Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Greg To Coast: A solo 200-mile run

I awoke with a start and a gasp, sitting up in rapid fashion, first piking at my waist before transitioning quickly to my knees. My field of vision contained only trees and dense foliage. I tried to stand, but something wasn't right: I wobbled, and my legs shook unsteadily. And a strange, intense pain warmed the soles of my feet. I bent down to squeeze them, unaware why they hurt so much. I winced and withdrew my hand as if touching a warm stove top.

Then, everything fell apart.

Turning in horror, I now saw I was standing next to a truck containing three people whose murmurs I could barely make out. "Who am I? Where am I?!?" I asked frantically as I rapped on the truck window. My confusion gave way to terror...I was afraid and unaware who I was, where I was, or why I was there.

The three exited the truck quickly and tried to calm me. "Your name is Greg. You have run 150 miles. You are running Hood to Coast solo. You just woke up."

I had to process each answer individually, slowly. Ok--I remember my name and who I am. If I've run 150 miles, that explains my legs and feet. But the "Hood to Coast solo" part was more difficult to digest. "Hood to Coast?" I asked. "The race with 12-person teams?"

"Yes," they replied. "You're running it solo."

-------

Flashback to 1995, when my Hood to Coast team was passing somewhere through Oregon's Coast Range on the way to Seaside. During my 3rd (of 3) relay leg, I passed a runner who was moving very slowly, but as soon as she came into view, I recognized her instantly: Cyndie McKenna would be the first person to run Hood to Coast solo (eventually doing it twice), and her solo efforts would be followed by two others (that I can verify...more might have done it). As I passed Cyndie, I gave a short word of encouragement and saw the gratitude in her eyes. I knew, someday, that I would follow in her footsteps.

Solo runs, whether in race situations or as "journey" runs from A to B, have long captivated me. I've been lucky enough to tackle some very tough events (Badwater, Arrowhead, Marathon des Sables, Desert RATS, more) and come out the other side. I've also put together journey runs that were tough but incredibly satisfying (especially running from Portland to Seattle in '04). But nothing could match the distance of Hood To Coast (HTC) for me. There are longer races, there are races on tougher terrain and in much more difficult environmental conditions. None, however, travel right through my backyard in Portland, Oregon, and I knew no other event as intimately as I know HTC.

For years, I envisioned how and when I might be able to take a solo shot at HTC. There is no solo division in the race...for good reason. First, it's brutal. Second, the focus always has been and always will be on the relay team competition. It's the raison d'etre of the event. And before I go any further, my desire to do this run was never to detract from the incredible achievements of any HTC or Portland to Coast teams. As a 13-time veteran of the race, the team experience is incredibly rich and should not be notched down one bit by the stubbornness of one slightly loony middle-aged man.

As 2014 began, I already had the Arrowhead 135 on my schedule, and the experience whipped my butt. But as springtime rolled around, I started to get the familiar itch of wanting another challenge and adventure. HTC was close to home and I couldn't see any good reason for delaying. I scheduled a start date of Thursday, August 21st, 2014 at 9am from the Timberline Lodge parking lot on Mt. Hood.
A journey of 200 miles begins with the first step. Starting on Mt. Hood with Tonya checking the watch.

---

"Ok. I know he's ready to run, but I don't feel comfortable putting him on the roads if he doesn't even know who he is."

These were the words of my crew boss, good friend, and ultra genius Todd Janssen, who was not prepared to throw me to the ultrarunning wolves. I had just awaken from a 45-minute sleep completely fried out of my mind, not knowing much about anything. We put a specially marked stake in the ground and drove forward a few miles to the next relay exchange point where a medical officer quizzed me: Name, date of birth, and President of the United States, please. Seeing no medical reason why I couldn't continue, he gave the Hippocratic blessing and put the crew's minds at ease. I was slowly coming around mentally, and the break had helped. I was ready to run.

-----

Joining Todd in the control room was my good buddy Jason Walton, a college teammate and one of my best friends. He knows me (too) well--the perfect companion for the road. And rounding out the crew, getting her fill of ultra madness for the long weekend, was my coworker and buddy Tonya Oyala, lending a woman's view to the run and letting her trademark smile and "cool under any pressure" visage right the ship when needed. I was in more than capable hands with the trio of "JTT."

----

The magnificent peak of Mt. Hood watched as we unloaded, snapped a few photos before 9am, and readied ourselves for the adventure. At 9am, I took my first steps toward the Pacific Ocean, unsure of much ahead, but with full knowledge that it would include plenty of discomfort.

In the first 10k, which heads sharply down the road toward the town of Government Camp, I tried to settle into an easy pace. In conversations with my crew, I knew if I did not go very conservatively for the first 100k (62 miles), I would pay the piper dearly. It was easier said than done, as the weather was perfect, my mood was upbeat, and my body felt great in the first six hours.
1/4 mile mark.


On the slopes of the mountain, a marmot started barking (yelling?) at me in earnest. Perhaps it was a warning cry to stop before I fully immersed myself in the madness. Five miles later, a red-tailed hawk put on an incredible display of flight just overhead. These and many other wildlife encounters gave my mind a break from left-right-left-right.

The highway passed beneath my feet. Government Camp, Zigzag, Rhododendron, and other hamlets lined the sides of the road. 20 miles or so into the journey, I found a long CB antenna that had been lost or discarded, and carried it as my sword, magic wand, and protective stick. Like a kid in the back seat of the family sedan, I pleaded with passing trucks to honk their horn, giving the "pull the horn cord" hand signal. Many obliged, and I did a little dance when they honked.
No time for pie in Government Camp, Oregon.


The crew met me every 2 miles or so in these early hours, ready with a fresh, cold bottle of Perpetuem, which I sipped religiously. Only once during the entire run did I feel the slightest bit of dehydration, which I remedied by upping my intake.
About 5 miles out of Sandy, Oregon.
Todd and I just after a water bottle hand off.
No need for lights yet under the midday sun.


By the time I had the town of Sandy in my sights, I was starting to feel the effects of the 35 downhill miles I had run thus far. When I met the crew in the town, I told them I was going to lay down and put my feet up for a few minutes, and that I'd meet them at the high school.

Nobody told me they moved the high school.

In front of Sandy's "old" high school, I found the perfect place to prop my feet. 3 or 4 minutes later, I was a new man. But where was my crew? Just around the corner, it turns out.

Taking the miscommunication in stride, I pressed on past the new high school and through a residential neighborhood. Then, the course dumped out onto scenic country roads, lined with what would be the crew's favorite snack food (not counting the foul-smelling beef jerky they consumed) of the the race: Roadside blackberries.

Sunflowers.


And the scenery was incredible. It had been many years since I had passed through this part of Clackamas County, and I had forgotten about the pastoral setting, with sunflower fields, nurseries, and small farms dotting the landscape. Around mile 45, I passed a house where a girl called out, "Are you running Hood To Coast?"

"Well," I yelled back, "sort of. I'm running it by myself. The teams start tomorrow morning."

She was the first person I had encountered on the route who stared at me as if I had horns growing out of my head (there would be many others). Then she screamed at the top of her lungs, "YOU'RE CRAZY! BUT I LOVE IT!" It was these kind of interactions that made me smile and put a little spring in my step. Not for the glory, and certainly not because I felt like a one-man freak show, but because I could offer a slightly different perspective on what has become a running institution. To most observers, one just does not run Hood to Coast by oneself.

I passed small country lanes dotted with modest, but well-kept houses. On one front porch sat two young inhabitants, enjoying the warm afternoon and looking over a small flock of chickens. A sign read, "Fresh eggs for sale." I couldn't help ask them, "How are the eggs?"

"The best!" replied the girl. "Wanna buy a dozen?"

I smiled at their entrepreneurship and said, "Well...I forgot my frying pan. But next time through, I'll be sure to get a dozen." We laughed together and for a few moments, I forgot all about the mounting fatigue in my legs.

------

Boring, Oregon isn't a bad tourism slogan or something uttered by tourist kids in the back seat as they drive from Seattle to San Francisco. It's a town just east of Portland that marks one end of the Springwater Corridor, a paved trail that stretches almost 22 miles from end to end. It's also the race route into Portland.

Todd, Jason, and Tonya met me in Boring for my first extended crew stop of the race. After a quick clothes change and some food, I grabbed a two-way radio, my phone for a few calls and some music, and I was onto Springwater. More blackberries awaited the crew, and I grabbed a few here and there to keep my mouth happy.
The shoe bin is opened during a short stop in Boring, Oregon.


The section of the run on the Springwater was interesting. At one point near the town of Gresham I was joined by Joe, who had heard about the run via social media. Then I ran into yet another friend who happened to be out on a training run. The company made the time pass rather quickly, as it always does.
At Gresham City Park.

As the sun began to set, the creatures of the night began to come out to play, especially the ones of the human variety as I reached the Portland city limits. My crazy new lighted vest drew much attention from many observers, but the bonus was that it was visible by any car or cyclist, making me an easy target to avoid.

Fatigue crept in with the evening, and as the sky grew darker, it hit me that I had been moving now for 12 hours. Then, a pleasant surprise gave me new energy: Friends Renee, Wendi, and others had come out to cheer me on, ringing cowbells and making a fuss at my arrival. It was as much a mental break as it was physical, giving me a few mental "cookies" for at least the next 4 or 5 miles.
The welcoming committee on the Springwater Corridor.


At Oaks Park in the Sellwood neighborhood, I left the crew for a 5k stretch, alone only with my thoughts and the occasional passing bicycle in the dark night. I thought how great it was to now be within sight of downtown Portland, and contemplated how great it was to have come this far.

As I got within radio distance of the crew, I started cracking a few jokes, bringing up random words I thought were funny. "You know what I think is a funny word?" asked Todd on the radio. "Penguin."

How...odd. The word had never struck me as peculiar, but...whatever. Maybe Todd just thought it looked or sounded funny. But the joke would be on me.

Reaching the end of the trail as it dumped onto city streets, I saw the lights of my crew, along with another...person? Being? PENGUIN?? It was my compatriot Porter, dressed head to toe in our company's penguin costume we use to promote a foul weather-themed run and bike ride. And, he was wearing running shoes, ready to escort me through downtown. Awesome! Nothing could punctuate the ridiculousness of running 200 miles solo than being accompanied at midnight by a running penguin.
The Penguin.
Accompanied by the Penguin through downtown Portland.


The comments offered by late night carousers were epic, and made the miles pass quickly through the city. After Porter peeled off to head home, I was alone again, sans support crew who had gone in search of late-night refueling for the vehicle. Running alone through an industrial area, I found a small shopping cart that looked like the perfect companion, so I dropped my handheld water bottle into the cart and started pushing. Awesome, again!
Where's the beer aisle? (Waar ist het bier stelling?)


The crew eventually caught up with me and I thought it a good time, while still relatively lucid, to schedule my first sleep break. In a small corner of a parking lot on Hwy. 30, I put my head down and was instantly asleep for a pleasant 45 minute nap (not even a RAT Tonya spotted could rouse me from my slumber!). But waking up and getting back on the road proved tough--beware the chair, as they say. I managed a shuffle and headed under the iconic St. Johns Bridge to points beyond, wondering if I'd start to see relay race crews setting up exchange zones or walking teams start to catch me.

--

The stretch along Hwy. 30, heading north out of Portland is a blur. Shaking off the bonds of (a brief) slumber, feeling the accumulated fatigue of over 70 miles, and the inky black narcotic of the early morning hours all conspired to drape my eyes and mood with a dark gauze.

Ultramarathons bring a weariness akin to the ultimate PhotoShop smudge tool. Sharp edges morph into cloudy waves. Memories are dulled; towns, villages, and landmarks are only good as points of association in the rearview mirror. Linnton: A place to stretch on a bench. Sauvie Island: A climb. The climb to Scappoose: Sunrise, and the first contact with walking teams. 
A typical nighttime crew stop where I had a seat for a minute or two.


I ran and walked into Scappoose with Friday's first light, which experience tells me is always a shot in the arm. My fast walking pace now dominated my running pace, and the encounters with the fastest of the walking teams discouraged me. Casual banter began; these were the first people I had encountered in nearly 24 hours who could begin to comprehend the magnitude of what I had already completed and the difficulty of what still lie ahead.

But the company did something else for me: It put me in my element; among those who valued movement above sedentary pursuits and fitness above inactivity. Yes, these were power/fitness/race walkers, but they were movers--men and women who could, on some level, relate.

Into the town of St. Helens, I entered the first relay exchange zone where I sensed the "race was on." The whirling dervish of activity and excitement was palpable and lifted me out of my mental funk. The morning sun now broke through clouds and warmed the air--I was in for at least 8 hours of warm to hot temps.

Tonya joined me for the next segment, and upon leaving St. Helens, we made sure to take a wrong turn, gaining my one "bonus" mile of the race. I so enjoyed her company and cheerful attitude as we left the town and entered the first rolling foothills of the Oregon Coast mountain range.

Into the major relay exchange at the Columbia County Fairgrounds, I got the first of many ego boosts...volunteers heartily announced to the waiting crowd of runners, "SOLO RUNNER...COMIN' THROUGH!" The cheers were embarrassing on one level, but so touching on another. I was moved to tears as I received high-fives from numerous folks, many pats on the back, and more than a few stares of disbelief and pity.

Hills are your friend. This, my mantra for many miles, remained unchanged and repeated until I nearly fell asleep muttering the words aloud. Narrow roads twisted through pastoral acreages lined with hardwoods. Alder leaves shimmered in the late-summer afternoon, their twinkling reminding me that every time I farted, an angel got its wings. Apologies...that is crude, uncalled for, and...just the kind of juvenile humor I needed in order to retain my sanity.

Up, up, up the route climbed, onto the gravel sections of the course, offering stunning vistas of countryside few--other than Hood to Coast runners--often see. Gravel sections seemed to last forever as afternoon gave way to early evening, and runners now started catching me, which I actually relished instead of dreaded.
Fake, fake, fake smile. I'm hurtin'.

My crew, through it all, appeared at the most opportune times, ready with a cold bottle of Perpetuem; a small bunch of Pringles (Greg's super-double-dog-spy-special-secret-ultra-weapon); a cold towel; a kind word; a stupid, yet critical insult or joke at the appropriate moment. God, I loved these three people.

Conversations with runners who joined me ran the gamut. I met an administrator for Habitat for Humanity who intrigued me with her story of how running transformed her life after a divorce; a guy who was running his first race beyond a 5k; and was uplifted by an endless stream of others who had gotten wind of my silly stunt, giving kudos and good tidings once they got beyond the disbelief.

---

The lights of the Natal Grange are behind me, and I'm running scared, my fright fueled by an endless supply of mounting fatigue that feeds my paranoia. Hallucinations have yet to start, but in my experience, are always preceded by the virtual looking-over-the-shoulder.

I'm not allowed to waver too much as I roll through the major exchange point in Mist, Oregon. Cheers and jeers from sleepy runners keep me running down the road, past a bar featuring a blues band belting out what must be the last encore of the late night.

"AAAAAnnnnddddd...the wheels came off!"

-----

If daylight could illuminate my face, the stare would have been frightening. As it was, in the pitch black, no one could see my thousand-mile gaze. A cup of hot coffee from a young couple outside the Birkenfeld Church lifts my spirits, but even the caffeine and grounds in the bottom of a styrofoam cup can't cut through the thick sludge of my sorry state.
The stare.

I despaired, and had to reiterate to the crew my dedication to reaching the beach. I asked for a short roadside meeting and asked if there were any objections to getting to the finish line at all costs, regardless of the time spent doing so. There were none, and I continued. Envision Ed Harris as Gene Kranz in Apollo 13: "Failure is NOT an option!"

----

Soon, Jason is walking next to me, and I can hear his stupid voice and see his outrageous clothing and footwear, his usual mishmash of fashion disaster/brilliant functional ensemble. But Jason doesn't give a shit about looking good in this pitch black god-forsaken night. He's been up for countless hours, has just run out of beef jerky, and wants a shot of bourbon. Gee...a bourbon sounds nice right about now.

Cows close to the roadway startle us as we hear a staccato "Moo!" and turn our headlamps to light the black and white faces, just a few feet away. I'm descending a never-ending spiral of weariness, with no end in sight. I need sleep, and I need it now. In the absence of the luxury of time to stop, I press on.

Someone had obviously put roofing tacks into my shoes, because the soles of my feet, suffering from big blisters, were on fire. Every step sent flashes of pain through my feet and into my legs. I didn't how much more I could take. But there's a moment where we all must separate extreme discomfort from true pain. How could I recompartmentalize (?) the discomfort, shuffle the deck a few times, and deal out a new hand that was more to my liking? I was the dealer in charge of the table--no person had a knife to my back forcing me down the road. Every step was of my own choice, so the obvious and logical conclusion was to take the extreme discomfort, place it neatly into its own cubby hole, and deal with the myriad of other issues I faced.

----

They say the darkest hour is just before the dawn. Here, the descent continued toward backward motion. My pace had dropped to sub-pedestrian, and I knew sleep was imminent. I asked Todd for 10 minutes, which he gladly arranged for me roadside. 10 minutes came and went, and I knew immediately it wasn't enough. Back on the road, my bobbing and weaving continued, putting me on the borderline of danger to myself and others. I asked Todd to ready my sleeping bag for a 45-minute nap...little did I know he was envisioning (or hoping for) a 2-hour break.

----

3 miles out of Jewell, I succumbed to the sleep gods, chronicled earlier by the rude and incoherent awakening, followed by the medical clearance and re-entry to the course.

Slowly, life on this little 200-mile journey began to get better and better.

I was joined just out of Jewell by a judge from MIssissippi (thanks, Matthew!) who was running with a group of friends from the South. Our conversation reminded me why I love Oregon so much...he fawned over the scenery, the trees, and even the friendly attitude of runners and race staff. It made me proud to welcome guests like this into our little corner of the world.

The route gets prettier and prettier outside of Jewell. A climb through verdant forests slows the pace of the race, giving passing team vehicles the opportunity to voice their support. In this 10k stretch I saw a number of familiar faces, and their kind words helped make easy work of the steep hills.

Some van congestion added to the entertainment value, and a cold Coke from my crew lifted me further. Tonya had to temporarily leave our team in this section for a social engagement near the coast, but she would return to the race later. Into the hamlet of Olney, van congestion was at its zenith, but my slow pace allowed for Todd and Jason to not worry about getting stuck in traffic.

Just past Olney, a mental cookie was delivered in the form of old friends and Hood To Coast teammates who stopped to offer encouragement, hurl insults, and pass me a bottle for a few slugs of something that tasted like a mix between moonshine, Tabasco sauce, and cinnamon. Probably just what I needed.

The sun now heated up for the third time since I had started this endeavor. I was having..."fun"...but I longed for the cool ocean breezes and the sand between my toes.

A few miles later, I could smell the briny waters of Young's River, an inlet which signaled my approach to coastal waters. But the party wasn't over quite yet. Afternoon sun baked down, making the next 8 or 9 miles feel very, very lengthy. Other runners I saw were hurting, too, so I gave encouragement when I could and kept my eyes on the horizon, looking for signs of a turn that would signify the relay's next exchange and another segment for me to wrap my head around.

Just past the aptly named Lewis & Clark School (this entire corner of Oregon bears evidence of the great explorers' visit), I soldiered southward toward the town of Seaside, still well over a half-marathon distance away.

Throughout the race, I would chuckle at the various team vans and their clever decor, one of the hallmarks of this event. One van stood out, however, as it flew past me en route to the next exchange. Crudely painted on the back window, the lettering read, "Do Epic Shit." It was an epitaph I repeated for the next 5 miles. Do Epic Shit. Do Epic Shit.

At the next, and second-to-last exchange, more cheers arose when a race volunteer announced my arrival. I was pretty cooked at this point, and needed every bit of energy I could borrow. 12 miles to go. Thankfully, Tonya appeared, ready to accompany me for the next 7 miles, so we ran, ate trailside blackberries, and discussed the finer points of living in Seaside, Oregon, a town she had called home years earlier.

A thick layer of clouds began to shroud the trail and roadway as we approached the final exchange point, the last time I was to see the crew before the finish line. I shivered in the cool air, but it was a welcome change to the heat earlier in the day. Since my "implosion" near the town of Mist many hours earlier, my feet had miraculously stopped hurting (nerve endings tired of shouting at me??), and I had run 95% of the time since the sleep break.

---- 

Into the last exchange point, I saw the whole crew for the last time before I would hit the beach. As I departed, I worried that they wouldn't make it to Seaside to park and get back to the race course in time to join me across the finish line.

Down, down, downhill I ran, entering Seaside under a thick cover of clouds during this final 5 mile stretch. I thought about all of the steps that had led me here...not just since I had begun THIS race two days earlier, but naturally, the path my life had taken to this point. In my wildest dreams as a young man, I never would have envisioned running 200 miles in one go. But in those many decades since I had run my first road race, I had done much more than I ever thought possible. This run, while hopefully not my last race, was proving to be A.) Superbly difficult, and B.) An incredibly sweet experience in its own right.

Into the town, I smelled the barn, picking up my pace as best I could and joined by relay runners who were completing their team's "glory leg." I crossed Hwy. 101, and wove through the residential side streets of Seaside. In vain I tried to radio my crew, but I heard only silence on the walkie talkie. Then, as I reached the Seaside promenade, Todd's voice came through: They were waiting for me on the boardwalk near the finish line!
Just a few strides to go.


Todd & Tonya with social media management at the finish.


After a few photos of me stumbling and smiling like an idiot, we joined hands to run under the finish line arch. 59 hours and 1 minute later, I had run 200 miles and the Hood To Coast relay route as a solo runner.

Crowds of runners who had gathered at the finish line clapped and yelled when the announcer gave me a shout out. Then, as I exited the finisher chutes, a mob of folks were all over me, dishing out the high-fives and giving me hugs and back slaps. The whole scene was incredibly humbling and while I enjoyed the accolades, I felt a bit embarrassed at the attention.

I guess you could say there was a day years ago when I was a "fast" runner, if we were to use a very liberal definition of the word. Sub-16 or 17 minute 5ks, sub 3-hour marathons and the like were within my realm. Today, while I enjoy the competition of a footrace, I'm not under any illusions that I can beat the young (or old!) fast guys and gals in a race. I do the best I can, given my training and other variables that go into my event preparation. While I haven't given up on maximizing my performance, I find great joy in simply soaking up the atmosphere that running races offer. And a solo 200-mile run could be one of the ultimate examples of that. I had no competition other than my own doubts, fears, and insecurities. No other runner was on my heels, pushing me to the red line of my inner tachometer. No runner was ahead of me, offering the tantalizing "fish to reel in" as my next "road kill" victim.

It was just me, myself, and I, supported by a selfless crew of amazing individuals, moving down the road one footfall at a time.

And in its great simplicity, was its beauty. It was running, at its very best.
Everybody happy...and exhausted.


---

As a postscript, it has taken two months for me to write the above words; or I should say, it has taken two months for me to type the words out, as the story was written with every mile that passed under my feet in August.

I've been asked so many questions about this feat, so I'll address a few of the most common here. Yes, there was plenty of walking during the 200 miles, especially from around the 90 to 140 mile point. 80% of my fuel was liquid, primarily Perpetuem from Hammer Nutrition. Except for a short segment where I wore an old pair of running sandals, I ran and walked in HOKA shoes, and used 3 or 4 pair at some point--mostly the Stinson Tarmac and the Conquest. Pictures show me in those dorky, yet superbly effective compression socks, which I wore throughout. The distance between crew stops varied from 1 to 3 miles, although there were a few places where it was more distance.

The people I encountered along the route, including fellow race participants and event volunteers, were incredibly supportive. A kind look, light applause, or the numerous words of encouragement were worth more than gold, even at it's current rate of $1235/oz. The "civilians," casual spectators out living their life along the way...well, they were the spice that added a very rich flavor to the event: The work crew in a truck just outside of Gov't. Camp; the guy in Sandy who directed me to the "new" high school instead of the "old" one; the people picking berries on the Springwater Corridor; people like Joe and Porter who ran with me for a while; the Hispanic family near Gresham who were laughing at their own attempts to pick an apricot from a high branch; people in their St. Helens neighborhood attending to their garage sale; and the list goes on. To all of them, known and unknown, I owe a debt that could never be repaid.

JTT made the race for me. Without them...no race!
JTT's post-race treats.


Finally, I've been asked if I would do this run again. With the memories of the discomfort still fresh in my mind...I'm not sure. There are plenty of journey runs, races (both short and long) available out there. The world of endurance sports is huge, and even after 30 years of pounding the pavement, I've got miles to go before I sleep.

Thanks for reading, your support before, during and after the race, and for any comments you wish to share. #gregtocoast can be used for any social media shares, etc.

As always,

Remember to love the ones you love.
Incredible illustration, plus all photos/videos courtesy of Jason Walton





Thursday, October 23, 2014

Don't Lose It

A song I wrote in January, 2014...

Don't Lose It

Standing there
Not moving forward
I will my legs to go
Keep it together when head says no
Been to the lowest of lows
Lost the path
Frozen numb and thinkin hurts

Chorus:
You gotta find your way
When your map is lost
Somebody stole the sign
Try to keep it together
Whatever the stakes
And don't lose it
Don't lose it
Don't lose it

Now it's dark
Torch is on the fritz
It's when the doubt 
Creeps faster til it's
Hitched a free ride
At your expense
Follow the footsteps and
They will lead you
But just remember

CHORUS

Bridge:
I ain't looking to mine gold
I ain't looking for the cure to all the world's ills
Just trying to get to where I'm going
Climbin' all the hills
And I won't lose it

CHORUS

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Prioritize Awesomeness

PRIORITIZE AWESOMENESS

This is my new personal slogan.

When we "prioritize," we put something at the top of our list; we make it the most important thing; we fast-track a task; we do it first; we set aside all other things; we delay things that can wait; we send it via courier; we make haste; we reshuffle the deck; we hit the re-set button; we objectively look at everything on our to-do list and re-order it.

Definitions for "Awesomeness" would take too much space. I know where awesomeness resides for me, or perhaps I'll find out via much discovery, trial and error. What moves your own "awesomeness" needle?

Prioritize Awesomeness, and you will no doubt have a much better idea of your next best move.

I shall Prioritize Awesomeness.

Saturday, March 29, 2014

Arrowhead 135 Ultramarathon--Tips, Tricks, & Advice

Call it pig-headed, being stubborn, or just plain lucky—whatever it was, it helped deliver me to the finish line of the 2014 Arrowhead 135 Ultramarathon. But fortune favors the prepared, and well-prepared I was. With nearly 30 years of endurance sports participation under my belt, many of those spent in the subset of ultramarathon foot racing, I had some experience to bring to the table.

Although a youth spent in the suburbs of Chicago gave me some background in cold-weather environs, I had never as an adult participated in a long-distance race in the extreme cold, especially with temperatures as we had this year—dipping to -25F for most of the first day of the race. Leading up to the event, I poured over online accounts of training and equipment advice, and wish to thank everyone who took the time to post an instructional video or written tutorial on various topics. I experimented with equipment choices of my own during training sessions in Oregon. I weighed items on a gram scale to ensure I was shaving weight wherever possible.

These notes are the product of that testing and of course, my experience at the race itself. It’s a long list, but since I’ve yet to see a summary like this posted anywhere (at least for athletes in the foot division—some veteran cyclist of the race might have his/her own list), I thought I’d make a run at it (pun intended). Without further ado, the categories:
    
    --Travel/logistics
--Clothing
--Sled & its contents
--Checkpoint strategy
--Course notes
TRAVEL/LOGISTICS
I weighed the cost/benefits of flying from Oregon to Minneapolis and renting a car, then driving to International Falls, MN (a 5-hour drive, minimum) versus connecting in Minneapolis and flying directly to I-Falls. The latter won. Note that the evening flight departs MSP around 8pm, so plan connections accordingly. It’s one of the two flights daily that go to I-Falls.

I knew I’d have three options to get to my hotel (1.5 miles from the airport) upon arrival: Taxi, beg a ride from a local, or walk. With the temperatures, my bags, and the darkness, walking didn’t sound like much fun. Turns out, a woman on the flight spotted the massive expedition-quality mittens I was wearing and asked if I was a racer. 15 minutes later, she had graciously offered a ride from the airport to my hotel!

I-Falls airport is small, but they’re used to landing planes in weather that might cancel arrivals in much of the rest of the world. Cancellations only happen (according to an airport official) once or twice a year, and even then they need driving, freezing rain to do so. So the chances of your flight being cancelled from MSP is pretty small.

HOTEL: I chose the Voyageur Motel, run by Gerald and Sandy Netland, and I’m really glad I did, if only for the proximity to the starting line (less than a 5 minute walk!). It’s a bit longer of a walk from the motel to the check-in/pre-race meeting, but offers a good way to work off a bit of nervous energy without stressing your body too much. Lots of athletes stay here, so book early. Rooms are basic, but more than adequate, very clean, and comfortable. Doors lead outside directly from each room for further convenience. The hosts were amazing: I had shipped a sled to the hotel (more on this later) which they stored for a week before my arrival. Gerald gave me a ride to the airport the morning I departed at an ungodly early hour, and also loaned me a screwdriver when I needed to adjust some equipment. Sandy shipped my mittens and a water bottle to my home after the race when I had forgotten them in my room. Rates are extremely affordable.

DINING: I guess I’m spoiled by big city dining choices…I-Falls has considerably fewer dining options. A good bet for lunch: The Chocolate Moose has a varied menu, with the obligatory walleye sandwich for some local flavor. Pizza at the Border Bar is excellent; my pizza came with an interesting altercation between two locals (“You wanna take this outside?!? Let’s go!!”) which escalated into a full-blown bare-knuckle scrap outside in the snow. Quite entertaining! Coffee & espresso is best procured at what I believe is the town’s ONLY proper coffee bar, the Coffee Landing Café, which was loaded with athletes the day before the race. The Sunday morning breakfast at the VFW, just south of the Voyageur Motel, was mildly entertaining and super friendly, but I think you could do better if you wanted a more substantial plate of food.

PRE-RACE CHECK IN: Especially if you’re a race rookie, expect to be a bit overwhelmed by the check in process. After giving your name, number, etc., you’re directed to the far end of a room where you’ll need to produce your required gear. They WILL question you if they think your gear is not up to snuff. Once satisfied, a photo is snapped with you looking nervous and holding your bib number. You’re done! But be sure to stick around for a while and take the opportunity to meet and speak with the incredible individuals with whom you’ll be sharing the course.

PRE-RACE DINNER/SAFETY MEETING: Held in the same building as the check in, the dinner is the typical pasta fare found at pre-race dinners, served by a very friendly staff. I was a bit taken aback by the sheer number of those in the room, which seemed much larger than I had expected. The race director’s slideshow is very informative and I’m glad I was paying attention, if only to see a photo of the course directional markings.

FINISH: After crossing the finish line, I was led through the basement of the casino where I could dump my sled in a secure area. The race organizers reserve a small conference room at the casino where racers can find a chair or some floor space to grab a snack & a drink, kibitz with other athletes, unwind, rest, and organize gear after the race. Showers are available in the pool locker room, but you’ll need your own towel…not much fun to think about lugging a big beach towel over 135 miles of snow! Small Packtowl or use a clean tshirt?
The casino dining room had limited vegetarian choices but plenty of options otherwise, and food was cheap. I never saw the casino floor itself, as I had to get on the van that was heading back to I-Falls, a convenient offering ($20) by race organizers.

The morning flight out of I-Falls, as of this writing, is at O-dark-thirty, so be prepared for an early wakeup. Better yet, spend an extra day in I-Falls with other racers and rehash the glory of your finish!

CLOTHING
The biggest variable in the clothing equation as a foot participant is most definitely the ambient air temperature you expect during the race. In 2014, the temps were forecasted to be brutally cold, so the formula for me was pretty simple. Additionally, no snow was expected to fall, so keeping environmental moisture at bay wouldn’t be difficult. In essence, it would prove to be dry and very, very cold. Temps throughout the first 24 hours didn’t vary much from the -25F at the starting line, and wind chill as I neared MelGeorges (checkpoint #2) probably got down to near -50F as the wind whipped me into a froth of misery.

During race prep, I developed what I termed the “Triangle of Concern,” which includes the three body areas I was most worried about: Feet, face, and hands.

For my feet, experience told me to keep things simple, but to be prepared for disaster. I carried a full foot care packet that would enable me to deal with blisters & hot spots, but I’m happy to say my feet were 100% perfect during the race. Matter of fact, even at rest stops, I didn’t even untie my shoes once between the start and finish line. I didn’t want to mess with what was working really well. On my bare feet, I wore a pair of Injinji toe socks, over which I wore a pair of Drymax cold-weather running socks. For shoes, I found great success with Montrail’s Badrock, which have a very aggressive outsole pattern for traction on snow, and are also treated with the “Outdry” technology (similar, I believe, to GoreTex). Although I’m not sure they were critical, I wore a pair of OR Wrapid gaiters around my ankles. My feet, toes, and ankles never got cold or even uncomfortable at any time. Tired? Sure. But not cold!

My hands were covered with Mountain Hardware’s Butter liner gloves and Nilas down mittens. These mittens were incredible, and kept my hands warm most of the time. I say “most,” because there were times when fingertips started to get cold, especially after a pee break or other times when I needed to remove the mittens. And very late in the race, when I was at a low, low, low, low point physically and mentally, I noticed during one short break that my hands were wet! I’m not sure if it was sweat, or that I spilled water on them, or if it was a hallucination (possible!), but it was weird. I had no “major” frostbite during the race, but two or three fingertips did turn numb temporarily after the finish, with full sensation returning in about three weeks. In summary, the liner glove/mitten combo was very good. I saw other folks using more old-school Inuit-esque woolen mitten contraptions; I chose to go with technology in this regard, knowing that any failure could have been very bad. YMMV…either way can be extremely effective.

I didn’t have a solid strategy to protect my face…I had planned to go by “feel” as the race progressed. I had in my arsenal: A balaclava (the CTR Chinuk Multi-Tasker Pro), a pair of ski goggles, a pair of sunglasses, and some heavy-duty skin cream called “Warm Skin.” The cream was a good idea, as it offered the first level of protection. I found within an hour of the start that my goggles would fail completely. The extreme cold and lack of good venting, along with some worn out foam padding, led the goggles to be no better than a weight penalty on my sled. So, I went without, leaving my eyes and cheekbones exposed in the thin slit of the balaclava, which in turn iced over solidly and became a challenge to manage. At times, the balaclava would impede my mouth or eyes and I had to adjust it on the fly. My eyelashes suffered from major frosting, and I had to thaw out the ice chunks from time to time so I could see. I should mention that I wear (daily wear, soft) contact lenses, and I kept these in my eyes from start to finish.

Chemical heat packs (the small kind you might have used on the ski slopes) were WORTHLESS in the bitter cold...they just wouldn't activate, and were another costly weight anchor in my sled.

Other clothing used:
Hat: Mountain Hardwear (similar to the current “Dome Perignon” but actually an older model)
Backup hat: Mountain Hardwear Zerna Beanie
Neck gaiter: Buff
Baselayers: Columbia Sportswear Omni-Heat
Midlayer: Icebreaker, w/ Smartwool backup
Down jacket: Golite Wenatchee
Outer jacket: Clymb Hudson
Pants: Salomon XA WS Softshell

SLED & ITS CONTENTS
Much of my pre-race equipment planning went into the design of my sled, or rather, the harness/pulling system I would employ to drag the sled over 135 miles of snow. I really hate leaving major equipment decisions to chance. I knew I had limited options regarding the sled itself (a basic cheap plastic sled): Buy or borrow one in International Falls, bring one with me on the plane, or buy one online and have it drop-shipped to my hotel in advance of my arrival (my choice). Phone calls to the Kmart and Menards in I-Falls gave me varying info on sled availability; trusting the airlines with a flimsy plastic sled just didn’t seem smart. So with my sled waiting safely for me at my hotel, I had to figure out my ropes/poles/harness system.

I scoured the internet for tips and ideas before settling on a hybrid system of sorts. I would make a series of holes in the collar/cowling of the sled, threading a sturdy rope through the holes with exposed loops I could use to tie down my gear. Through two of the loops I could attach my pole system, which would in turn be secured to my waist harness. More on the poles in a moment.

I experimented with no less than four waist harnesses at home (pulling a truck tire in training through my neighborhood…quite the sight!) before I chose an old waist belt from a backpack that I bought in a surplus store for $10. This particular belt was light, comfortable, and had plenty of loops to attach carabiners and blinking LED lights.

Now, the poles: I planned to use two long, flexible PVC poles or similar, each approximately 6 feet long. But how would I do this? Check them on the plane? No way. Buy them at a hardware store and drill necessary holes for attachments? With what drill? The answer came to me one day when I was looking online: I could use PEX tubing and create three sections for each 6’ pole, with the top and bottom section being of larger diameter than the middle section. If I recall correctly, with PEX tubing (more flexible than PVC; good for the extreme cold) with an outer diameter of ½” inch fits neatly inside that of ¾”. I could have two foot sections (+/-) that I could transport in my carry-on bag, pre-drilled with holes/pins to keep the whole setup together! I assembled everything at home and did test runs on Mt. Hood and on the beach of the Pacific Ocean (in 60F weather!). While the weather wasn’t even close, I knew the pole setup would work. Each pole crossed in back of me to give me more control of the sled.

While my poles worked REALLY well during the race, in hindsight, especially after seeing some of the racer’s sled setups, I think I’d opt for using two ropes instead: Slightly lighter, but infinitely easier to obtain, modify, transport, etc. But the biggest advantage would be on the numerous descents of the course: With ropes, gathering the sled and sitting down for a fun and quick toboggan ride is MUCH easier than it is with semi-rigid poles, even if the poles do detach quickly from your waist harness.

For my gear bag, I used a large, flexible duffle bag with a zipper that runs its length. Of course, I carried the mandatory equipment, which I won’t go into too much detail about here. I will note that my cooking pot of choice is a really nice Snow Peak titanium one I like. My sleeping bag was Mountain Hardwear’s Lamina -30. I had an alcohol stove and bought Heet in I-Falls for fuel. White gas stoves generally work a bit better in super cold temps, alcohol stoves are fine if you warm up the fuel a bit. For emergency food, I had peanut butter. I was crazy with lights and reflective gear, and my sled poles were wrapped with reflective tape. If snowmobiles couldn’t see me, they had to be blind.

I had two major failures during the race relating to equipment: Water and lights. I thought my three massive Nalgene water bottles and Camelbak would be adequate water sources, even if one or more vessels had frozen. Wrong. All were insulated (but obviously not enough), and I carried the Camelbak inside two massive jackets to get it as close as possible to my body. The drinking tube was also insulated, and I blew water back into the bladder after each sip. It wasn’t enough to see that most of my water source was frozen before reaching each checkpoints. Even adding warm/hot water to the bottles at the checkpoints wasn’t enough to stave off freezing.

The solution? I saw one racer (Chris Scotch, if I recall correctly) with what seemed to be a clever setup. In his sled he carried a small insulated lunch cooler that contained what appeared to be his lunch thermos-sized bottles. Each bottle in turn was heavily insulated with shiny metallic-colored insulation, almost like duct insulation you might find in your home. At Gateway, where I saw him pour out water, he didn’t appear to be having any troubles. Also, a number of racers had slings worn around their necks containing their bottles, carried inside their jackets. Bottles could be swapped in and out when needed. And the same neck-pouch strategy is used by many athletes for their food pouch as well. For the latter, I just used a big outer pocket on my jacket.

My lighting failure didn’t crop up until late in the race. I was with another runner who was wearing a really bright head torch. Since I didn’t see the need for both of us to light the trail, I made the brilliant decision to switch mine to the red (map) light function. My head torch didn’t like this move, and decided to quit on me altogether (it wasn’t battery failure, either…the torch turned on without hesitation after the race). Once I was separated from the other racer (a.k.a. she dropped me like a bad habit), I was without a light, but dreaded stopping in the bitter cold to dig in my sled bag for my spare. Eventually I did, but it taught me a valuable lesson: Have critical backup equipment where you can find it QUICKLY, not buried in the bag. Also, use LITHIUM batteries, not alkaline, which perform better in cold temps.

Race directors require at least one 3 LED in both the front and back of your sled/person, so be prepared to secure really good lights to your setup. And be clear on number placement. An odd race rule requires you to have one bib number on the front of your body (which makes sense) and one on the FRONT of your sled (which makes no sense at all…back of the sled seems more intuitive). But rules is rules, and ignorance is no excuse.

I decided against trekking poles, but that was another mistake of mine. Experienced racers carried them, and for good reason. On the snow, they really help with your purchase/traction and forward propulsion. I ended up grabbing two sticks from the forest after the Gateway checkpoint (nicknamed “Stan” and “Ollie”) on advice from a veteran racer, but if I did the race again I’d bring or obtain trekking or xc ski poles.

CHECKPOINT STRATEGY
As they say in the old movie, “Badges? We don’t need no stinking badges!” That’s sort of how I feel about my checkpoint strategy…sometimes, especially in great races of this sort, I like to wing my checkpoint and rest strategy. But with so many variables and so much on the line that would hinge on making good small decisions, I decided to have a race plan based primarily on the checkpoint data of previous years’ versions of Arrowhead. I assembled a spreadsheet and looked at the average and median times spent at each checkpoint by racers who finished within a reasonable range of my goal finish time. This gave me a rough guideline of what was reasonable for the time I could allot to each checkpoint.

I knew I’d have to take care of the basics at the checkpoints: Refueling, hydration, drying out my clothes, and the like. Everyone is different, with different goals. I saw sleep as a luxury. I didn’t sleep at Gateway, caught 45 minutes at MelGeorges, and 5 minutes of shut eye at Ski Pulk, with no trailside bivy. I suffered the consequences (massive hallucinations brought on by exhaustion), but was prepared to pay the piper with my pre-race strategy. Your mileage—and strategy—may vary.

COURSE NOTES
I read everything I could get my hands on that pertained to course description, but didn’t find anything other than general notes (for the most part). The trail is fairly mundane with regard to “scenery” (trees, trees, and more trees), but that’s a West Coast mountain guy talkin’. The beauty of Arrowhead is in the peacefulness and serenity. “Aloneness” doesn’t necessarily equate to “loneliness,” but one does need to be prepared to be alone on the trail for many hours at a time. Race veterans had warned me of that, but I don’t think I could truly appreciate what they meant until I found myself all alone out there!

The trail itself is flat for most of the first portion (start to checkpoint #1). Although it winds and bends in this section, it’s mostly long, flat stretches of trail. It felt like we were very gradually climbing all the way to Gateway. Some of the trail is exposed to the wind, but most in the first section is lined with trees for protection.

I left Gateway just as night was falling, so I can’t tell you much about the section from there until MelGeorges, other than the hills start, and some of them started to feel pretty steep (but short). The darkness was penetrating, and the cold really seeped into my bones at this point. Freezing water bottles with 10 or more miles to go before checkpoint #2 didn’t help much. The size of the hills increased in direct proportion to my fatigue and level of cold. Yes, you read that right. By the time I got to the “5 Miles to MelGeorges Resort” sign, I was cooked (undercooked? Raw?), and those next “5 miles” were in fact the longest 5 miles of my life. Crossing the wide expanse of exposed lake was seriously unpleasant, as there are no trees to protect you from any wind. Here’s where the temp and wind chill combine to make things very challenging. When you get to the end of the trail markings that lead to the lake shore, keep following the pathway/sidewalk to your right around a curve (maybe 1/8 mile from the first building you’ll see) to find the actual checkpoint cabin. Very confusing, so may the force be with you!
After checkpoint #2, some monster hills await. Luckily, you might be somewhat rested after the checkpoint with a belly full of food. The biggest hill is a doozy of a climb…almost hand over foot. Then the trail flattens again for many miles, crosses a road, and enters another mostly flat section. It starts to roll again and continues rolling past checkpoint #3 (Ski Pulk, a.k.a. the “Teepee of Despair”). Don’t worry too much about the big hill after c.p. #3…it’s over before you know it.

The flat sections in the last 20 miles of the race are very tough on your mind. Wind can be a factor here, too, as I noticed much blowing snow that made navigation for a tired mind and body really challenging. I only had a few footprints and one or two bike tracks to follow, so I had to focus. The winding track at times seems to double back on itself, and if you’re there in the dark, there won’t be much light to lend any perspective on direction or distance.
The final few miles seemed to go on forever (duh!). I was seeing all sorts of visions at this point, but vaguely recall running down a road, passing some buildings, and then the actual finish banner!

FINAL NOTES

As I noted in my introduction, I was very fortunate to finish. The conditions, coupled with the distance, make this race extremely challenging. But it’s doable for those who have a blend of physical and mental toughness. And I guess luck plays a bit part, too. Good preparation, however, will take you far, and hopefully reduce the luck you’ll need to find come race day. Whomever you are and whenever you might read this, I wish you much success. If you’re contemplating entering this event, it might be good to remember the slogan of the Arrowhead 135 Ultra: Strength. Endurance. Solitude. Survival…Cowards Won’t Show, and the Weak Shall Perish.

Arrowhead 135 Ultramarathon...2014 race report

The view out the tiny commuter plane window set the tone: Dark. Snowy. Windy. Isolated. All these could accurately describe the landing in International Falls, Minnesota, commonly called “Frostbite Falls” for its record low temperatures. And they also could apply to the challenge at hand, the Arrowhead 135 Ultramarathon, a human-powered (run, bike, or ski…I would be on foot) race on the Arrowhead State Trail from International Falls to Tower, MN.

During the boarding of the flight from Minneapolis, a nice woman had seen my big mittens and correctly surmised I was an Arrowhead participant. She kindly offered a ride to the motel, saving me a 2-mile walk in VERY cold weather.

Sunday’s gear check and pre-race meeting/dinner went smoothly, but with the weather forecast pegging start temps around -20 F, there wasn’t much hearty laughter in the room…at least among rookie entrants, I think. My own demeanor was one of caution and awareness. I didn’t want to miss any information shared by the race director or course marshals that could prove fatal in the following few days. But dining with “Epic” Bill Bradley provided some light moments and helped me calm my nerves.

Back at my hotel, I readied my sled and its contents, trying to balance weight with necessity. If something wasn’t part of required equipment, I tried to leave it behind, making concessions only for extra food, a few extra articles of clothing, and backups for critical pieces of equipment, such as a spare headlamp. I estimated my final sled weight to be just north of 30 pounds.

Race morning dawned as promised: -23 F at the start. In the hockey rink lobby at the race check-in, I noticed an old Galaga arcade game and challenged a few guys to a quick game to lighten the mood, but nobody took me up on the offer. My bravado was just a façade for the anxiety I was experiencing.

Just before 7am, we headed outside and started promptly behind the 100+ cyclists and the TWO xc skiers. Once on the trail, I settled into a steady early pace as I watched the sun rise to my left. Purples and pinks faded into yellow, oranges and red before flooding the trail in daylight. So beautiful.

One thing I had forgotten about the bitter cold was how sound amplifies and travels. Especially in the early going, when I shared the trail with bikes, the squeaking of the feet and tires on snow seemed so loud, almost drowning out all other sounds. When I would stop momentarily, the air around me was devoid of all other sound, as if even the wind blowing through the spruce and fir trees made its passage with great stealth.

The first of many sets of wolf tracks appeared on the trail after a few hours. Initially I mistook them for dog tracks, but then realized no domesticated canine would in his or her right mind be outside in weather like this. When it’s too cold for a husky, it’s just too cold, period.

My drinking and eating settled into a regular pace. I loaded food into the outer pockets of my jacket and sipped steadily from my Camelback, remembering to blow the water back into the tube after I was done drinking to avoid a frozen drink tube. That strategy worked for quite a while, but would eventually fail completely and put my entire race in jeopardy.

Solitude started to factor into the race after the first 10 miles, and I realized pre-race advice given to me would prove valuable: At Arrrowhead, long stretches of being alone are punctuated with brief encounters with other racers and the occasional snowmobile. At times, I was solo for many multi-hour stretches—up to 5 hours at one point. But is one truly alone when the sun, the trees, the wildlife, and the wind are constant companions? If being alone means “in the absence of other humans,” then, yes. But I wasn’t “lonely.”

Around noon, I had my first racing companion: Aaron, a train engineer from St. Paul. A rookie like me, Aaron found himself struggling early in the race and pushing his bike. I coaxed him along and he rode slowly while I trotted alongside. The death of an infant son just a year earlier brought him to the race, and although he wouldn’t reach the finish line, he made a valiant effort in one of the first big steps, as he put it, to “start over.” Indeed.

A wee bit chilly.
More miles passed as we crossed desolate, wind-swept roads. Snow and trees, snow and trees, snow and trees. I watched as shadows changed length and direction, trying to reconcile my inner compass despite constantly changing directions on the trail. An eastbound course was firmly set in my mind; destination: Checkpoint #1 at a small convenience store/gas station named Gateway, where warm food and a seat awaited.

After checking in with timekeepers, I plopped into a chair graciously vacated by a cyclist who was on his way back onto the trail. John Storkamp, Ray Sanchez, Alicia Hudleson, and a few other early leaders in the foot category all were taking care of business: Drying clothes in the dryer, filling bottles, warming their feet, and chowing down every manner of convenience store food (including a tasty mac n’ cheese!). After a bit of rest and unceremoniously spilling some water from a bottle all over the carpeting, I took a hasty exit, knowing that each minute I’d spend at Gateway would make it more difficult to depart.

One of the curious sights at Gateway was watching runners (and a few cyclists) remove their layers of clothing. The intense cold had an odd effect: Each athlete would peel off their outermost shell, revealing an icy, heavy frosted layer underneath…breathable shells be damned. Each subsequent layer of clothing revealed a mini-permafrost. And watching the removal of rock-hard frozen balaclavas, neck warmers, and hats was surreal.

Darkness. A darker dark than simple night. Now back on the trail, I welcomed the first evening of the race. No longer did I have the luxury of trailside trees and winter vegetation to contemplate and break up my views. Only the tunnel of light from my headlamp, which flooded the snow ahead in bright white.

And the stars. Billions and billions (in my best Carl Sagan impersonation) filled the inky black sky, which I stopped to enjoy every now and then. I had watched the tilt of Orion over the previous few weeks, noting here in northern Minnesota its position and lean was just how it had been back in Oregon…a short, but satisfying reminder of the home fires burning. Betelgeuse was there, and although the Unicorn had faded a week earlier, other familiar constellations watched over my progress. Apologies for the astronomical geekiness.

Alone again…naturally. Storkamp cruised by again soon after I departed Gateway, and it would be hours before I’d see another soul. I had taken the advice he gave me at Gateway and harvested two worthy trekking poles from the forest—maybe the best decision I had made all day. “Stan” and “Ollie,” as I named them, helped push me along when I needed the push. Perhaps they were good for only a 1% improvement, but over the course of a few days might make quite a difference. Pulling the sled I had christened “The Minnow,” (think Gilligan’s Island), I had a highly-trusted inanimate support team of three for the entire race!

A gentle fatigue crept into my cold bones, but with water in the bottles and snacks at hand, I can’t say I was “tired.” I moved along at a good clip, running when I could, and walking when the hills tipped up or I needed a change of pace.

And then…the tent.

Was the darkness/weariness/cold aligning to play its first tricks on my brain? What the…? I saw what appeared to be a glowing dome. As I approached, I realized it wasn’t a mythical Norse god’s throne fire or the colored portal-unlocking rocks from the Land of the Lost. It was a tent, illuminated from within by a headlamp and a portable heater. Parked outside was Ray’s kick sled.

“Ray?” I called out. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, man. I’ve got frostbite on my toes and I can’t thaw them out. I think I’m done.”

I felt bad for Ray, one of the great warriors of the Arrowhead and a veteran of multiple 135-mile races worldwide. The Californian had moved at a terrific early pace, but would be counted as one of the MANY upon whom frostbite would take its toll. I shuddered and wished him well before carrying on, praying to the forces of luck and circumstance that I would be spared from the frightening malaise.

I plowed on, past numerous wolf tracks, following the trail of bike and shoe tracks. Route finding was simple: Head down, follow the tracks. I played mind games to stay alert, counting the different types of shoes and trying to discern their models based on the tread patterns. Combined with mathematics (trying to calculate square roots), singing songs (at one point, I completed a Glenn Campbell five-song medley), and trying to predict my pace and subsequent arrival times at checkpoint #2, I occupied the time as best I could.

One of Minnesota’s favorite sons who hailed from just down the road in Hibbing had once written, “They say the darkest hour is right before the dawn.” That’s where I found myself somewhere around mile 60, deep into the early morning and struggling with the endless hills and solitude. The temperature seemed to have taken a dip (which I didn’t think possible), and I felt the cold in my marrow. Insulated water bottles that had been fluid just hours before were frozen solid, and I looked for a sturdy tree or metal signpost to smack them against in vain attempts to lodge the ice free. Chemical hand warmers were no match for the cold, useless and serving only as extra weight in my sled. Mercifully, my feet and hands held strong, buffered by wise pre-race choices of great mittens, shoes, and socks.

My strategy for protecting my face had failed miserably just hours after the start. An older pair of goggles iced over immediately, rendering them worthless. My exposed eyes froze whenever I blinked (all the time) or had moisture in my eyes (all the time). Thawing them out so I could see became as constant a task as the use of windshield wipers in an Oregon rain shower.

Checkpoint #2 at MelGeorges Resort began to occupy all thoughts. Where the hell is it?!? I thought over and over for a few hours. I knew the trail turned southward at some point, then crossed Elephant Lake to the west. My internal compass had stopped working, and I moved forward only on fumes. The cold, a lack of energy, an intense sleepiness, and a thirst that couldn’t be slaked all conspired against me. With (hopefully…hopefully) just a few miles to go before MelGeorges at mile 72, it wasn’t looking good.

Just when I thought I couldn’t sink any lower, the wind started to swirl and grow with brutal intensity, bringing stinging, blowing snow with it. The dermabrasive sand of the Sahara had nothing on this exfoliation. Although I knew I had reached Elephant Lake (good), I had lost the shelter of the trailside trees (bad). I leaned into the headwind, looking through the slits known formerly as my eyes, as I tried to spy the next, and the next, and the next reflective stick that marked the way. Tracks had been blown over, so each tiny stick was my only lighthouse.

As the line of sticks ended, I saw it: The resort. After a bit of confusion about which building served as the time station and GLORIOUS HOUSE OF GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICHES AND BLANKETS, I stumbled upon a jumbled heap of fat bikes and a few runner’s abandoned sleds. Halle-fucking-lujah.

I untied the bag from my sled and climbed the short staircase to the cabin, nearly collapsing just inside the door, where I was met with the most miserable stares of despair and curiosity. I absolutely LOVE these people…my people, the dirt bags and toughest of the tough…but the looks on their faces were the most hilarious combination of fatigue, nausea, misery, forlorness, and despondency. An occasional smile would crack, but nobody really seemed to feel much humor; weak, yet sincere attempts at gratitude were offered to the wonderful women who cheerfully made grilled cheese sandwiches (seasoned with unicorn pate?), served heavenly Coke, and wrapped WARM TOWELS around our necks. Warm towels? It could have been confused for a European spa!

After stripping off the wet and frosty layers and shoving any and all food down my gullet, I stumbled up another flight to the upper deck of the cabin where a spot on the floor was calling my name. I was asleep in moments, but awoke with a start 45 minutes later, then stumbled around like a drunk sailor until some guy caught me before I took a hard fall. Thanks, brother!

Now nearly two hours into my stay at the checkpoint, the sun had just risen and I was a new man, hydrated, rested, warmed, and fed. I layered up for the return to the trail and casually asked the ladies how many athletes had dropped out to this point. “Oh, I’m not sure,” said one gal. “I haven’t really been keeping track. But I CAN tell you how many runners have checked in and out of here.”

I paused, not certain I wanted to know how far back of the field I was. “O.k.,” I replied.

“Let’s see…one, two….FOUR.”

Four? Four?? I was dumbfounded. How could it possibly be that only four runners had gone out before me? “Well, let’s make it FIVE,” I said. “Number sixty…checking out.”

To the (very) small chorus of cheers I left the building, not wanting to congratulate myself this early in the race. By the math, I had gone over halfway, but in this race, halfway was NOTHING. I had at least another full day and night ahead of me, filled with brutal weather, more fatigue, more hills, almost certain dehydration, a 30-pound sled to haul, and definite doubts. As the door closed behind me, I questioned my motivation and sanity as I felt the sting of the overcast morning cold smack me hard in the face.

PART II
In brutally cold conditions, a few degrees of temperature fluctuation can mean all the difference in the world. A few hours after leaving MelGeorges, those few degrees started to feel like the warmest tropical breeze, even though the temp couldn’t have been more than 10 or 15 degrees below zero.

But the sunshine of a new day energized me, and I ran steadily, alone again on the trail, nobody in sight. A few early steep hills gave way to miles and miles of flat terrain, which then (of course) tipped up and down relentlessly. Checkpoint #3 (“Ski Pulk”) was my target, but mile 110 was nearly 40 miles and half a day in the distance.

Eventually, my solitude was broken by the arrival of four-time race veteran Alicia Hudelson, who pulled her tiny sled with a steady pace. Nearly crippled to this point by a really bad stomach, she slowed so we could engage in conversation and break up the terrible monotony. I learned her husband was also running, now an unknown distance behind us. Originally from Duluth but residing in suburban Atlanta, Alicia had returned to her homeland with the women’s course record in her gun sights.

Sure, I could have found conversation with a French mime stimulating at this point, but Alicia’s insights into race strategy really helped get my mind off the bitter cold and the other tasks of moving forward that continued like clockwork: Eating, drinking, and monitoring all body systems.

Eventually, her pace (and downhill sledding ability) outstripped mine and she pulled ahead. But then I saw her bivvied at the shelter near mile 100, so I passed in turn. The second night now started to descend, and I passed the 34-hour mark where I knew hallucinations were likely to come a-knockin’.

And they came with gusto. I’d need an entire notebook to catalogue them all, but there were highlights. Massive oil paintings hung in the trees. Snow people lined the trail—families, groups of office workers, store clerks, and other random folks—their heads made of snow, their bodies of trees and branches. The surface of the trail miraculously transformed into a 3-D surface, rising up a foot or so above the ground and producing small landscapes that included live animals which would change from second to second. A small deer became a lizard became a dog. Miniature versions of the Eiffel Tower seemed popular.

Then, the ferocious animals appeared in my visions. First, a killer skunk hell-bent on leaping upon me and biting my neck. A weasel was particularly fierce, crouched and ready to pounce. The weasel actually stopped me in my tracks and I moved to the far side of the trail, yelling at it. “Go away! Go home!” I screamed as if it were a rabid stray alley dog.

Tricks of the light wreaked havoc with my sanity. My headtorch beam bounced wildly with any movement, passing shadows across my limited field of vision and eliciting gasps of surprise when I thought someone (or something) was crossing the trail directly in front of me.

Obviously, I had gone mad. I tried to convince myself these were just temporary states of mind, brought on by the extreme conditions and accumulated fatigue. But I began arguing with myself, sometimes aloud, cursing the fact that I had signed up for another nutball ultra, when I should have learned years ago that staying home would have been much more comfortable and warm.

Yeah…right.

Despite the temporary insanity, I found that I could still could move forward pretty well. I ran when I could, walked when I had to, and found myself mired in another bout of mental math, desperately trying to judge distance based on my running and walking paces.

I could now add another challenge to the list (in ultramarathons, there’s always something to deal with): Severe and painful chafing (thighs; butt) had become part of the equation, so I did what I could do—that is, just suck it up and move forward.

A passing snowmobile gave me news I didn’t want to hear: I was still 8 miles from the checkpoint. I pressed onward, thousands of steps away.

First, a light, then…a cow bell. Ski Pulk, a.k.a. the Teepee of Despair, had been reached. I unhitched my sled poles and ducked into the warmth of the ice fishing tent. “I just need to lie down for 5 or 10 minutes,” I said as politely as I could to the aid station guy.

“Sure,” he said. “Do you have a sleeping pad?”

“Don’t need one,” I replied, and commenced to dropping down on the most foul looking piece of cardboard I’d seen in some time. But oh…was it heaven on earth. After 5 or 6 minutes of shuteye, I wrenched my aching bones to a sitting position and accepted a cup of warm cocoa, my hands shaking as I tried to sip the liquid without burning my mouth. Into the tent came runner Matt Long to join me, followed shortly by Alicia, whose bivy had obviously paid dividends. With hot water poured into the bottles to melt the ice and give me something to drink until the finish, Alicia and I headed out together to face the final leg of the journey.

Soon after departing, we climbed “Wake Em Up Hill” a steep climb with a long, steep descent, and plowed forward. Alicia still wanted that record, and didn’t know how far behind the next female was running. Moving scared and still nursing the bad stomach, she was motivated.

I felt the cold becoming part of me as the wind swirled between the trees. Endless, long stretches of spruce led us through a low-lying bog where the chill permeated every inch of me.

I noticed my headlamp starting to fail, and switched it to the red light (map reading) mode. Now it was stuck in this low light mode, giving me very little guidance on the trail. Alicia had moved ahead of me again, and the tracks on the trail became faint. My eyes had frozen to slits and I could soon see no headlamps ahead or behind. With only a few footprints and one set of tire tracks to follow, I moved forward on faith and hope alone, as my confidence had faltered and I approached the moment where nothing at all was certain. Even my existence at this point had me curiously wondering. “I think I’m here, but I’m not sure. I can see, but barely. I hear nothing except my footsteps. I smell nothing, and can feel nothing through the numbness of the cold. Am I really here? And where, pray tell, is HERE exactly?”

On some level, I knew I needed to find my spare headtorch but was repulsed at the mere idea of stopping and the resulting effects the cold was sure to have on me. But I needed that boost of light, if only to help one of my senses recover and give me some glimpse of hope in a finish. I stopped and dug into the bag on my sled, frantically pawing through layers of food, clothing, and kit in search of a small lamp that lie in her depths.

It was here I had what I call my “Jack London moment.” To wit, a few passages from the classic short story “To Build a Fire”…
The man looked down at his hands in order to locate them, and found them hanging on the ends of his arms. It struck him as curious that one should have to use his eyes in order to find out where his hands were. He began threshing his arms back and forth, beating the mittened hands against his sides. He did this for five minutes, violently, and his heart pumped enough blood up to the surface to put a stop to his shivering. But no sensation was aroused in his hands. He had an impression that they hung like weights on the ends of his arms, but when he tried to run the impression down, he could not find it.
A certain fear of death, dull and oppressive, came to him. This fear quickly became poignant as he realized that it was no longer a mere matter of freezing his fingers and toes, or of losing his hands and feet, but that it was a matter of life and death with the chances against him. This threw him into a panic, and he turned and ran up the creek bed along the old, dim trail. The dog joined in behind and kept up with him. He ran blindly, without intention, in fear such as he had never known in his life.
As proof my fate wasn’t the same as the old trapper, I lived to tell the tale. But had I not found that damn light in the bag…
A new light, a new outlook. The cold was the same, the wind worse as I crossed unsheltered fields. The trail became even more confusing with no ambient light to offer perspective. At times, it seemed to wind back on itself until my direction, yet again, was unknown.
Still, I ran, now pushed by the clock and the fantasy of breaking 48 hours. Although I had no visual clues, enough time had passed to tell me I had to be getting close to the Fortune Bay Casino finish line.
Ahead…what’s that? Ah, it’s just a hotel guest out walking his dogs. What?? Who the hell would walk their dogs at 5:30 in the morning in this weather? No, it was another racer (Mike) whose flashing LED lights were playing more tricks with my mind.
The visions hadn’t stopped, and only changed forms. Sprinting in an attempt to break 48 hours, I thought I saw the finish line banner appear…only to vanish into thin air. A neon light above the casino building? No, that’s the moon, buddy, and that street lamp…a distant planet. Cheering spectators lining the road into the casino grounds? No. Trees, branches, posts. “Are you a real person?” I asked aloud three or four times. No answer must mean that in fact, they were figments only of a very tired athlete’s imagination.
Reality started to creep in as I saw the sign: Welcome to Fortune Bay Casino. Around a few bends, up a slight rise, and there it was. The finish line banner. As I crossed underneath, I yelled, “Anybody here?” My question was met with silence, then a woman on a hotel balcony appeared and shouted, “Great job!” I yelled back my time (48 hours, 24 minutes) so at least I’d have one witness, before the finish line guy showed up in short order and led me inside to the warmth of a heated building.
The race, the cold, the mind-bending reality…they were all complete. The fatigue would continue for an undefined amount of time. But the memories of the trail, the snow, the effort, and the journey of what might very well be the toughest race I’ve ever faced, will continue on until that day I meet the old trapper in a hunting lodge far removed from here.
The race’s finisher shirt might summarize the experience most succinctly. ”Arrowhead 135 Ultra—STRENGTH / ENDURANCE / SOLITUDE / SURVIVAL,” and adds on another line, “Cowards Won’t Show and the Weak Shall Perish.”
The words, especially the latter, border on arrogant. I cannot speak for those who make the wise decision to stay home or simply test themselves in other venues. But I can speak as one who did show up and managed to survive. Despite a small amount of pride in finishing, I cannot and will not thump my chest, but rather, thank my lucky stars and the forces of the universe that I simply made it through to the end.

Postscript: I’ve been asked if Arrowhead was the toughest of the physical challenges I’ve experienced (Badwater, Marathon des Sables, Ironmans, other 100-milers, etc.). It’s still a difficult question to answer. But in the words of “Epic” Bill Bradley a true modern-day Shackelton, Arrowhead is like “Badwater without the support vans.” He’s right…the cold and solitude are great equalizers and layers on top of the difficulty of traversing 135 miles. In Death Valley, you’re never very far from ice cubes, a friendly smile, a shoulder to cry on, or a lift home. At Arrowhead, there’s plenty of ice to ease your swelling. But the friendly smiles and sympathetic shoulders are reserved only for checkpoints and the finish line. A lift home is a very cold ride on the back of a snowmobile. And your momma? She’s not here to help you, either. The hardest? Perhaps. One of the toughest out there? Definitely. Mad props to the warriors who have gone before me at this race and who joined me in battle this time around.