On November 3 and November 4, 2012, I completed the Pinhoti 100-Mile Trail Race with a finish time of 28:54:18.
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| Photo courtesy of Philip Sustar |
At
the Pine Glen Campground in Heflin, Alabama at 6:00 AM on Saturday
morning, Race Director Todd Henderson gave a short speech to the 192
runners at the starting line and then sent us on our way. As I shivered
from the 45-degree predawn chill in my short-sleeved shirt and started
to walk along with the other participants in the back of the pack as
camera flashes and cheers of encouragement from onlookers surrounded us
in the darkness, I smiled with calm assuredness. I was in the best
physical shape of my entire life at the age of 40, I had arrived at the
starting area 70 pounds lighter than I was a year ago during my
unsuccessful first attempt at this race, and my combination of training
and diet had given me a tough edge capable of withstanding any of the
challenges that I had faced at recent ultramarathons. I had finished in
ninth place at the rugged Georgia Jewel 50 Mile race a month and half
before this day, I had taken nearly an hour off my fastest time at
Mystery Mountain Marathon three weeks before, and I had beaten my
fastest 10K time by three minutes on the previous Saturday. After
analyzing my mistakes from my first attempt and developing a wiser
strategy, I had gathered an outstanding crew of three pacers and I was
grateful to have a widespread net of supporters along the course that
would energize me every step of the way. As I turned on my headlamp and
flashlight to follow the long line of runners into a narrow trail that
disappeared into the forest, I believed that I had nothing to fear
from the Pinhoti 100 this time around. I was wrong.
The website for the Pinhoti 100-Mile Trail Race gives a short description of the course.
“The
Pinhoti 100 is a point-to-point trail run starting in Heflin, Alabama
on the unmolested Pinhoti single-track trail. Runners will make their
way over the highest point in Alabama while navigating over rocks,
through creeks and across beautiful ridge lines of the Talladega
National Forest. The course will consist of 80.62 miles of single-track
trail, 16.98 miles of jeep road and 4.52 miles of pavement and will
finish on the rubberized track in the Sylacauga High School Football
Stadium.”
During the first mile, I conversed lightheartedly with others as our
early shuffle accelerated into a steady jog in time with the single-file
line of runners ahead of us. At the same time, I mentally reaffirmed
my modest game plan to finish this race within the 30-hour cutoff
limit. 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. A brisk and deliberate pace for the first several hours was
essential, but caution was the primary goal during the first 45
minutes of the race when darkness obscured tree roots and slippery
leaves on the series of moderate climbs along ledges that overlooked
creeks and small ponds. 100 miles is a long way, and I would not gain
an edge by racing too quickly during the first three miles and risking
an ankle roll before the sun illuminated the trail.
I
carried an assortment of Sport Beans and Accel Gels in the lower
compartment of my Camelbak to eat every half hour on my stopwatch. In
the right pocket of my running shorts, I carried a small ziplock bag of
ginger chews to offset any stomach problems. In my left pocket, I
carried a ziplock bag with a mixture of Gummi Bears and full size
marshmallows for periodic added sugar in between the half hour intervals
to increase my approximate hourly nutrition intake to at least 300
calories. The combination of Gummi Bears and marshmallows worked better
in theory, since the marshmallows were often melted by the time I
pulled them out of the bag, but the mixture tasted good and gave me a
surefire bounce of energy each time I reached into the bag for a small
portion. I limited my hydration strictly to drinking a couple of sips
of water each time I put the sugary foods in my mouth, since the reduced
water intake had served me well at recent ultramarathons. The
predicted unseasonal temperature high of 82 degrees promised the hottest
Pinhoti race on record and an increased risk of hyponatremia if I were
not judicious with my water consumption.
A
November sunrise in the Talladega National Forest is always a treat,
as the light shines down on some of the most beautiful fall leaf season
landscapes in the Southeast. As the sun came up, I removed my
headlamp and shoved it into the top compartment of my Camelbak along
with the flashlight, so that I would have these on my person as backup
light sources many hours later when I would be on the trails through
the night with my best headlamp. I ran at a consistent and comfortable
speed as I passed occasional runners who stopped along the trail to
adjust shoelaces or wait for friends. I walked the lengthy or steep
inclines, but did not relax my running pace for the shorter hills.
The
first aid station, located almost seven miles into the course, was a
circus of people as crews and families crowded around the tents to take
early photographs of their runners. I had instructed my own crew that I
had wanted to be alone until the first pacer pickup point 41 miles
into the race, since I wanted to get my mind around the feel of the
event in my own way before my coherence waned in the last half of the
course. I waved at a few friends, but ran through this aid station
without stopping since I had plenty of water and nutrition on hand. I
was pleased that I had reached this station 15 minutes faster than I
had last year.
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| Photo courtesy of Vikena Gavalas Yutz |
As
the Pinhoti Trail climbed in elevation, the gorgeous scenery of the
fall landscape spread out before me with every turn as the trail
twisted along hillside ledges. Ever so often, I would pass runners who had normally completed races much faster than I in previous years. I
resisted the urge to slow down and pace with these runners, since
close friends in the ultrarunning community had recently advised me to
be more confident in my own running fitness and to understand that I
was a lighter and faster runner now than I had been when these people
had finished ahead of me over the years. I
felt good at this point, and my timing felt right, since I was faster
on the course this year without putting forth any additional physical
effort. I suffered one minor setback when I took a fall on the trail and
my right kneecap landed directly on a sharp rock, but I was running
with no pain after a few minutes.
I
reached the second aid station at mile 13 around the three-hour mark
and was pleased that my plans for completing the first marathon distance
within six hours were falling into place. I grabbed a banana from the
aid station table, but still hurried through without having to refill
my Camelbak with water. I crossed over a bridge and returned to the
trail, excited to be running well in this scenic terrain. The next
several miles of the course consisted mostly of soft trails covered with
pine straw and I took advantage by running the downhills and flat
sections at a brisk clip. I passed occasional runners on the inclines
with my fast power-walk, but I also took the time to take my focus off
the trail and look up at the tree leaves during these hill climbs in
order to relieve the blurry vision that plagues me sometimes after
concentrating my eyes on the trail in front of me for hours in the early
morning. The blurry vision went away soon enough, although I was
wishing that I had more opportunities to savor the beauty of the
wilderness around me. I was singularly fixated on hitting the first
marathon distance in less than six hours, and, even when the trails
crested mountain ridges, I was looking at the trail in front of me
instead of looking at the spread of mountain scenery in the distance. I
continued to eat a packet of Sport Beans every half hour along with
occasional handfuls of Gummi Bears and marshmallows from my ziplock bag
in the interim.
I
was tiring by the time I reached the third aid station at mile 18, so I
grabbed a cup of Coke from the aid station table and walked out of the
aid station for a hundred yards while a friend who was crewing for
another runner walked with me and encouraged me that I could soon settle
down into an easier pace since I was making great time so far. I
crossed the I-20 overpass bridge and resumed running as the Pinhoti
Trail turned back into the woods. I enjoyed the experience of
keeping up with a local ultrarunning friend, Joel, for a few miles, since he had normally
left me in the dust at previous races. By this time, though, the
daytime temperatures were starting to rise at an alarming rate. When the two of us caught up with another friend,
Victor, I finally decided to check my pace and stay with Victor while
Joel ran ahead. Victor’s sense of humor kept me smiling
and laughing for the next mile until we reached the next aid station.
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| Photo courtesy of Scott Hodukavich |
The
fourth aid station at mile 22 was the first of two stations manned by
Georgia Ultrarunning and Trailrunning Society (GUTS), so I enjoyed
talking with friends there as I had my Camelbak refilled with water for
the first time and I grabbed a handful of orange slices to take with
me on the go. I was close to the five-hour mark and proud that I would
be successful with a six-hour first marathon. I was starting to pay
the price for my long stretches of nonstop running, though, and the
rising heat was throwing harder punches with each mile. I soon caught up with Joel again as he ran with another local friend, Margaret. Joel and Margaret both cautioned me not to pace myself too fast, and I kept assuring them that I would slow down if I felt fatigued to an unsafe level. The two of them continually outdistanced me while we ran the downhills and flats, but I would catch up with them again during my uphill power-walks. A trail
marathon is a pinnacle of athletic ability for many excellent runners,
but that distance was merely a warm-up for me on this particular
weekend. The enormity of my task for this race weighed down on me as
my exhaustion climbed, but I continued to run at a seemingly unfazed
pace and enjoy the moderate trail terrain while I could.
During
my first couple of years of trail running, I had gained a reputation
as the guy who always finishes ultramarathons. I was heavier than most
runners and I was ungainly on the trail terrain, but I always seemed
to arrive at the finish line just by soldiering on and refusing to
quit. The 2011 Pinhoti race, however, was my first experience of
failing to reach the finish line simply because I was not fast
enough. The strict cutoff times of this 100-mile race had required a
skill level that I did not have at the time and that I doubted whether
or not I would ever have. My DNF (Did Not Finish) at Mile 75 had left
me physically and emotionally battered, knocking the wind out of my
sails in the same way that Rocky Balboa had lost his focus after losing
to Clubber Lang in the movie, Rocky III. The Pinhoti 100 was
my personal Clubber Lang, and I was determined to defeat it in this
2012 rematch at all costs. As I pushed past the point of safe fatigue
levels on the way to the fifth aid station, I reminded myself of the
need to put as much terrain behind me in the day as possible in order
to have a time buffer between me and the trail sweepers after dark.
I
reached the short out-and-back section on the way to the Lake Morgan
aid station and encouraged a handful of faster friends who were on their
way out of the station along the same trail. I climbed up some
unsettlingly high rock steps and found myself looking across the
beautiful lake with the aid station waiting for me just yards away. I
looked down at my stopwatch, and was elated that I had reached this Mile
27 station in six hours and 10 minutes, and, therefore, fulfilling the
first marathon time goal. I was also tired to the point of confusion,
though, and had to struggle to remember what I needed at this first
drop bag location. A volunteer refilled my Camelbak with water as I
ate some chicken breast meat from a sealed packet in my drop bag and
had the lower compartment of the Camelbak refilled with packs of Sport
Beans and gels to replace the ones that I had eaten so far. I took a
sweet potato with me from the drop bag, thanked the volunteers for
their time, and walked out of the aid station to let the food digest.
I
wanted to make it to the Mile 41 Bald Rock aid station in nine hours
or less to build a time buffer ahead of cutoffs, since I had been
struggling the year before when I had reached that station in just under
11 hours. I now had less than three hours to make it just over 13
miles, but was confident with my progress. After walking for a half
mile or so from the Lake Morgan aid station, I sped to a run along some
pleasantly forgiving trail terrain leading down into a valley. The
82-degree temperature high was arriving, though, and my nonstop running
stretches were starting to wane. I caught up with another familiar
local runner, Gregory, and enjoyed some conversation as we hit a few
mild trail climbs. The heat was taking its toll on me, but I needed to
keep moving strong.
Somewhere
between mile 28 and mile 29, I suddenly stopped sweating on my arms, I
developed chills, and I became lightheaded. I recognized the signs
of heat sickness, and knew that I had fallen victim to its potentially
life-threatening symptoms. In my mind, digital video game letters
suddenly appeared on the trail in front of me. Game Over. Game Over. Game Over.
I
did not stop moving, but I did slow to a power-walk and start to drink
small sips of water from my Camelbak, because I knew that increased
hydration was now essential to trigger my body’s cooling systems. I had
a problem, but my survival instincts kicked in and I realized that I
had to look at this problem as a problem-solving opportunity. If I
were running a road marathon, I would have stopped by the side of the
road and waited for the sweeper vehicle to ride me to the finish. Right
now, though, I was in the middle of a remote trail stretch with at
least another five miles to the next aid station. I told Gregory about
my heat sickness symptoms and asked him to pass me on the trail if he
wanted to go on ahead. I plodded up a steep climb and then sped up to
an easy jog on the downhill. A rush of dizzy nausea swept over me in a
short time and I had to slow to walk again just to keep from
collapsing.
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| Photo courtesy of Vikena Gavalas Yutz |
The
next mile or so was a painful exercise in staying upright as I
power-walked the inclines and briefly jogged on the descents until
lightheadedness took over. Gregory stayed with me during this section,
and that is an act of kindness that I will always remember. We reached
a creek crossing around mile 30 and waded through 20 feet of water
that rose up past our ankles. The freezing water was a mixed blessing
that felt like relieving ice baths for my battered feet, but also
exacerbated the problem that I was having with my own body temperature
control. The chills on my arms became worse. I was still sweating on
my forehead and did not think that I was being hit with a full-blown
heat stroke, but I was certain that I was working toward one. When Gregory passed me one final time, I assured him that I would be okay on my
own, thanked him for his company, and encouraged him to run ahead to
complete his own race.
I
soldiered on by myself along the trail for what seemed like an
eternity. The Mile 35 aid station finally appeared and I sat down for
the first time in a camp chair, surprised to see several faster friends
taking a rest here as well. I realized right away that I was not the
only person struggling with heat exhaustion, and the aid station
volunteers must have realized it as well, because they quickly came to
my rescue with cups of Coke and offers to refill my Camelbak with
water. Since I had been on the verge of passing out on the trail, I
took my time at the aid station and rested in a camp chair for a good
five minutes to re-gather myself.
I
was no longer interested in finishing Pinhoti 100. I just wanted to
stay alive until I reached my crew of friends at the mile 41 aid
station. My crew would put me into their vehicle and take me to a
doctor if needed. If not, I would have a ride back to my truck at the
finish area where I had boarded a bus to the start at 4:00 AM that
morning. I had some tough climbing miles left to go to get to that next
aid station at the top of Mount Cheaha, the highest point in Alabama,
so I was going to have to take it slow and easy to keep from collapsing
from my dizzy lightheadedness. During the first mile out of the last
aid station, I heard loud puking noises from a runner somewhere behind
me. The puking noises would sound out every couple of minutes, and I
joked with a runner in front of me that we must not have been the only
ones about to die from heat sickness. The climb up to the Bald Rock aid
station at the top of the mountain was constant gradual descent, and I
thanked my lucky stars that my determined power-walk did not worsen my
nausea. My stomach felt alright, thanks to some ginger chews that I
had eaten over the past few miles to offset problems in the heat, but
my head was not right at all. I am not a fan of alcohol, and the last
time that I was drunk was 20 years ago back in college at a 1992 party,
but I clearly remembered the ensuing hangover feeling, and my current
lightheaded state reflected that condition. Unfortunately, I was not
sitting up in a campus apartment bed five feet from a bathroom while
someone’s Alice In Chains and Smashing Pumpkins albums played from the
next building. This time around, I was on a rocky trail miles away from a
road and I could be in real danger if I were not careful. I kept
drinking water out of my Camelbak, since my thirst had increased, and
put one foot in front of another up the mountain.
The
dizzy spells continued, and I occasionally had to lean on a tree to
keep from falling. I now had a new health problem, though. My hands
were starting to swell noticeably from the increased intake of water. I
had now lost control of my electrolytes. I continued taking a packet
of Sports Beans every half hour and putting Gummi Bears in my mouth,
but the agonizing power-walk did not improve. When I did finally reach
the Bald Rock overlook to be greeted by friends, I had taken on the
form of the walking dead. Last year, I had run down the wooden
overlook boardwalk to the aid station with excitement, but I could only
walk this time with a steady hand ready to grab a rail if I felt as
thought I were collapsing.
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| Photo courtesy of Leigh Eoff Marsh |
I
made it into the Mile 41 Bald Rock aid station in almost nine and half
hours to the cheers of a small crowd, but a quick assessment of my
condition compelled them to sit me down in the nearest camp chair. My
three pacers, Lauren, Leslie, and Wilson, surrounded me with looks of
concern. Tears flooded into my eyes as I told my crew that I was
suffering from heat exhaustion and could not stay upright. Leslie handed
me a cup of warm turkey meat from the aid station table and Wilson
handed me a Coke. As per my request, another volunteer put a napkin
full of banana segments into my lap.
In
the weeks leading up to the race, I had repeatedly warned my crew that
they would be seeing me at my absolute worst during this race, and I
had sent detailed messages explaining possible scenarios and how to
help me through them. None of us, however, could have predicted that I
would be suffering this badly less than halfway through the race. Lauren, Leslie, and Wilson leaned over me with words of
encouragement and with more cups of turkey or Coke, but they also
glanced at each other with uncertainty, apparently wondering whether or
not my race was over. Jennifer and Jay, a couple who were running the
aid station and who had run with me during several previous
ultramarathons, came over to help as well. When I showed them my
swollen hands, they assured me that I was okay as long as I was
urinating regularly. Leslie urged me to take in some electrolyte
tablets to counteract my low energy, but I told her that I was afraid
that electrolyte tablets might make my problem worse by causing me to
retain too much water.
I never could bring myself to say the words, “I quit.”,
to my crew, although part of me wanted someone to pull me from the
race for my condition. The primary rule of thumb with experienced aid
station crews at 100-mile races is that they do everything possible to
convince runners to keep moving, unless that particular runner is
suffering a clear medical emergency. I knew that my crew and the
volunteers thought that I could keep going, and, deep down inside, I
believed that I could as well. Jay told me something that finally lit
the fire under my camp chair. “Jason, you have over 20 hours to go 60 miles. You can do it!”
I
stood up slowly to lessen the inevitable rush of dizziness and laughed
weakly to my crew that the absolute last thing in the world that I
wanted to do was stand up and keep moving, but that I was going to do it
anyway. Wilson told me to keep moving, but that he and Leslie would
be available for my first pacer, Lauren, to call by phone if I passed
out on the trail or needed to stay seated. I walked out of the aid
station with tears in my eyes, and with my first pacer, Lauren, at my
side. I told her that I was just going to walk for a while, because I
would pass out if I tried to run, and she assured me that I would be
okay if I just kept moving. We walked a mile or so down to the trees
at the edge of Bald Rock campsite area of Mount Cheaha, where the
infamous Blue Hell descent began. We were about to descend 900 feet in
just over a half mile down dangerous boulders, slippery cliff faces,
and treacherous crevices where I would have to support myself by
grabbing trees while I was dizzy and struggling to keep from passing
out from heat sickness. What could possibly go wrong?
Lauren
followed me down the rocks every step of the way, joking and cursing
loudly each time she tripped behind me. Despite the circumstances, I
could not help but smile. Lauren is an ultrarunning friend from Alabama
whom I had chosen to pace me from mile 41 to mile 60 because I knew
that her quirky sense of humor and our mutual love of science fiction
would bring discussions that would help take my mind off the technical
trail terrain that we would both face along the way. My dizziness and
lack of energy did not improve during the climb down the boulders and
rocks, but my mental outlook had noticeably brightened, and I knew that I
had made the right choice for Lauren to pace me here. I had to stop a
couple of times on the way down Blue Hell to sit on a rock and let the
more vicious attacks of lightheadedness pass by, but I looked at my
stopwatch each time and told Lauren that I would only sit for two
minutes each time.
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| Photo courtesy of Scott Hodukavich |
At
the bottom of Blue Hell, we were rewarded by an easy three miles of
rolling hills on paved road and forest road on the way to the next aid
station, but I quickly became dazed to the point of collapsing when I
tried to run. I resumed my power-walk and managed to make progress faster than expected. Lauren and I kept up fun conversations up and down the moderate hills, and, somehow, a discussion about how Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner universe was linked to his Alien movie was just what I needed to keep me moving forward. Two
of my running heroes, Joe and Kelley, soon caught up to us and, after
my brief description of my condition, Kelley advised me to take two
Endurolyte capsules for electrolytes to restore my energy. Despite my
earlier hesitation to take any electrolyte pills, I knew that things
could not get much worse anyway with my condition, and I relented. Lauren unzipped the top compartment of my Camelbak as I walked, found my small ziplock of Endurolytes, and handed them to me. I bit down on the Endurolytes to break open the capsules right away, and washed them down with a big sip of water.
I told Lauren that I regretted not being able to run during this easy section, and she replied, “I have to run right now to keep up with your walking!” Sure
enough, Lauren was running at a decent clip right behind me as I
plowed forward with my deliberate walk. I looked down at my stopwatch
and was relieved to realize that Lauren and I were already down from
Blue Hell and almost at the Mile 45 aid station at the same time that I
had arrived at the mile 41 Bald Rock aid station during my previous
Pinhoti attempt. I was down and out from heat sickness, but I was
still moving faster than I had the year before.
When
we arrived at the Mile 45 Silent Trail aid station at the end of a
long dirt road, I needed to sit down at another camp chair to gather
myself and keep from collapsing from sickness. Wilson and Leslie were
waiting for us, and, as per my request before the race, Leslie had
instructed the aid station volunteers to give me chicken soup broth by
itself instead of giving me the normal cups of chicken noodle
soup. Because of my Paleo diet over the past ten months, I was afraid
that noodles or pasta would send my stomach into a tailspin. The broth
tasted great, though, and did not disturb my stomach. Another friend,
Ronnie, handed me a can of Coke. At this point, my dizziness was at
its worst, and I could only put my head in my hands as I gave weak
instructions to my crew of what foods to bring me. Leslie asked if I
wanted some salted potatoes and I quickly agreed that those would
probably help ease my electrolyte balance troubles. Five minutes went
by quickly, and I finally made the decision to stand up and move along,
although I just wanted to stop forever. I made one feeble attempt to
stand, but sat back down when lightheadedness got the best of me. I
stood up again with tears in my eyes and cursed as I told my crew that I
was taking a stupid risk by going back out on the trail in my
condition.
Lauren
and I walked out of the aid station, climbed a small gradual hill, and
turned into the woods, where we would spend the next ten miles on
technical trail. I had left the Silent Trail aid station in darkness
last year, so I was happy to note that I probably had a good hour of
daylight left. This improvement in time would empower me in two
ways. I had more time in the bank to finish the rest of the race, but I
would also improve the time spread by being able to make it over some
of the most technical creek crossing portions of Pinhoti 100 in the
daylight this year instead of fumbling across them in the dark with my
headlamp as I had last year. I now had almost 19 hours to travel 55
miles.
As
I watched the sun lowering on the horizon behind the trees along the
trail in front of me, I suddenly knew for sure that I was going to earn a
Finisher’s Buckle for this year’s Pinhoti 100. I cannot explain what
exactly had flipped a switch inside me at that moment, but I had
abruptly crossed a line from wanting to drop out due to heat sickness
and knowing for sure that I was going to complete the race. Veteran
100-mile runners will always say that, in order to finish the distance,
you have to know all along that you can do it and never doubt that you
will get there. Somewhere deep inside of me, all doubt had disappeared.
At
the 2011 race, I had instructed my pacers, Jenn and Amanda, to run in
front of me to spot markers and determine the best footing for the
trail. This year, I had instructed my pacers to run a few feet behind
me. If I was in front, I would move forward in a self-assured manner
without feeling a need to apologize if I slowed down. I power-walked
with a focused intensity and even ran down a couple of extended trail
hills until vertigo forced me to walk again. Lauren and I soon caught
up with two friends, Erica and Laura, and I stayed at their heels up and
down winding trail, advising them on the Cheaha Creek and Chinnabee
Creek crossings that loomed ahead. The first creek crossing was
uneventful in the daylight, and all four of us made it over without
getting our feet wet. After a short time, we made it to the second, and
most treacherous, crossing. I took the lead and jumped over a series
of boulders, thanking my lucky stars that I did not tumble into the
water. With Lauren following closely behind, I took off power-walking
up the steep hill that started the 3.6 miles to the next aid
station. Darkness had finally overtaken us, and I turned on the Fenix
headlamp and Fenix flashlight that I had picked up from my drop bag at
Bald Rock. The forward movement would be slower in the darkness, but I
had saved a lot of time by making it over the two creek crossings and
the surrounding boulder-strewn trails before sunset.
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| Photo courtesy of Scott Hodukavich |
Lauren
trailed me behind me and entertained me with fun stories about her
experiences with the costumed fans at the recent Dragon*Con fantasy and
science fiction convention here in Atlanta. Instead of having a
mental low point in these dark valleys, as I had last year, I was now
laughing and power-walking over trail rocks at a speed that allowed me
to pass a handful of other runners during this section. The lights of
the Mile 52 aid station appeared through the trees after a while, and I
was ecstatic that I had reached this aid station in exactly 13 hours.
I had finished my first marathon in six hours and was now finishing my
second marathon in seven hours, just as I had planned. As before, I
needed to sit down again to recover from my dizziness and to enjoy some
nourishment. Lauren brought me a couple of cups of chicken broth and
another volunteer gave me some salted potatoes. I took two more
Endurolytes while my Camelbak was being refilled with water.
I
wasted no time standing up and heading back out onto the trail,
because I was eager to make the next three miles to the Mile 55 aid
station, where I would leave the single-track trail for some jeep
roads. Lauren was less experienced with running trails in the night
with a headlamp, so she told me to go on if she fell behind. Sure
enough, I soon outdistanced her with my power-walking strides. It is
fairly uncommon for a 100-mile runner to leave his pacer behind, but
this odd situation gave me an incredible boost of confidence. I knew
that Lauren was close behind, because I could see her headlamp, and I
called out to her ever so often, but I also managed to pass a few more
runners as I crossed a creek next to some tent campsites and climbed a
relentlessly rocky incline where voices and music from the next aid
station could be heard in the distance.
I
emerged out of the woods at the Mile 55 aid station, noting my
stopwatch time of just over 14 hours. Todd had told all of us runners
at the pre-race dinner that we would have a fair idea of our finish time
if we doubled the time that it took us to reach this particular aid
station. By following this logic, I guessed that my finish time would
fall somewhere between 28:30:00 and 29:00:00. Leslie and Wilson led me
to a camp chair, where I downed some chicken broth and Cokes as they
refilled my Camelbak and made sure that I took more Endurolytes. I
apologized to Leslie and Wilson for being so down on myself when I had
last seen them at the mile 45 aid station, but we all knew that the
worst would be yet to come. The night temperatures were predicted to go
down to 54 degrees, and, while this was a grand improvement over the
sub-freezing temperatures of last year’s Pinhoti race, I still predicted
the need for more cover from the mountaintop ridge winds, and I
changed from my bright fluorescent orange short-sleeved shirt into a
near-identical bright fluorescent orange long-sleeved shirt. Never let
it be said that I am not predictable.
 |
| Photo courtesy of Scott Hodukavich |
Lauren
and I made our way out of the aid station after five minutes or so,
eager to start an easy five-mile trek along a hilly jeep road where we
could simply turn our brains off and not worry about trail markings. My
fast and deliberate “Jason Voorhees walk” had enabled me to pass
several runners along the last ten miles and my dizziness would kick up
again whenever I ran, so I decided not to fix something that was not
broken. I continued my power-walk on the jeep roads. Lauren and I soon
caught up with a South Carolina ultrarunning friend, Andy, who kept
both of us laughing at his jokes. I would move out ahead of Andy on the
inclines, but he would shoot out ahead of me on the descents. The
elevation change of the jeep roads made it possible for the two of us to
stay close to one another, though.
The
jeep roads seemed never to end, but a long downhill finally unveiled
the lights of the Mile 60 aid station. Leslie and Wilson waited for us,
since this was the end of Lauren’s pacer shift and the beginning of
Leslie’s shift. I cursed when I found out that the aid station was out
of broth and Coke, but nonetheless benefited from some orange slices
that someone handed to me on a plate. I had almost 14 and half hours to
make it the next 40 miles, but I stood up and walked out of the aid
station after a few minutes with Leslie following.
Leslie
is a local ultrarunning friend who also runs Ironman triathlons and
who also had previous experience crewing for ultrarunners at 100-mile
races in the dead of the night when runners were at their absolute low
points from exhausted incoherence. During our emails before the race, I
had given Leslie no illusions about what to expect from my behavior
during her pacer shift from mile 60 to mile 85, which would be the
roughest stretch of the race for me by far. I had explained to her in
detail about my fits of hopelessness and sobbing during my climb up to
mile 75 at last year’s race. I had explained to her that, while I am
non-confrontational to a fault with people, that I often become enraged
at things, and that I was prone to curse and throw fits if I
could not read a map or understand a computer application, and that
exhaustion during ultramarathons often brought out that side of
me. Leslie took everything in graceful stride, and we walked quickly
down a treacherously rocky forest road. We would eventually discover
strenuous trail sections that brought me into a deeper abyss of despair
than I had ever been during any of my races, but, for now, our progress
was fast and fun-spirited. We talked about running friends, other
races, and life in Atlanta as we turned off the forest road at mile 62
onto single-track trail, where we would remain for the next several
miles.
My
power-walk continued to serve me well as I climbed up and down trail
hills with Leslie right behind me. We passed other runners who were in
various stages of energy deficit, but my own spirit was still
unbroken. I could do nothing but sympathize, however, when we passed a
runner who was hugging a tree beside the trail in the dark and mumbling
a quick stream of nonsensical words to himself. Leslie wished him
well, but the runner seemed completely oblivious to our presence and we
kept moving forward away from him. I remembered how quickly I had
deteriorated from optimistic energy to incoherent listlessness during my
first Pinhoti attempt, and knew that I was only hanging from a thread
above being in the same state as the runner whom we had just
passed. When one has traveled on foot for over 60 miles and is keeping
the blood sugar together in a fragile state, anything can happen.
 |
| Photo courtesy of Kirsten Nash Jones |
We
emerged from a long trail descent and crossed a railroad track, where
we were greeted by our crew and several cheering volunteers at the Mile
65 aid station. At this aid station, as with the ones before, I was
grateful that my crew had laid out the contents of my drop bags and
predicted my needs almost effortlessly. My decision to pick Lauren,
Leslie, and Wilson as my crew of pacers is the most intelligent decision
that I made for this race. I ate a cup of potato soup, had my
Camelbak refilled by Wilson, and stood up from the camp chair after a
short time to make my way up a steep paved hill where a steeper trail
climb awaited me. Leslie kept me company and encouraged me as I
power-walked with a steady pace up to the top of a mountain, where
boulder outcroppings and wind greeted us. The trail turns on this
mountain were tricky, so I asked Leslie to help me call out the trail
markings in case I missed any while I was taking the lead. My mental
capabilities were starting to erode, but my resolve was still steadfast
as we found the right turn each time and I walked faster.
I
needed a finish at Pinhoti 100 this year. Many people my age are proud
of their children, many people my age are proud of their prestigious
careers, and many people are proud of their dream houses. I am a 40
year-old civil servant who lives alone in a one-bedroom apartment and
watches my world grow smaller every year during a tough economy. As I
walked quickly over loose rocks coming down from a mountain in the
middle of the night and continued to fight the lightheaded weakness that
had assaulted me over the past 40 miles, I remembered back to a cool
morning in March of 2009, when I sat in my truck in a parking lot an
hour before my first marathon, the Snickers Marathon in Albany, Georgia,
and prayed that I would complete the distance. On that morning years
ago, I did not want to have a running blog with lengthy race reports, I
did not want to have involvement in multiple running organizations,
and I did not want large race memorabilia boxes in my closet full of
finisher’s medals and race shirts. I just wanted one single success in
my life. Since then, as my races have increased in frequency and
distance, I have come to lean on running as my source of self-esteem. I
have more fun while I am running than I ever have, and I was even
having fun in an offbeat way while battling sickness at mile 67 during
this race, but, for me, running is also the rock that keeps me upright
when I feel that I have little else to offer in life. Pinhoti 100 is
just a race, but I wanted a finish more than I had ever wanted anything
before. My DNF from last year had stung me. I wanted to put that
behind me, I wanted to get the 100-mile monkey off my back, and I wanted
to accomplish the final goal that had been the basis for my Paleo
diet, my weight loss, and all of my earlier races this past year. I
thought about a quote from Rocky III, where Apollo Creed is trying to motivate Rocky to get back in the ring after his loss to Clubber Lang. “Make it right for yourself or you'll be sorry you didn't.”
Leslie
and I arrived at the Mile 68 aid station to find Lauren and Wilson
waiting for us with my drop bag and a camp chair. I broke out into a
grin at the sight of an unexpected presence, a local ultrarunning
fanatic named Sean, who has been one of my greatest running inspirations
since I entered the world of ultramarathons years ago. While my crew
handled my Camelbak replenishment and my nutrition with expert care,
Sean congratulated me for making it this far, and he reminded me to have
confidence in myself all the way to the finish while having fun. I
stood up after a short time, eager to make my way along the next portion
of the course. I profusely thanked Lauren and Wilson for helping me
out and told them that I could not wait to see them at the next crew
access point at Mile 85. 17 miles of the toughest ultrarunning of my
life lay between me and that Mile 85 point, but I felt good, and I knew
that Leslie would be there to motivate me through every step. Leslie
and I waved goodbye to everyone and moved quickly across a highway and
into the forest on the other side. A year ago, I had left the Mile 68
aid station with only three minutes left until cutoff. This year, I was
leaving Mile 68 with roughly two hours left until cutoff.
Leslie
and I enjoyed a fun conversation for the first three miles of rolling
hills and pleasantly soft trails, but my mental game was slipping and
she increasingly had to remind me to eat and drink. I still took the
gels or Sport Beans from my Camelbak every half hour while reaching into
my Gummi Bear and marshmallow mixture bag in between the half hour
marks, since I had kept replacement ziplock bags of this mixture at all
of my drop bag locations. The hardships of the unrelenting switchback
climb to the Mile 75 aid station, the place where my race had ended
behind cutoffs last year, was permanently engraved in my memory, and I
just wanted to get the preliminary torture of the winding flatter trails
out of the way so that I could conquer the climb at long last. When
Leslie and I did finally reach the climb, after a couple of ill-fated
creek crossings where I had accidentally soaked my feet and unleashed a
record number of profane curses, I decided that I should have been
careful what I wished for, because it had now come true.
The
climb up to the Pinnacle aid station at Mile 75 was tough, but I was
tougher this year, and I plodded up the never-ending switchbacks with
determination. I whined and cursed frequently as my sanity began to
fray, but I was still coherent and strong when I finally saw the lights
of the aid station and emerged from the woods with a smile on my face
to meet my friends from the GUTS group once again. I was slightly
irritable with exhaustion and, when I saw a dog walking around near the
camp chairs, I asked the volunteers to keep it from jumping on me. I
later felt like the world’s meanest person, and apologized profusely to
the dog owner over and over after I sat down. My friend, Aaron, was
making fried eggs sandwiches for the runners and Leslie had him make a
couple of stand-alone fried eggs for me with no bread. The fried eggs
were rocket fuel for me, but I still wanted a few minutes to pull myself
together after the tough hill climb. Another friend, Janette, who had
been counting the runner numbers who came through, told me that I
placed at 73 so far. The volunteers cheered, and I stood up to make my
way out of the aid station, joking with each of the GUTS friends as I
prepared to leave. I told them that I loved them all, but that I was
not going to stay at this aid station this year. I stepped away from
the Mile 75 aid station and, from this point forward, every single step
was a new distance record for me.
 |
| Photo courtesy of Vikena Gavalas Yutz |
Leslie
and I walked to a forest road and climbed for a quarter mile or so
before returning to an extremely rocky section of single-track
trail. My dizziness was still faintly present, my blood sugar was all
over the place after 75 miles, and my coherence was fading fast, but I
spotted the markers and still did my best to keep up conversation with
Leslie as she continued to follow. I was pleased, because we had
reached the Mile 75 aid station somewhere between the 20 and 21-hour
mark and come close to my goal of finishing the third marathon distance
increment in time. At one point, Leslie told me that she had to run
occasionally just to keep up with my power-walking. I smiled and kept
up the walking speed. My feet were starting to develop some painful
blisters under my compression socks, though, so the smiling became more
of a challenge. Ever so often, one of my feet would slide along the
top of a rock in a way that rubbed the blisters, and I would cry out in
pain. Leslie and I were up on a mountain ridge where the beautiful
lights from towns below spread out over the horizon, but the rocks on
the winding technical trail held my attention until we finally arrived
at the next aid station just over 79 miles into the course. I sat down
in a camp chair and enjoyed two cups of chili while Leslie refilled my
Camelbak and gave me two Endurolytes from the aid station table. I
reminded Leslie to eat plenty of food as well and take care of herself,
since she would need a lot of energy to help me through the next
torturous section.
The
next six miles were a nightmare that still gives me shudders days
later. Leslie and I left the aid station and proceeded to walk up and
down an insidiously rocky jeep road that normally closed access to
vehicles that were not 4-wheel-drive. The rocks that were bad for
less-equipped vehicles were bad for runners as well, and my strength was
wearing thin. Leslie reminded me that I was still making good
progress, and she never seemed to run out of the right words to say when
I broke down into sobs and started to doubt myself. At one point,
Leslie mentioned that Wilson had been updating my progress at each aid
station on my Facebook wall and that each update had received multiple
“likes” and responses. This reminder that people were tracking my
progress put a spring into my step even as I became high-strung from
blood sugar woes and began repeating myself over and over with the same
questions or upset tirades. Each time we climbed a long gradual road
hill only to crest the hill and see nothing but never-ending road ahead,
my composure weakened.
I
hit rock-bottom on the sanity scale when Leslie and I finally did turn
off the rocky jeep road back onto a mile and half stretch of technical
trail that twisted and wound downhill over loose rocks and low-hanging
tree limbs. I was no longer a functioning person at this point and,
instead, I was merely a loose framework of tissue glued together by
Gummi Bears, marshmallows, ginger chews, and gels. All of my mental
capability was devoted to putting one foot in front of the other, and I
recoiled or sobbed whenever my foot blistered rubbed on a rock or
whenever I rolled an ankle in a rock crevice. When I passed under one
low-hanging branch, my headlamp became caught in the branches and was
pulled off my head. I was startled to the extent that I screamed
nonstop for about 30 seconds before I broke down crying. I tripped over
a rock a half mile later and curled up on the ground sobbing with my
bloody knee and arm before finally standing up to walk again. All the
while, I kept worrying aloud about cutoff times, and I kept telling
Leslie that I was about to get pulled behind cutoffs. Leslie reminded
me over and over, with increasing irritation, that I was still at least
an hour and half ahead of cutoff times and that I had nothing to worry
about. Five minutes later, I would resume a sobbing tirade about how I
was falling behind on time and that I was throwing away my race, only
to have Leslie give me the same reminder all over again.
 |
| Photo courtesy of Lauren Gray Castor |
I
started to piece myself together when Leslie and I heard voices from
the aid station in the distance and I knew that, at long last, I was
finally finished with the technical trails of Pinhoti. For the
remaining 15 miles, I would be traveling on jeep roads, soft lakeside
trails, and asphalt. We arrived at the Mile 85 aid station to find that
the generator had gone out and that the station had no warm food. I
was perfectly happy to have a camp chair to sit in, though. I profusely
thanked Leslie for her patience and her amazing pacer abilities.
I
switched into a pair of road shoes for the next 15 miles and put my
bulky Fenix headlamp into my drop bag in favor of the lighter headlamp
in my Camelbak while Wilson and Leslie refilled my Camelbak and saw to
my nutrition needs. One of my running inspirations, a veteran
ultrarunner named Josh, was running this aid station, and, when I asked
him how I was doing on time, he told me that I was doing well, but that
I could not afford to waste time at the next two aid stations and that
I would have to move through them as fast as possible. Wilson took
over the final pacer shift and led me down the jeep road away from the
cheering volunteers.
As
the sun started slowly began to rise, I worked to restore myself from
my mental slump and forced a smile on my face. I now had almost six
hours to travel 15 miles, but my running ability was pretty much shot,
and even the task of moving 2.5 miles per hour seemed like a stretch. I
reminded myself of what was at stake and kept walking with long strides
at a fast pace. “Make it right for yourself or you'll be sorry you didn't.”
Wilson
was the perfect company for these final miles, though. Wilson, a
competitive runner with a record of placing highly at road races,
triathlons, and ultramarathons, has a freshly optimistic and analytical
approach to endurance sports as he has been training for his first
Ironman event. He is also one of the most fun and naturally magnetic
people I have ever met. I felt like crying as I walked with foot
blisters on a surprisingly insidious jeep road full of gravel rocks, but
I managed to conceal the extent of my suffering because I did not want
to look like a wimp in front of Wilson. I had chosen Lauren to pace
me from 41 to 60 because of her sense of humor and conversational
talents, and she had saved my race by keeping me happy despite a
crippling heat sickness. I had chosen Leslie to pace me from 60 to 85,
because of her night-running experience and her natural talent for
crewing and managing ultrarunners through tough night stretches, and
she had saved my race once again by retrieving each fallen piece of my
sanity along the harshest sections of Pinhoti and attaching these
pieces back together. Finally, I had chosen Wilson for the last 15
miles because I knew that I would need a dose of man-to-man
competitiveness and drive on the home stretch.
I
would occasionally break out into a slow jog on the downhills to gain
some ground, but stopped each time after 50 yards or so when I became
dizzy or when the blisters in my feet exploded in agony. Each time,
Wilson cheered me on, telling me that every single short run like that
brought me closer to the finish line and bought me some time. My fast
“Jason Voorhees” walk had lost some of its hard edge over the miles, but
I still plowed forward at a 17 to 18-minute pace and was surprised
when Wilson and I crested one hill next to a church and saw the Mile 89
aid station waiting for us. I was pleased to see a North Carolina
ultrarunning friend, Mark, running the station. I sat down for a short
time while Mark and Wilson refilled my Camelbak and grabbed some
food. After a couple of minutes, my labored power-walk resumed.
 |
| Photo courtesy of Lauren Gray Castor |
It
is a vicious bit of insane torture for one to be less than ten miles
from the finish of his first 100-mile ultramarathon and see nothing but
one gravel road hill after the next alongside idyllic country
landscapes, woods, and fields. I realized that my decision to change
into road shoes for these last 15 miles had been a strategic mistake of
potentially disastrous proportions, because the road shoes were not
formidable enough to withstand the assault of gravel rocks on the
bottoms of my blistered feet. Each step felt as though I were walking
on a bed of saw-bladed nails. Conventional ultrarunning wisdom
states, “If it hurts to run and it hurts to walk, then run.” The
short downhill running stretches tore the skin apart on the soles of
my blistered feet, though, and I was forced to a walk after a few
seconds each time.
Relentless
forward motion was the key to my experience on this Pinhoti course. I
have seen many ultrarunners drop out of races when they are too tired
to continue running and have no desire to take a “death march” to the
finish line of the race. For me, every mile of this race since the
onset of my heat sickness between miles 28 and 29 had been a “death
march”, but I had refused to stop moving forward. I knew that the key
to earning a 100-mile buckle was to want that buckle more than I had
ever wanted anything, and I wanted a Pinhoti buckle enough to power-walk
for over 70 miles of the race.
My
resolve was holding steady and I power-walked with the determination
of a person who is obsessively driven toward a goal, but my tendency to
verbalize my concerns in a high-strung manner soon shattered my cool
exterior, and I became to worry aloud about cutoff times once
again. Wilson assured me over and over again that we were making good
pace. My high placement at 73 on the list of runners was falling fast,
though, as I found myself passed on the road by a handful of veteran
100-milers who all had a better handle on long-distance pacing than I
did. At one point, though, I turned to Wilson and said,
“I know that I have not been acting like it lately, but I am having the time of my life.” I
really was. I had traveled a rugged trail that had torn me down to
tattered remnants, and I had managed, with the help of great friends, to
sew those torn fragments together again to a stronger whole. Not many
people can say that they did that over the weekend.
 |
| Photo courtesy of Lauren Gray Castor |
Wilson
and I followed the yellow trail markings off the gravel road and soon
found ourselves walking across a beautiful earthen dam by a large
pond. The final aid station at Mile 95 was waiting for us over a
hill. I told Wilson that I did not want to sit down this time, and that
I wanted to move quickly through the station, taking just enough time
to have my Camelbak refilled. As Wilson refilled my pack with water, I
grabbed some orange slices to eat on the go. We thanked the
volunteers and left out for the final five miles of the longest
distance and the greatest personal victory of my 40 years.
It
was not quite time to break out the celebration balloons yet,
though. As if to remind me, rain began to drizzle lightly down through
the trees to bring a new chill to my upper body. I continued to move
forward with my steady bed-of-nails walk on blisters while cracking
jokes with Wilson, but sleepiness, dizziness, and shooting pains from
almost every part of my body were all lining up for one final
coordinated terrorist attack on my race. Each step brought me closer to
the finish line and to that Pinhoti 100 buckle, though, so I kept
taking steps.
After
crossing more earthen dams and negotiating a few downhills next to
fields and occasional rural houses, we turned off the forest road trail
onto the final section of Pinhoti 100, a long asphalt road straightaway
with distant landmarks that seemed never to come closer. A mile on
this asphalt surface seemed to take days, and a couple of runners
managed to pass me during my labored walk. One woman turned to me as
she passed and congratulated me, saying that my blog reports had always
inspired her. I congratulated her in turn and trailed behind her with
a slightly renewed vigor to my forced limp.
At
the final mile, Wilson and I found another one of my friends, Philip,
waiting for me on the side of the road. Philip, whom I had paced at
Bartram 100 last year, was not going to put up with any of my excuses,
and he told me to run, challenging me to run to the next mailbox before I
could walk again. I ran to the next mailbox and tried to run beyond,
but a surge of lightheadedness hit and I struggled to maintain
equilibrium for a split second. Philip abandoned the running commands
for a short while and, along with Wilson, encouraged me to move as fast
as I could any way that I could.
Finally,
after we made a turn by some railroad tracks, Philip told me that I
had a possibility at a sub-29-hour finish time if I could run the rest
of the way. I shrugged and said that I just wanted to finish. Philip
took out his iPhone, found his song list, and told me to run as the Van
Halen song, “Top of the World”, began to play from the phone
speaker. I ran and kept running, struggling to stay upright and
fighting each brutal asphalt scrape on the torn skin of my feet. Lauren
and Leslie were waiting for us as we turned a curve to see the
Sylacauga High School Stadium, where the finish line on the track was
waiting for me. The five of us ran into the stadium and I ran around
the track, savoring the relief of the rubberized track surface on my
feet. Race Director Todd Henderson was waiting for me on the track
around the turn from the finish line. We shook hands and ran together
toward the finish banner.
I
crossed the finish line of the Pinhoti 100-Mile Trail Race in
28:54:18, completing 100.59 miles and placing 92 out of 108 finishers at a Western States 100 qualifying run. I stepped over the finish,
stopped, and leaned down with my hands on my knees to keep from falling
on my face from the loss of equilibrium. A volunteer friend, Jeff,
handed me the buckle. I hugged Jeff, partly out of emotion and partly
to keep from falling down, then held my Pinhoti buckle as I posed for
photos. Philip took a photo of my crew of Lauren, Leslie, and Wilson
standing with me under the finish line banner. This is my favorite
running photo ever. The friendships were the true award from this race,
and the buckle was icing on the cake.
 |
| Photo courtesy of Philip Sustar |
The
heat of the previous day had exacted a toll that left this race with
just a 56% finish rate. I was one of the fortunate finishers. After
pulling myself together at a camp chair by the track for a while, I
ambled to my truck to gather street clothes, and then limped to a
nearby pool building shower. I removed my compression socks slowly and
torn skin from my foot blisters came off with the socks. I stood in
the warm shower for several minutes, and then dried off on a bench as
severe chills overtook me and a trickle of blood formed underneath one
foot. Dressing was no small task, but I eventually walked back across
the street to attend the awards ceremony. I sat with friends in the
gym, and looked around the room at many of my running heroes, privileged
and blessed to be alive and well with a race finish that had taken an
emotional burden off of my shoulders. My body felt as though I had
been run over by a cargo truck, but I had never been happier.
Thanks
to Race Director Todd Henderson and the Alabama community of running
volunteers who make the Pinhoti 100 race a success every year. Thanks
to my outstanding crew of pacers, Lauren, Leslie, and Wilson, to whom I
owe so much.
Last
year, at the end of the 2011 race, I wrote in my report that my
favorite race was one where I had only completed three quarters of the
distance. Right now, I am smiling at my computer as I write that my
favorite race is one where I completed the full distance and crossed
that finish line to the cheers of friends. I am not a wealthy person in
my everyday life, but crossing the finish line of Pinhoti 100 was an
experience that no amount of money can buy. I am the luckiest man in
the world.
See you on the trails.
Jason
