Leaving Beals Point (and the paved trail), 27.4 miles and 4:45 into the race
I had had some physical problems, which I wrote up in my report for the Stevens Creek 50K. Sometime before that race, I realized that my training was coming together, and two thoughts occured to me. First, since I hadn't gotten in to Western States this year, and at the moment had no plans for any other 100M race, that it might be nice to get a "qualifier" in for Western States 2007 now, since by the time some other 50M race rolls around later in the year, you never know what might happen. And second, that since I am getting older and slower, it might be nice to have one good try at breaking 10 hours for 50M. I'd come close before, but the AR50, being relatively flat, offered my best chance; looking at "comparable" runners, I figured 9:45 or so would be relatively easily doable, barring major problems.
Against these two pros was one big con – the first 25 miles (or so) of the AR50 are on a paved trail, and I haven't run that far on pavement since the Big Sur Marathon in 2003, and with the foot problem I was experiencing earlier this year, even in remission, it didn't seem like such a good idea. Indeed, I probably haven't run 25 miles total on pavement in a year. Against that con, I weighed the fact that much of that 25 miles has a packed clay area on the side of the paved trail, and that I could run as much as possible there and avoid the pavement, if not altogether, than in great measure.
What had totally escaped my mind, when I made a last minute decision to sign up for the race, was that it was just one week after the Stevens Creek 50K. A lot of ultrarunners race on consecutive weeks, some even race on consecutive days, but that's never been my style. I always want to do my "best" in every race I enter, and running races two weeks in a row doesn't in general seem like the way to do that. But I was in, so I'd just have to see how it went. That week, it rained almost every day, which would have some consequences in the race (three letters: M-U-D), but also kept me off my feet the whole week, which probably was a good thing.
Thursday night Dean Karnazes was in town at a local bookstore, pitching the paperback version of his book, Ultramarathon Man. I wasn't planning on buying it, but I thought I'd go hear him speak and tell his stories anyway. While waiting for the speech to start, I started reading the book, and enjoyed what I was reading, so I went ahead and bought it. I'd passed on the hardcover a year ago, but at $12.95 for a paperback, how could I go wrong.
It turned out to be a good decision, because the next night, in my hotel room, I read almost the whole book. It was a good way to pass the time and, perhaps more importantly, it gave me what turned out to be my mantra for the next day: "It's supposed to hurt."
It had rained the night before, and it was raining when I woke up, but predictions had been for clearing early in the morning and, like clockwork, no more than 20 minutes before the race start at 6 a.m., the rain stopped. I had my rain jacket in reserve, but threw it in the car (arriving early gave me a good spot near the starting line). That close spot proved useful again, when at the last minute I realized I hadn't applied Body Glide to my inner thighs, so another dash back to the car and I was ready to start.
The AR50 is one of the largest ultras in the country; this year there were 477 starters. So the start is a bit crowded, but it's on a fairly wide bike path and wasn't too bad. I tried my best not to get swept along, but to be careful to run at my own pace, and the miles clicked by. The first aid station claims to be at 5.9 miles, and when I arrived there at 49:42 I was flabbergasted. That's an 8:25 pace, better than I've run in any 10K race or short training run in ages, and I knew darn well I wasn't running that fast. Whether I was or not I don't know; I simply convinced myself the distance was not right. Since the day was cool, and the distances between aid stations relatively short (6 at the most, and as short as 3 later on), I had decided to go with one bottle, so it was a quick matter to refill it (alternating water and electrolyte at each aid station), grab a bite (at most aid stations, a small brownie), and go. Most aid station stops were 30 seconds or less.
In the early miles, there were quite a few "Gallowalkers", people who would run for, say, eight minutes and then walk for one, with whom I was trading places on a regular basis – passing them when they were walking, and being passed when they were running. But I'm a "runner." Perhaps I could go faster with the run/walk style, but it just doesn't appeal to me.
Before long, it became apparent that my plan to run on the unpaved packed dirt next to the paved trail wasn't going to work. First of all, in most places, there was a signficant camber on the dirt, and I'd much rather run on a flat paved surface than on a slanted surface, even a slanted dirt surface. And second, and perhaps even more important, the trail has a "snaking" character over much of its length, curving back and forth, back and forth. The smart thing to do on a trail like that is to run the tangents, and run the tangents I did, running as straight a line as possible, going from one side of the trail to the other and back again, over and over. It was actually a good way to keep my mind busy as the miles went by.
Just past the Fish Hatchery at mile 18, the trail goes up its first significant hill as it crosses a bridge over the river. The run/walkers, and most of the just plain runners, become walkers at this point (in my section of the pack, anyway; no doubt things are different up front), but not me – I ran every step of the bridge, passing many of the people with whom I'd been trading places for the last time.
Just after the bridge I had a bit of a surprise. I had been under the impression that the route was paved for the first 27 miles (through the Beals Point aid station), and unpaved thereafter, but all of a sudden there was an arrow pointing us up a narrow, singletrack trail heading fairly sharply uphill. Well, that appealed to me greatly, and I quickly moved past a few more people as I powered up the hill. I don't train exclusively on hilly courses for nothing. After the aid station at the top (Nimbus Dam Overlook), a quick descent and we were back to river level (well, river bluff level). But instead of getting back on the paved trail, we were on an unpaved parallel trail. Sounded good to me; the less paved trail the better!
I passed the marathon point (calculated; it's not marked) at 4:32 (10:23 pace), not bad at all for me. One the one flat route I do in training, along local railroad tracks, I've been having trouble lately managing a 10 min/mile pace over 10 miles, so holding 10:23 over 26.2 was a solid effort for me (my last marathon, Big Sur in April 2003, was done in 4:17). I came into Beals Point, at 27.4 miles the end of the paved line, at 4:44:43. I had run every step of the way, and at that point started thinking about how far I could keep that up. I've tried to run every step of a 50K race, and come close, but never quite succeeded, so that was my immediate goal.
We had had a bit of light rain during early morning miles, and I had been thinking of changing to a dry shirt, but it was so windy on Beals Point I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. I did take the time to re-lubricate my inner thighs, which were bothering me just a bit, and then I was quickly off, looking good as I left:
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Leaving Beals Point (and the paved trail), 27.4 miles and 4:45 into the race |
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There's actually a mile or so of gravel fireroad following Beals Point, but pretty soon (in retrospect, perhaps too soon) the trail turns to singletrack, and, on the day following a month in which it set a new record for the number of days of rain, and immediately following a day of fairly heavy rain, that meant mud. Lots of mud. The last 21 miles or so became a more or less constant challenge. The picture below, taken shortly after one of the aid stations along the way (hence the food in my mouth and hand), shows the trails at their absolute best; it was typically much worse. In sections like the one shown in the picture, a mud pit covering the trail could be skirted by running slightly off the trail, but in many places, that wasn't remotely possible. But, by judiciously stepping lively, I was able to avoid the absolute worst of it, and thought I'd get to the end intact, until, fairly near the end, I and another runner came upon a U-shaped section of trail – steep sides, and a 6"-deep mud pit/puddle about 10 yards long that was absolutely unavoidable. We took one luck around to assess the skirting possibilities, one look at each other, and then just waded through, with our feet becoming absolutely submerged in mud along the way (a close look at my shoes in the picture below suggests it may have been taken after that encounter, in fact).
As far as my running, it was a revelation. I did have, as one invariably does, a few weak patches along the way. At one point, my inner thighs were hurting – not from chafing, but the muscles themselves. At another point, I was just getting a bit tired. When those patches hit, I just kept repeating to myself, over and over, "It's supposed to hurt," redoubled my effort (ok, increased my effort by 5%), and pressed on. Great mantra. And it was working. From the end of the paved trail at mile 27 to the finish at mile 50, I was passing runners continuously; I don't remember a single one passing me. On the mild uphill sections, other runners would be walking, and I'd run by them. After passing the 50K mark having run every step, it seemed worthwhile to see just how far I could run without walking. Yes, I did tiptoe around some of the mud puddles, but I'm not counting those, and there were one or two semi-vertical mud and rock step-like affairs where walking a few yards was simply prudent, but other than that I never stopped running. One of my "high points" was coming into one of the aid stations, I think the one at Buzzard's Cove at mile 35. The last 10 yards before the aid station were a steep little hill, but I sprinted up it on my toes, passing two runners in the process and greatly impressing the aid station personnel.
Towards mid-afternoon, it started to get hot as the sun came out more often. I knew there was a lot of climbing at the end of the run, and I thought it would be a good idea to take off the long-sleeve shirt I was running with (seen in the pictures above). This was probably my one tactical error. Under normal circumstances, I would take it off while running, or perhaps walking. But between the mud and rocks, this section of trail was fairly tricky, and that seemed like a bad idea, so I paused at the aid station (probably Rattlesnake Bar at mile 40) and took it off. It might seem like a small thing, and it didn't take that long, but every minute was to count. Anyway, this picture shows me somewhere further along the trail, without the long-sleeved shirt:
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Over hill, over dale, we will hit, the muddy trail. Note the brownie in my right hand. Yum! |
As I neared the end, I was still going strong. Earlier in the day, with a bad case of Run-Induced Math Deficiency Syndrome (RIMDS), I had actually thought I had a chance at breaking nine hours, but by now I realized that was ridiculous, and that even breaking my original goal of ten hours was going to be a dicey proposition. Here's where I broke out my second mantra, straight from the movie Galaxy Quest: "Never give up, never surrender." I was going to break ten hours if I possibly could, and I was pushing to my limit to get there. The beauty of the scenery along the upper river was certainly helpful in giving me a reward for my efforts, but unfortunately, the nature of the trail kept my eyes mostly focused on the trail.
I had made it almost to the end without walking, but a few miles from the finish, just before the final aid station, the route starts climbing from the river bank. At first I kept running, but as I started seriously slowing from the steep slope, and plus ran into ruts and rocks which made the footing quite tricky, I realized that I could make better time on this section walking, and so walk I did, for perhaps a hundred yards or so. It was, however, still "racing," with my bent-over, hands on quads, style, passing at least one other runner in the process. As soon as the slope moderated, I started running again, and came into the final aid station.
From what I knew of the race course, I had visions of a very steep route from here to the finish, but in front of me lay a gravel road with a moderate, easily-runnable slope. I had around a half-hour to make the last 2 1/2 miles, which I knew was probably unlikely, but I was going to try. Up I ran, every step of the way, passing still more runners, and really pouring it on at the top. It was a great finish, but as far as the 10-hour goal, to no avail:
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The triumphant finish, strong to the end |
Oh for four minutes |
Looking at results of other runners later, it appears that 15-20 minutes was the "typical" slowdown caused by the mud, so in some alternative universe I was pretty much right on my hoped-for (and predicted) time, but in the real one, breaking 10 hours would have to wait for another day. But I was very, very pleased with the result. Racing strongly for 50 miles, running virtually every step of the way, with the exception of perhaps a hundred yards, was a very satisfying accomplishment. That was good for 204th out of 446 finishers (477 starters), and 36th out of 96 in the men's 50-59 age group (and 15/37 in the non-existent M55-59 group), not a bad result for me at all. The fact that I had accomplished all this just one week after a 50K race was definitely surprising and made it even more satisfying.
And all that was left to do was to wash off the mud, scrub heavily with Tecnu to ward off the abundant poison oak from which I was absolutely sure I'd be suffering, pre-race application of Ivy Block notwithstanding (but as it turned out, one or the other worked), hang around chatting with friends, and finally take the bus back to the start and spend three hours driving home. A long day, but a good one.
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