drive up there and give that race my best effort before taking a two-month break.

Thanks to the race officials, police officers, and countless volunteers of the Publix Georgia Marathon for making this a fun and safe event.  Since I was one of the first 100 people to sign up for next year’s race with the half price registration blitz a few days ago, my plans are set to enjoy this race for a sixth time in 2014 and take the long tour through this city once again with a smile on my face.

See you on the trails.

Jason

Mount Cheaha 50K 2/23/13 (Race Report)

On February 23, 2013, I completed my third Mount Cheaha 50K race with a finish time of 7:54:55, and improved on my previous course record by over 15 minutes.


Photo courtesy of Brooke Nicholls Nelson

Anyone familiar with the old Spider-Man comics knows the often-quoted theme, “With great power comes great responsibility.”  This wisdom applies to the world of endurance running, because an improved fitness level comes with an increased responsibility to maintain that fitness level.  During the fall of 2012, I had achieved a peak running fitness that led to several new personal speed records and to the completion of my first 100-mile ultramarathon.   When an IT band injury derailed my running in December and struggles with burnout and illness stood in my path during January and early February of this year, I allowed my fitness to backslide during a slow recovery that is still ongoing.  Life has a way of giving us a wake-up call if we get complacent, and I got my wake-up call on the rain-soaked trails and fog-obscured ridges of the Pinhoti Trail on a cold and wet day at this year’s Mount Cheaha 50K.  Fortunately, wake-up calls can be received with a smile, and this was one such occasion as I rediscovered the fun of braving the elements on challenging terrain during what has become one of my favorite race events.



As I climbed out of my sleeping bag at Bald Rock Lodge at Cheaha State Park in Alabama on race morning to the sound of pre-dawn raindrops on the roof, I realized that a few missteps in planning were evidence that my head and heart were still not quite in the game.  I had overestimated the cold temperatures and neglected to bring a short-sleeved shirt in my bag in case of warmer weather, so I made a quick decision to leave my trademark fluorescent orange long-sleeve in the bag in favor of an old loose-fitting white Atlanta Half Marathon shirt that would be more weather-friendly as the temperatures rose several hours into the race.  After I boarded one of the school buses that would take us from the finish area at Bald Rock Lodge to the starting line several miles away, I also realized that I had forgotten to put on my wristwatch that I used during long-distance races to time my nutrition so that I would eat a running gel every half hour.  I shrugged this oversight off without any real concern, because I was not expecting much out of myself on this particular day.  My IT band injury was still a concern after the pain had plagued me during the 24 Hours of HOSTELity race a month ago, I weighed 13 pounds heavier than I had at the starting line of Pinhoti 100 back in November, and I was still working through my burnout phase where I was unmotivated to run any distance farther than ten miles.

I may not have been enthusiastic about running an ultramarathon on this day, but my excitement to spend time with great friends overcame any hesitation as I reconnected with several familiar faces at the start area.  Ultramarathon races are almost like family reunions and the social aspects of the races is what won me over to the sport years ago.  Race Director Todd Henderson gave a short pre-race address over the loudspeakers, and then presented us with an opportunity to kick this particular race off in a unique fashion by making our own “Harlem Shake” video and dancing around to the music.  With the task of creating the best “Harlem Shake” video on the planet now behind us, we all lined up to start running.  I settled into the back of the pack as the official start to Mount Cheaha 50K sounded off with Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.”


Photo courtesy of MarathonRuns MRuns

After several minutes of casual walking in the back of the long line of runners, I jumped over the first of many creek crossings only to have my trail shoes soaked in a puddle a few seconds later.  Running through deep puddles of water would be an ongoing activity throughout the race, so I simply began to “embrace the suck” by running straight through the water while other runners tried to negotiate the water obstacles.  The cold water on my feet made me wince each time, but the reckless abandon of running and walking through mud and water had its own offbeat appeal.  After splashing through one particularly treacherous section during a hill climb, I joked with another runner that my best church clothes were now ruined.

As I trailed behind some others on the first notable mountain climb through a rather bleak setting of fallen trees, fog, and wet landscapes, I commented that the trail made me think of Cormac McCarthy’s novel, The Road.  A rock formation in the mist at the top of the mountain added to the eerie effect.  I became acquainted with a hazard that would greet me several more times during the race when my feet slid on a wet rock on this mountain, but I managed not to fall from this first slip.  The trek down from this mountain on the way to the first aid station of the course is one of the most fun downhill runs of any race and, although the wet conditions necessitated caution this time around, I enjoyed going down this hill on the third mile of the race a lot more than I had enjoyed plodding up the same hill in the opposite direction at Pinhoti 100 four months ago.


Photo courtesy of Michael-Sherry Slenzak McPhee 

I arrived at the bottom of the hill to the sight of several cheering volunteers and cameras.  Just like the Pinhoti 100 race every November, Mount Cheaha 50K is put together by some of the friendliest people in the world, and every aid station along the course elevates my spirits.  This time around, the fact that I still had 28 miles left to run did not dampen my disposition as I gratefully accepted some orange slices from the aid station table and kept moving.  In retrospect, I think that going into this race with no expectations helped my mental game on tough trail conditions.


Photo courtesy of Graham Gallemore

The sections between the Mile 3 aid station and the Mile 8 aid station were mostly uneventful, although I was taken off guard by the amount of water on the trail, even along the higher elevation areas.  Many parts of the Pinhoti Trail were completely submerged, and, due to the well-established trenches of the trail terrain, running along these trails was almost like running in the middle of a small stream.  I was wearing Montrail Mountain Masochist trail shoes that are amazing when it comes to their ability to drain water quickly, and my CEP compression socks were similarly suited for the challenge.  After a series of quick climbs, I emerged from the trail onto a forest road that disappeared into fog with every turn.  Mount Cheaha 50K is a race known for its beauty, as hill climbs and mountaintop ridges open up into views of the Talladega National Forest below.  On this particular day, however, the scenic overlooks were completely obscured by fog.  I enjoyed the different views of a familiar landscape and wished several times that I had brought a camera.  A remarkably luxurious downhill mile on the forest road tempted me to speed up, but I held back on my pace after remembering that I had tired myself out early on this stretch during my two previous experiences with this race.



After grabbing a handful of orange slices at the Mile 8 aid station, I turned off the forest road onto my least favorite section of Mount Cheaha 50K, a long mountain ridge path marked by constant ankle-twisting rocks.  Winston Churchill once said, “If you’re going through Hell, keep going.”  I kept the quote in mind as I soldiered on by power-walking though the more insidious rocky stretches and running at a relaxed pace as terrain allowed.  Race Director Todd Henderson and several others had cleared the leaves off this tricky section a few days before, so many of the obstacles were in plain sight.  Still, I knew that it was only a matter of time before I finally busted my tail on one of the slippery rocks, and that moment arrived when my feet slid out from under me and I landed on my back on a massive boulder around Mile 10.  When a runner several feet in front of me heard the audible thud and my resultant exclamations, she turned around to ask if I were okay.  I stood up, thanked her, and kept running, although some of the wind had been knocked out of my sails for a short while.


Photo courtesy of Michael-Sherry Slenzak McPhee

The rocky path to the Mile 15 aid station continued to test my legs, my fortitude, and, sometimes, my arms and back.  I took a couple more bad falls early on, and then slowed my pace to a brisk walk to avoid injury.  The sight of another runner lying injured to the side of the trail with emergency medical personnel preparing to transport him out of the woods reinforced my decision to walk the treacherous rock-covered areas where the wet weather made for slippery terrain.  This did not prevent me from slipping on occasional rocks and shaking with mental exhaustion as I struggled to remain standing.  Since I had neglected to wear my stopwatch and, therefore, had no cues to remind me to eat a gel every half hour, I simply went by feel and ate a gel every few miles when I felt a mental low approaching or when I became particularly irritable at the trail obstacles.

My IT band was mercifully pain-free so far during this event, but I was still moving along at a slow pace simply from being out of shape from my extended injury recovery.  I had learned during the previous month’s 24-hour event that it is tough to keep moving when my heart is not invested in a race.  I felt the same way along this hazardous trail section to Mile 15, and I began trying to rationalize a DNF (Did Not Finish) in my head.  Every time I slipped on a wet rock or a muddy downhill and shook with frazzled nerves, I reminded myself that I could simply drop out at the Mile 15 aid station.  I remembered, however, that I had suffered similar mental lows during this section at my first two Mount Cheaha 50K races, though, so my struggles on this day were nothing new.  I did not realize at the time that I was actually moving noticeably faster along this section than I ever had before, due to my lighter weight and due to the fact that I was not having trouble from cramps or blisters as I had during the previous races.


Photo courtesy of Michael-Sherry Slenzak McPhee

The sight of friends returning from the Mile 15 aid station on a short out-and-back trail cheered me up, but I still walked into the aid station in a dazed state.  Two small cups of Coke put some life back into me as I was refilling my CamelBak with water.   My craving for the big orange slices at these aid stations was still in effect, so I grabbed a whole orange from the table and peeled it as I walked back to the trail.  I made my way slowly along the rock garden path leading down the out-and-back trail in the opposite direction while encouraging friends behind me on the course who were making their way to the aid station.

The closest thing to instantaneous relief on any ultramarathon course is the shift in terrain from treacherous rocks to luxurious pine straw trails once a runner leaves the Mile 15 aid station at Mount Cheaha 50K.  I enjoyed the change of pace from limping along loose boulders to running happily down an extended gradual descent alongside a creek ravine.  Even when I arrived at the bottom of the trail to find myself ankle-deep in swampy floodwaters, my mood continued to soar.  In fact, the freezing cold water felt good on my rock-battered feet, and I splashed through the water in the middle of the trails instead of trying to negotiate the mud along the edges as other runners had done.  My progress was still slower than expected, and I enjoyed some extended walk breaks, but relentless forward motion enabled me to keep several other runners in sight while remaining ahead of everyone behind me.


Photo courtesy of Brooke Nicholls Nelson

After a notable creek crossing through almost knee-deep water, the trail ascended into a series of mountain switchbacks where I maintained a steady pace to draw the runners in front of me closer while leaving the ones behind me out of sight.  The switchbacks seemed never to end, and the repetition eventually began to sap my motivation.  As I arrived at the Mile 18 aid station, one volunteer friend, Josh, congratulated me on my “beat down dog look.”  I thanked him as I took a handful of orange slices and a couple of molasses cookies, and then continued along on the endless series of switchback mountainside trails.  These trails wove along the sides of hills at a camber that aggravated my ankles and further reduced my enthusiasm.   The runners whom I encountered along this stretch apparently felt the same way about the trail.  As I passed one woman, she asked me, “Why do we sign up for these things?”  I replied in a weary voice, “Fortune and glory, kid.  Fortune and glory.”

I eventually caught up with a local ultrarunning friend, Robert, and enjoyed conversing with him for a couple of miles as I followed in his footsteps along trail ledges and over slippery mountainside floodwater crossings.  Occasional dull aches reverberated from my IT band, but these were few and far between, and I was relieved that my injury recovery had enabled me to make it this far without any real pain.  I still felt sluggish beyond compare, though, and I resolved to spend the next few weeks returning to peak fitness.  Thankfully, my uphill power-walking skills were still intact, so I eventually caught up with a handful of other runners on the many climbs along this section.


Photo courtesy of Brooke Nicholls Nelson

The sound of rushing water in the distance was a premonition of one of the most notable challenges of this race, the crossing of Chinnabee Creek.  On a good day, Chinnabee Creek has a low water level that allows runners to jump from one rock to another without getting their feet wet.  This was not a good day.  The water level was high with rushing floodwaters, so volunteers had tied a rope to trees on either side of the creek to enable us to cross over safely.  I climbed down into the freezing water with several other runners behind me, grabbed the rope for dear life, and inched across the water as a volunteer friend, Brooke, took photos of the runners from the opposite bank.  In my tired state, I briefly entertained the idea of letting go of the rope and floating on my back down the creek until it eventually carried me out to the sea, but I ignored the temptation and continued to move steadily.  The water deepened to hip level just before I reached the opposite bank and the coldness gave me a jolt that stayed with me for the next several minutes.  I waved to friends along the out-and-back trail that led to the Lake Chinnabee aid station at Mile 22, where I refilled my CamelBak.  The aid station was out of orange slices, so I grabbed a handful of cookies and a banana before returning to the out-and-back and splashing through ankle-deep water puddles.

I enjoyed scenic views of the creek waterfalls for the next mile as I negotiated slippery rocks and wet wooden stairs.  The trail eventually withdrew back into the forest along another series of endless twists and turns alongside mountain hills, but I moved along at a faster pace, still invigorated by the head rush from the raging Chinnabee Creek crossing.  I was eager to reach the finish line, but I was also rediscovering the fun of ultramarathons after my long burnout.  When I had awakened that morning, the last thing in the world that I had wanted to do was to travel 31 miles on my feet on a wet and cold day, and the flooded trail conditions had exceeded my worst fears, but I was somehow having good time dealing with the various problems along the trail and turning those problems into opportunities.  My disposition took a turn for the better, and, as I gradually started to pass other runners, I encouraged each one and shared jokes about the insanity of splashing through ankle-deep water trails all along the way.


Photo courtesy of Brooke Nicholls Nelson

I have a propensity to become burned out on running after participating in frequent races, and often need a vacation from the running scene, but I always return to these challenging trail runs for a strange sort of gratification and fulfillment.  Over the past couple of years, as I had felt stuck in a rut with my life and my career, the occasional task of relentless forward motion from one point to another on a rugged trail somehow puts my world into perspective and, like a religious experience, illuminates me with a dose of confidence and ease.  Real-world realities have made it necessary for me to reduce the number of my races over the next year, but I think of this as a positive situation, because running carefully-chosen epic fun events on a less-frequent basis may prevent the burnout that I sometimes experience and help me to achieve balance in life, as Mr. Miyagi in The Karate Kid might say.

After a couple of miles of winding trails, I eventually emerged onto a long dirt road straightaway with rolling hills, and broke out into an extended nonstop run.  My IT band was feeling fine, and, aside from an occasional shooting pain in my left foot, I was still in good shape to run.  I caught up with a handful of runners as the road turned upward and we all took a hiking break before reaching an intersection with a mile of paved road that would take us to the final aid station.  I do not always care for pavement during trail races, but the change in terrain was refreshing this time around, and I made up for lost time by not having to run over slippery rocks or water crossings at long last.  I was starting to pass runners more often, and I had not been passed in a while, so I vowed to keep a good thing going.


Photo courtesy of Brooke Nicholls Nelson

I arrived at the Mile 28 aid station with tired legs, but good spirits, and picked up a handful of orange slices before moving on to Blue Hell.  The famous Blue Hell section, which climbs over 900 feet in less than a half mile, has broken down many a runner on the final stretch, but I have always enjoyed turning my brain off and simply climbing steadily without the pressure to run.  I was also glad for the opportunity to climb up Blue Hell at Mile 28 of Mount Cheaha 50K instead of having to climb down it at Mile 42 of the Pinhoti 100, since negotiating the boulders is easier on the ascent.  Of course, I was not necessarily all smiles during the climb, and I wearily encouraged other runners while expressing some disappointment that I was not going as fast at this race as I should have.  One foot in front of the other was getting me there, though, as the path climbed away from a section lined with tree roots and into a sharp-angled ascent up boulders and crevices, where I often had to grab trees to support myself.  The wet climate presented a new hazard, because I occasionally slipped on the wet boulders and had to catch my fall by grabbing trees or other rocks.

One of the cruelest false summits in the world opened up before me when I finally reached the top of Blue Hell to see a paved road turning upward and away toward the top of the mountain.  I was relieved not to be slipping on boulders, though, and I power-walked at a brisk pace up the road by following the orange flag markings and ate one last gel for a quick burst of energy that would ease my nerves after climbing Blue Hell in wet weather.  With a group of local running friends catching up close behind me, I hurried up the road and turned up a rocky switchback to a sign pointing out the altitude peak of Mount Cheaha, the highest point in Alabama.


Photo courtesy of Michael-Sherry Slenzak McPhee

I broke into a nonstop run as the paved road flattened and continued to run nonstop for the final mile and half to the finish.  I followed the course markings onto one final rocky trail as the road ended and negotiated a series of turns made more aggravating by the presence of rain water in the middle of the path.  The final mile of this race is always exciting, because I can hear the crowd from the finish line long before I see them, but I had to run carefully to avoid face-planting on the rocks and water.  I avoided the temptation to slow down to a power-walk and continued to run as the trail turned uphill to the final climb to Bald Rock Lodge.

As I passed a couple of runners and emerged into the final paved hill that would take me to the finish line, I saw three local friends just ahead.  I have always considered it poor etiquette to pass a runner just before the finish line of an ultramarathon-distance race, because I am only proving that I did not manage my pace well enough during the early miles.  I was still riding a second wind, though, and could not resist the temptation to get through the finish line as quickly as I could.  I waved to my friends, accelerated my pace, and crossed the finish line of Mount Cheaha 50K in 7:54:55 to place 140 out of 197 finishers.  Despite a tough day on the trails, I had managed to beat my previous course record by just over 15 minutes.


Photo courtesy of Angel Orlando Baez

I congratulated my friends, accepted the amazing wood plaque finisher’s award, and spent the next several minutes talking with fellow runners at the foot of Bald Rock Lodge before going inside and taking a quick shower before the drive home.  As always, the Georgia Ultrarunning and Trailrunning Society (GUTS) had made a fine showing at this race, with several runners finishing with new personal record times, and I was inspired once again by the excellence of my friends.

Thanks to Todd Henderson, his family, and the many Alabama volunteers for making my third Mount Cheaha 50K race one of my favorite ultramarathon experiences to date, wet trails and all.  Thanks to my fellow runners for the company along the way, and congratulations to them for beating the weather down on a rugged course.  I was reminded how much I love the Alabama section of the Pinhoti Trail, and am actually considering returning to the Pinhoti 100 again in the fall.

See you on the trails.

Jason

24 Hours of HOSTELity 1/19/13 (Race Report)

On January 19, 2013, I completed 32.5 miles in just over nine hours at 24 Hours of HOSTELity before stopping due to an IT band injury.

Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung

January is usually my weakest month of the year when it comes to running mileage and race performance.  I have a propensity to become burned out on running after the fall races of the previous year, and I go through each January in a lull where I have no desire to run any distance greater than six miles or so before finding my running mojo again sometime each February.  This time around, my struggles with IT band pain in my right leg after I limped through the finish line of the Pine Mountain 40 Mile race in early December have presented an additional challenge, because the symptoms, while gradually improving, seem to come and go from one day to the next.  My 2013 kicked off with a strong start on New Year’s Day when I ran a pain-free Resolution Run 10K in 49:31, despite a sore throat infection at the time, but the next run found me hurting from IT band pain from the first half mile.  I decided to handle the challenges of injury and burnout by concentrating on faster short runs this month with favorable results, but found myself approaching this 24-hour fixed time event with a sense of casual resignation to treat the race simply as a fun social event with friends.  I had finished Pinhoti 100 this past November while suffering from heat sickness and finished Pine Mountain 40 Mile with IT band pain less than a month later because, like Charlie Bucket and the Golden Ticket, I wanted those finishes more than anybody else.  My performance at the 24 Hours of HOSTELity event, by contrast, is an example of what happens when my heart is not invested in running a strong race on a particular day.

Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung

The 24 Hours of HOSTELity race, which takes its name from the race headquarters at the Hiker Hostel in the beautiful mountains of Dahlonega, Georgia, is sponsored by Race Director Willy Syndram and Dumass Events (Dahlonega Ultra Marathon Association).  I arrived at the Hiker Hostel early on the evening before the race and enjoyed a walk around the course. 

This 24-hour course consists of a well-maintained 0.65-mile dirt trail loop that starts and finishes on a deck behind the Hiker Hostel, where runners have access to a well-stocked aid station and, if necessary, a warm indoor basement area.  The trail curves around the hostel and meanders uphill along a series of switchbacks for a total elevation gain of roughly 100 feet only to drop abruptly down a steep descent, known as the Chasm of Despair, just before returning to the hostel.  When my right knee started sending slight warning signals after a couple of casual strolls along the course that evening, I knew that my recovering IT band would not find this event to its liking. 

After a good night’s sleep in a hostel bunk with friends, I woke up to mercifully warm mid-30-degree race temperatures and dressed in one of my size-medium fluorescent orange shirts that have become my trademark for recent race events.  Willy greeted the small crowd of runners with a pre-race speech before leading all of us along the first loop of the course, with the hostel dog, Maggie, running in front of the entire group before keeping watch over us for the remainder of the day. 

Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung

I started in the back of the pack, but made short work of the first few loops of the course by running continuously, save for a few hill curves that I handled with a fast hike.  Thanks to some stretches and hip-strengthening exercises that I had completed a half hour before the race start, my IT band felt fine during these early loops.

Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung

My motivation was not quite as sturdy as my knee after the first several loops, because I was accustomed to my January routine of calling it a day after running only six miles.  Burnout is an occasional challenge even for the best runners, and there was something uniquely daunting about participating in an ultramarathon when I simply did not feel like running a long distance on this particular day.  While I weighed the same that I had at the Pine Mountain 40 Mile race in early December, I knew that I had lost some fitness over the past month and half thanks to the IT band recovery and a persistent sore throat illness that had lasted for three weeks after Christmas.  I felt an exaggerated weakness, as though the leg muscles and core strength that had served me so well during my fall races had already softened into marshmallow.  Due to the nature of the course, I could have stopped whenever I wanted, but I knew that, injury or no injury, I needed at least one ultramarathon distance in January simply to have the time on my feet in preparation for some early spring races.  I kept smiling and soldiered on. 

Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung

My strength at power-walking hill climbs was fortunately still in effect, and I passed several runners on the gradual ascents while assuring them that they would pass me on the steep downhill.  After I completed the first 15 laps of the course somewhere around the two-hour mark, my IT band started to inform me of its discontent, and I took the first of many breaks by sitting down on a camp chair next to the aid station.  I did not feel out of place with my lackadaisical approach, since other runners occasionally sat down next to a bonfire across from me or retreated to the chairs and sofas inside the warm basement, but I knew that an impressive 24-hour showing was not in the cards for me on this day.  

Photo courtesy of Karen Jackson Heitner/Jordan Short

After a couple of minutes in a camp chair, the desire to get moving again in the cool weather pushed me to my feet.  I adopted a routine that would stay with me for the remainder of the race by picking out a particular runner to accompany, regardless of that runner’s pace, and staying with him or her for a lap or two before finding another friend with whom to enjoy a conversation.  Depending on my company, I sometimes ran nonstop for a loop, and then returned to fast walking for most of another loop.  The variety of pace suited my IT band recovery by way of avoiding extended repetitive motion.  The old Beatles lyric, “I get by with a little help from my friends.”, took on a new meaning. 

Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung

The beauty of the course also drew me out for another loop each time.  The initial switchback hills of the trail provided a pleasant view, but the real reward was found at the crest of the final hill, when the horizon opened up to mountain peaks to the southwest.  Despite my increasing IT band pain, I resolved to stay out on the course until darkness so that I could at least enjoy the sunset.  As the daytime temperatures crept up to 50 degrees, I shed a few layers to run in shorts and my long-sleeved orange shirt while the sun made an overhead arc on the cloudless day. 

The steep downhill run down the Chasm of Despair was beginning to make my knee explode into pain with each loop, and I soon felt as though my right leg were being stabbed just below the knee with each downhill step.  Some friends from the Sports Chiropractic Institute were treating runners at the event, so I benefited from a deep tissue massage halfway through the day after my IT band pain began to worsen.  The massage alleviated some of the pain and enabled me to keep moving forward for a few more hours. 

Photo courtesy of Karen Jackson Heitner/Jordan Short

I resolved to complete at least a 50K distance, because the ultramarathon distance would be good endurance training for the months ahead, as long as I did not entirely blow out my IT band.  I kept the injury under control by taking frequent rest breaks at the aid station and by varying my pace along the loop.  Because of my casual approach to this race, I did not suffer any mental low points or struggles.  The IT band injury simply was what it was, and I put no pressure on myself to go any farther than 50 laps to ensure at least a 50K distance.  I was having fun with friends on a sunny winter day, and that was my only expectation from this event. 

Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung

As the afternoon faded into early evening, I faced a new struggle.  Since I had anticipated extremely muddy terrain on the trail loop in the aftermath of rainy weather during the days prior to this event, I was wearing my oldest pair of Montrail Mountain Masochists with the intention of simply throwing them away at the end of the race.  The trails were mercifully free of mud, but my shoes had seen better days.  The padding of these shoes was almost nonexistent after a couple years of frequent long-distance trail runs, so my heels began to ache with each step.  This was not a major setback, but I quickened my pace somewhat, eager to have my 50K distance behind me so that I could call it a day. 

Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung

In retrospect, I have no doubt that I could have covered at least a 100K distance on this course by participating for the full 24-hour duration, but I did not want to exacerbate my injury and necessitate a longer recovery time.  I knew that I was already in for several more weeks of aggressive hip-strengthening workouts, foam roller treatments, and IT band stretches before my next race in late February, so 50 laps of this particular course would be a good stopping point. 

Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung

The beautiful sunset that I had anticipated all day soon arrived, and I spent the last few loops marveling at the blue and orange horizon over the crest of the final hill.  I finished 32.5 miles by completing 50 laps of the 24 Hours of HOSTELity course in just over nine hours to place 19 out of 21 runners for this fixed-time event.  With roughly 100 feet of elevation per loop, I had climbed 5,000 feet of elevation with my distance.  I took a shower inside the hostel, spent several minutes hanging out with fellow runners in the basement, and then climbed to the top of the mountain, where several of us had parked our vehicles the night before to make room for race-day arrivals at the main hostel parking area.

My adventures were not quite over for the day.  I accidentally took the wrong dirt road out of the clearing and, when I tried to turn around, the back tires of my two-wheel-drive truck became stuck in the mud.  Being the typical guy, I decided to drive further down the hill in hopes of being able to turn around on the grassy terrain away from the mud, but was still unable to back around and slid further down the mountain.  As the Dumass Events logo states, “Poor decisions make for better stories.”  I climbed out of the truck and enlisted in Willy’s help to pull me back up the hill with a Suburban and a strong chain. After thanking Willy profusely, I made my way down the mountain in the right direction and returned home.

It speaks volumes about the race organizers, the volunteers, and the setup of the 24 Hours of HOSTELity event that I enjoyed a fun day on the trails despite my IT band injury and my burnout phase.  I have decided that fixed-time ultramarathon events are not in my bag of tricks, since I gravitate to the fixed-distance events that give me a feeling of adventure by way of a journey, but I am already looking forward to showing up at 24 Hours of HOSTELity next January in hopes of a much better performance.  Thanks to Race Director Willy Syndram, Leigh and Josh of the Hiker Hostel, and to countless volunteers and friends with whom I enjoyed spending the day.  Despite my somewhat less-than-stellar performance, I am grateful to have enjoyed putting another ultramarathon distance in the books.

See you on the trails.

Jason 

Pine Mountain 40 Mile Trail Run 12/2/12 (Race Report)

On December 2, 2012, I completed my third Pine Mountain 40 Mile Trail Run with a finish time of 9:42:44 and improved on my previous course record by almost 20 minutes.


Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung

Less than one month before this race, I had enjoyed the adventure of a lifetime by finishing my first 100-mile ultramarathon at Pinhoti 100 in Alabama.  When I first ventured into the ultrarunning world years ago, I had joked with friends that, if I ever completed a 100-mile race, I would mention it in every conversation that I have for the rest of my entire life.

"Jason, it's a beautiful day, isn't it?"
"Yes, this is almost as beautiful as the day that I finished that 100-mile race."

"Jason, that was a terrible movie, wasn't it?"
"Yes, watching that movie was almost as painful as Mile 74 of that 100-mile race that I finished."

"Jason, what did you think about the Presidential Election?"
"Well, the President certainly has some challenges in store for him during his next term, just as I had many challenges during that 100-mile race that I finished."

In reality, I enjoyed a week of complete rest and basked in the thrill of the accomplishment, but I eventually put my Pinhoti 100 belt buckle back into its protective bubble wrap and placed it in the race memorabilia box with all my other medals, race bibs, and assorted running awards from recent years.  The race memorabilia box, a nondescript large Rubbermaid storage container that sits on the floor of the bedroom closet in my apartment, is the resting place for my race artifacts while I move on with my life and shift my focus to the next race on my calendar.  My Pinhoti 100 finish had been the pinnacle event of my running career to date, and a result of constant training and weight loss over the past year, but I wanted an encore for 2012.  Since there is nothing like another rugged ultramarathon on the calendar to prevent post-race depression, holiday weight gain, and lapses into lazy complacency, I decided to end my best year of ultrarunning by coming back, full circle, to the Pine Mountain 40 Trail Run, where I had completed my very first ultramarathon back in 2009.


Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung

One of my many memories from that 2009 race was the sight of a runner 11 miles into the course who had stood off to the side of the trail with a smile before walking back to the next aid station.  I later found out that this runner had finished Pinhoti 100 less than a month before and decided to drop out of this race upon realizing that 40 miles on the Pine Mountain trails were too much of a task for still-recovering legs.  This annual December event is a race that restores humility to recent Pinhoti finishers in the form of twisting trails of pointed rocks and tree roots that are hidden by several inches of fall leaves. 

Even for well-rested runners with fresh legs, the Pine Mountain 40 Mile Trail Run is a beatdown.  To use a familiar ultrarunning comparison, running this particular race is like being pecked to death by baby ducks.  The Pine Mountain course takes place on mild-elevation rolling hill terrain that does not feature any major notable obstacles, and runners do not face any steep mountain climbs, treacherous river crossings, or drastic temperatures.   Instead, the 40 miles of this course are home to countless minor aggravations that gradually accumulate to the point where motivation and fortitude are reduced to a frazzled exhaustion.  It is the little things that kill, and any small rock that catches the toe of a trail shoe, any tree root that is hidden underneath a pile of leaves, or any unstable slick stepping stone on a short creek crossing might be the final straw that causes a smiling runner to throw his or her hands up in exasperation and explode into profanity.


Photo courtesy of Lynne Haase Evans

Fortunately, one of my favorite running slogans, “It does not have to be fun to be fun.”, is an apt phrase for this ultramarathon.  Despite the multiple insidious hazards of the terrain, the Pine Mountain Trail at F.D. Roosevelt State Park in middle Georgia is a beautiful trek in early December.  Each valley houses a variety of hardwood trees, marshy ferns, or even waterfalls, while each hill crest reveals an open view of leaf colors and distant farmhouses.  As I climbed a hill from the park shelter that would serve at the finish line of this out-and-back course, and lined up at the start line on a short stretch of paved road while Race Director Thomas Armbruster Jr. gave instructions to the runners, I knew that I was in for a tough day, but I also realized that there was nowhere else I would rather be on a sunny fall day. 

I enjoyed fun conversation with other runners as we turned on the paved road, crossed a field in front of the shelter, and entered a flat single-track trail on the other side of a wooden bridge.  The first two miles of the Pine Mountain course meanders pleasantly alongside a creek and belies the technical rocky challenges that lay ahead, but an unexpected difficulty soon appeared.  From my place in the back of a long chain of runners, I saw people ahead who had stopped in their tracks as they waved their arms in the air, screaming because they had just encountered a nest of yellow jackets.  I took the initiative to yell at the crowd in a loud drill instructor manner, “Keep moving!  Go!  Don’t just stand there screaming!  Keep running and get away from the nest!  Go!  Go!  Go!  Keep moving!”

Everyone complied and took off running down the trail.  I felt a sting on my right forearm, and, seconds later, suffered another sting on the back of my right leg.  The only way to run away from a yellow jacket nest is to run away from a yellow jacket nest, though, and the danger was soon behind us.  I apologized to those around me for my rudeness, but I think that we were all just happy to have that particular peril of nature behind us.  Seconds later, we all returned to our conversations and enjoyed an easy pace on the flat trail while nursing our stings.  It does not have to be fun to be fun. 


Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung
 
I heard some familiar voices behind me as we climbed the first hill, crossed a road, and ran along a scenic cliff ledge.  Some friends from the Sweet H2O 50K race several months ago had recognized me and were now running behind me, telling me that they knew my pace would get them to the finish.  I appreciated the compliments and enjoyed encouraging these friends, but I inwardly hoped that their confidence in me would not be misplaced.  As I ran for long nonstop intervals on the ledge, a dull ache that I had expected all along began to reverberate in my right knee.

Recovery from a 100-mile race is not to be taken lightly.  After my Pinhoti finish, I had rested for an entire week before attempting my first run, a hilly five-mile course around my neighborhood.  A sharp pain in my right knee, presumably from a tight iliotibial band, had reduced me to a limp for the rest of that day after the five-mile run.  I enjoyed light workouts for another week and half before running the Atlanta Half Marathon on Thanksgiving Day as a Pace Team volunteer and carrying the flag for the 2:30:00 pace runners.  The knee injury caused me to run the final two miles of that half marathon with a slight limp, but the symptoms improved two days later, when I was able to complete relatively pain-free 10-mile run with my Saturday training group the week before this Pine Mountain race.  I knew that I was being somewhat reckless by going into a 40-mile ultramarathon with a still-recovering IT band so soon after my 100-miler, so I promised myself to pace easily and not push for any dramatic new speed records at this event. 

The first 11 miles of the Pine Mountain 40 course are deceptively easy as they roll up and over mild hills on a trail stretch that present rare challenges with boulders and rocks.  I always pace too quickly on this first quarter of this race by enjoying the carefree bounce of my feet on moderate terrain, and, despite the early knee ache, this time was no exception.  I continued to talk with friends, eat my Sport Beans packs every half hour by my stopwatch, and jog with ease on the descents after power-walking with a fast speed up the hills and even running many of the lesser hills nonstop.  My friends and I reached the Mile 10.8 aid station in just over two hours. 


Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung
 
Soon after we passed that aid station, I submitted my entry for the most embarrassing injury of the year by hitting the right side of my head on a tree that leaned onto the trail path.  My wandering lazy eye in my right eye occasionally affects my distance perception to that side, since I always use my left eye for normal sight, and this particular tree mishap was one such incident.  If you ever want to duplicate my trail running experiences, then run on the nearest trail while wearing an eye patch over your right eye.  I taught myself to compensate for this phenomenon long ago, but this was not my day when it comes to trees that lean over the trail in the line of my right side peripheral vision.  This was an extremely painful accident that took the wind out of my sails for several seconds, but I soldiered on and kept moving.  Two days later, as I write this report, I have a noticeable blood bruise on the right side of my head above my ear. 

A few minutes after my encounter with the tree, my friends and I emerged from the woods into a vast open area of devastation from a 2011 tornado that had wreaked havoc on F.D. Roosevelt State Park in the spring of 2011.  These trails under the sun were free of leaf cover, so we ran nonstop over many of the sections while I marveled at the extent of the damage and inwardly mourned that the Pine Mountain course that I had enjoyed when I had run the race in 2009 and 2010 would never be the same again in my lifetime.  The novelty of the experience, however, gave me an energy surge, and, when I arrived at the next aid station three and half miles later, I was surprised at my speed. 


Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung
 
I was now on the most dangerously rocky section of the Pine Mountain course, so I slowed to a deliberate power-walk as I negotiated rock outcroppings along a ledge, crossed a creek, and climbed to the top of a tall hill where I was rewarded with a long flat trail through the mostly leafless trees.  The temperatures were creeping up to unseasonal levels around 72 degrees, so I took caution with my speed and nutrition, remembering my harsh experience with heat sickness during the Pinhoti race.  My caution was ultimately rewarded, because I suffered no ill effects from the heat during this event. 

Self-doubt and negativity clouded my mind when I found myself running alone for longer periods of time.  This was not my first rodeo, though, and I knew from past ultramarathon experience that I would eventually cheer up and feel better as I exercised relentless forward motion and kept moving.  My previous finishes at this particular race had taught me that I tend to hit low points along a loop that begins at Mile 17.8 and ends at Mile 24.5.  I reached the aid station that signaled the beginning of this loop, grabbed a handful of oranges, and walked with a limp across a road.  When a crowd of onlookers expressed concern, I told them that I was trying to work through some IT band problems with my knee. 

Once I finished eating the orange slices, I ran nonstop down several luxuriously flat trail straightaways until the terrain became more technical around the halfway point of the race.  One of the toughest sections of the course, a seemingly never-ending stretch where the trail doubles back and forth several times across a creek by way of slick stepping stones and wooden bridges along marshy flats, ferns, and inclines that rise up and over cliff drops, seemed almost like a welcome mat to me this time around, since the nonstop running on the easy trail before had taxed my ailing knee and I was in need of a good long walk break.  I power-walked quickly through the creek crossing section and even managed to pass a couple of runners along the way. 


Photo courtesy of Lynne Haase Evans

At Mile 22.8, my spirits rose when I reached the TV Tower aid station and was greeted by one of the many fun-loving groups of volunteers that is characteristic of this race that is organized by the Georgia Ultrarunning and Trailrunning Society (GUTS).  Three running friends, Aaron, Frank, and Janette, heckled and motivated me at the same time as I downed two cups of Coke and continued down the trail.  I had reached this Mile 22.8 aid station in five hours and 10 minutes.  My knee pain was worsening, but I was reassured that I reached this aid station faster than ever before in the past, and that I had time banked for a slower return to the finish.

I ran nonstop for almost a mile until mild shooting pains in my knee sent the crystal clear message that my running career was pretty much finished for the rest of the day.  Fortunately, I could still employ my fast-paced “Jason Voorhees walk” that had served me well during the Georgia Jewel 50 Mile and during Pinhoti 100.  I plowed forward with this deliberate power-walk and soon found myself leapfrogging a runner who complimented me on my walking pace.  I reached the end of the lollipop loop at Mile 24.5, and started my way back along the Pine Mountain Trail to the finish shelter. 


Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung
 
I knew that my knee pain was going to be a problem, but my energy levels were surprisingly high as I approached the marathon distance along the trails.  For a couple of weeks after Pinhoti 100, I had felt a constant tired listlessness indicative of core muscles and an endocrine system that needed rest and recovery.  I had expected this exhaustion to hit me like a brick during this 40-mile race so soon after the 100, but all systems were still a go as far as my energy and motivation were concerned.  I took this as a good sign that my body was adapting to ultramarathon distances in a positive way.  My aching right knee was the only thing holding me back from running for long nonstop intervals even this late in the race. 

The knee pain gradually worsened, though, and I noticeably winced when climbing down rocky steps or stepping over occasional fallen trees.  To my discredit, I allowed the increasing pain to affect my temper, and I soon eschewed all social skills by erupting into profane yells whenever I stepped on a pointed rock or tripped a toe that resulted in another shooting pain in my knee.  I was encountering the same runners over and over again on a frequent basis during the final 15 miles as my power-walk pace allowed me to pass them on the hill climbs until they passed me in turn on the descents.  Whenever one of them expressed concern and asked me if my knee was still hurting, I would smile weakly and reply, “Yes, but I’m still moving!  We’ll get there soon.”

For the first time during an ultramarathon, I started eagerly anticipating the hill climbs, because my knee felt better on the climbs than it did on the descents.  Through it all, I plowed forward with my relentless forward motion hike, refueled with Gatorade and Coke at aid stations, and thanked aid station volunteers for their help.  My hands were starting to swell slightly from my increased hydration in the heat, so I became more careful drinking from my CamelBak.  I would also occasionally raise my hands into the air and shake them to stimulate blood flow and reduce the swelling, as advised by other ultrarunners.  At no point during this painful trek did I doubt my ability to finish this race.  I had enjoyed an unexpectedly blessed year of ultrarunning, and I was not going to end the year on a sour note with a DNF (Did Not Finish) at this one last ultramarathon.  The only question was whether or not my final “one for the road” ultramarathon of 2012 would prove to be one too many. 


Photo courtesy of Frank Conti

I eventually arrived at the final manned aid station at Mile 34.2.  As the volunteers refilled my pack with water, I told them about my knee pain from the IT band tightness.  A GUTS friend, Len, offered a helpful tip.  “You know the best way to make your knee feel better, don’t you, Jason?   Finish the race.” 

I can always count on my GUTS friends for tough love.  I limped out of the aid station and winced with each step on a rock-covered descent, but I was now smiling.  I looked at my stopwatch and realized that I even had a chance to beat my previous course record, 10:01:50, from the 2010 Pine Mountain race.  I ran for short distances, then resumed power-walking when the knee pain intensified.  The final long hill climb of the race did not faze me as I passed a couple of other runners and enthusiastically congratulated one of them when she told me that this was her first ultramarathon. 

The final two miles of the race along flat terrain were my reward for punishing my knee on a final extended descent, so I took advantage by jogging when my knee allowed and pushing my power-walk into overdrive when I could only walk.  Miraculously, I somehow passed four runners during this two-mile stretch with my walk pace.  I reached the edge of the woods next to the park shelter and started to run to the finish line.  Several volunteers who had apparently spotted my bright orange shirt from behind the trees yelled out my name just before I ran into the clearing.  I crossed the finish line of the Pine Mountain 40 Mile Trail Run in 9:42:44, and placed 85 out of 118 finishers. 


Photo courtesy of Liza AuYeung
 
I would like to have placed higher for this race after my running improvements over the past year, but my recovering knee had made other plans.  More than anything, though, I was overjoyed at my ability to pull a 40-mile ultramarathon finish out of my hat less than a month after my first 100-mile race.  When friends approached me at the finish area and advised me to take some well-earned rest and recovery to get my knee back into shape, I graciously assured them that I would be resting for the remainder of the year. 

It does not have to be fun to be fun.  The leaf-hidden rocks had their fun with me for the third time at Pine Mountain, but I had my own fun by spending time with great friends, enjoying some beautiful fall scenery, and finishing another rugged race to close out 2012.  I woke up the morning after this race and was surprised to have no soreness to speak of.  Aside from the slight knee pain, I barely even felt as though I had run the day before.  My decision to power-walk most of the last half of the race probably saved my knee.  My body is adapting well, and I will reward it by allowing the knee to recover with some rest and some IT band exercises.  Thanks to Thomas Armbruster Jr. and the GUTS crowd for another brilliantly organized Pine Mountain 40 Mile Trail Run, where it was a privilege to return to the scene of my very first ultramarathon.  I enjoyed the experience, and pushed myself through many challenges--just as I did during that 100-mile race that I finished.

See you on the trails.

Jason