I Retire From Ultrarunning--For 18 Hours

(left) Runners negotiating rocky terrain in the first mile of the Flat Rock 50k.

(below) Enjoying an ice cold drink at the 23.5 mile aid station, just minutes into my retirement from ultrarunning.  Oddly enough, this happened to be the only photo taken of me during the race!

Fun and Folly at the Flat Rock Fifty

It was five years ago that I retired from ultrarunning.  That lasted about 18 hours.

I was running the Flat Rock 50k in southeast Kansas, an out-and-back course in the beautiful Elk River Reservoir.  The trail is captivating, winding in and out of little canyons, sometimes along large rock faces above the river and reservoir.  28 miles of it are on wickedly rugged terrain littered with jagged rocks--hence the irony of the name "Flat Rock".  The mantra here was "If you look up, you go down."  And it was true.  Your eyes had to be constantly fixed to the ground lest you risk tripping.  The going was quite slow.  I remember feeling fresh and invigorated while glancing at my watch at the one mile mark.  It read "14:02"--and I chuckled at the formidable task ahead. The day heated up nicely--80s and sunny--just lovely--and I was cruising comfortably along, taking many photos of the course along the way.  Man, I was having fun!  Yet, despite my numerous photo stops, I was still running in the middle of the pack.  As I hit the 20-mile mark, my legs (and my mind) were particularly weary from picking my way through all the rocks--there was no normal running gait to be had--but all in all, I was still moving along happy and steadily.  After passing through an aid station at the 23.5 mile mark, I quickly found myself in a field of waist-high grass atop the canyon.  It was lovely.  The sun embraced me in its warm, soothing rays and I suddenly stopped in my tracks to take it all in.  I was running in the most wonderful place, on the most wonderful day, completely absorbed in my beautiful surroundings and sated with my rigorous physical exertion--and then a curious thing happened.  I shook my head, laughed to myself and started walking back to the aid station.  I was done.  It had been an exquisite day.  And I didn't see any point in running the final 7.7 miles to the finish.  Doing so seemed like a chance at spoiling  what had become a perfect running experience.  All in all, it was very much a Forest Gump moment.

Upon reaching the aid station, I then declared, much to my surprise, that not only was I was done for the day, but done for my career.  No more ultras.  There seemed no point to do any more--I had just passed through the gates of running Nirvana.  I imagine the impetus for this moment had been building up in the months prior to the race.  My work was absorbing more and more of my time, my training suffered, and I was running slower than I had in the past.  I was getting older and ultras were feeling harder.  It was demoralizing.  And  it was right about this time that I came to the realization that it wasn't the actual running that I loved so much, as it was being out on the trails.  The running  enhanced my enjoyment of the trails, enabling me to see more of a trail on a single day, but if I had to choose between never running again or never setting foot on a trail again, the former would have lost.  But, not ready to give up the race experience, I simply decided that if I was going to still do them and wasn't going to be as competitive doing them, I might as well just completely run for the fun of it--hence the camera.  I soon discovered, that the experience of running with a camera, especially on a course this beautiful, was so engaging that I practically forgot (and really didn't care) that I was in a race at all.  No wonder bowing out at 23.5 was no big deal.  

And so I took a chair at the aid station under the shelter of a canopy and pounded down some of the most delicious ice cold Gatorade I have ever tasted.  It felt so great to just sit there in the warm air and take in my surroundings.  I had, in essence, created my own finish line and settled into a state of utter contentment.  Runners passed through the aid station, many of them urging me not to drop.  "C'mon, run with us.  We'll get you to the finish!"  'No thanks, "I replied with a certain  nonchalance, taking another long draw from my bottle, "I'm just fine."  And fine I was--until the next morning when I woke up and thought to myself, "What the hell was that all about?!"

Guilt.  What to do with the guilt of a DNF?  Yikes!  I've heard of guys who have fallen off cliffs, broken their backs plus both legs, and dragged themselves to the finish just to avoid the dreaded DNF.  What was my excuse?  "I didn't FEEL like finishing."  How many readers at this very moment are shaking their head with disdain or bewilderment?   I put in the training to cover 31 miles--had already run two 50Ks earlier that year.  I drove 12 hours one way just to get to the event.   I had taken time off of work and spent my hard earned money for travel and entry fee.  And then, 23.5 miles into the event, on a whim, I drop.  No finisher's award.  No fishing time.  Just a big, fat D-N-F. 

Well, I can't deny not initially questioning my decision to drop.  I mean, it was a little weird--surreal.  I could plead "Temporary Insanity", but I won't.  In fact, five years later, having well digested this experience, you will be surprised to know that I have no regrets whatsoever.   Because I know what happened to me out there.  My priorities changed; my mindset changed.   I no longer thought of myself as an ultrarunner but rather, as simply, a trail runner.  It was more about my enjoyment of running on trails than mastering the distance.  And so, completing the final 7.7 miles that day, in the big scheme of things,  wouldn't have made much difference.  This is not to say that getting to the finish was never important to me again--I've since gone on to run 6 marathons and 10 ultras on days where the challenge of finishing did happen to matter to me--but on that warm day in Kansas back in 2004, not reaching the finish was perfectly fine.  And as proof of the odd curves and surprises that Life always seems to send our way,  I followed my Flat Rock experience with one of the best races of my career just six weeks later, finishing 11th overall at the Owen-Putnam 50k in Indiana.  Go figure.  I haven't run that well since--but I can honestly say I savor each and every trail run more than the last.  My trail running has become even more than about trails or running--it is about the celebration of

experiencing Nature, of melding with Nature in a unique, joyful, soulful way.  

   

Over time, I've learned there are races to race and races to treat like a ten-year-old on summer vacation.  You carry a camera on some, and others, leave it for the finish line.  There are trails just too beautiful to race--unless you find the time to return another day to stop and wander and savor.  And whatever the race, you go out and give what you have.  You give what feels like a satisfying effort.  Most days you'll bust your butt and push through the discomfort because it oddly feels good and right and satisfying.  And then, you may find yourself on a day like Flat Rock where stopping at just the right moment seems like the perfect thing to do.  Take my word for it--it feels rather liberating.      

 

         

       

Galapagos Islands, Ecuador

The Galapagos Islands--unique in all the world. 

Dances With Dirt 50k in Hell, Michigan

(photos)  Two images from DWD 2000.

Trotting to the finish on a warm day, and moments later, receiving my finisher's medal.

Early September always reminds me of running Dances With Dirt.  I participated four times, 1999-2002, and it brought me great highs and lows.  More highs than lows, for the record.

 

DWD is like a big running party with it's very popular 100k relay taking the spotlight and 50k and 50 mile ultras thrown in for good measure.  It's readily apparent that RD Randy Step and his dedicated crew took fiendish delight in designing a course which shock the trail running tenderfoots and make the veterans smile, wince, or mutter to themselves.  Most notable, is the swamp section which runners wade through, emerging with black gunk all over their legs.  But other little touches such as bushwhacking areas (you follow ribbons from tree to tree--no trail) and a mid-thigh river crossing also add to the levity (or frustration) of the course.  It isn't that the terrain in this part of lower Michigan is so ridiculously tough--there isn't a single switchback, just rolling or short, steep hills--but if there is any morsel of other slow-going, natural obstacle, Randy has surely found it. 

Most memorable of my highs and lows were the 2001 and 2002 50k races.  I had run DWD pretty well in my first two visits, so it was with great frustration that I DNF'd in 2001--at roughly 26 miles!  I was running a leg in which we were to follow pink ribbons.  I did--down the wrong path until they seemed to disappear at a fork in the trail.  I backtracked to double check I was on the pink trail--and there were indeed pink ribbons tied to trees.  What the hell?  I learned later that this section was sabotaged, not uncommon for DWD, by some crazy local people who found the whole race objectionable.  In the midst of my search, I ran into another runner, a very good runner from Indiana by the name of Bill Kuntz, also hopelessly lost and confused, and together we wandered about the woods for probably a good hour.  Finally, we popped out at a random aid station and were given a humiliating ride back to the finish line.  It was a stunning series of events--like a bad dream.  Many other runners also had brushes with vandalized trail that day.  Some fared better than we did, others shared the same fate.

I returned in 2002 after a summer of ragtag training and was simply hoping for the best.

And, as things turned out, I got my wish.  It was just one of those great days where you feel like you can run forever.  I don't even remember being all that tired when I crossed the finish line, and was shocked to see that I had finished 14th overall out of 96 starters.  And to make the moment even sweeter, there was Bill from Indiana, who had finished 6th.  Sweet redemption for the both of us!  I won a Dances With Dirt folding chair which I proudly use and cherish to this day.

There were many things I liked about this race.  The start is in the dark, forcing you to use a light for at least the first half hour or so.  It is the only race I've ever done where I've gotten to run in the dark (and train for in the dark)--and it was a blast.  With night running, your senses feel more alive than usual, your concentration more focused.  And as the sun rises, you are treated to a series of wooden bridges which span bogs sometimes draped with ground fog.  The course, with all its eccentricities, is still very runable, and is much like the terrain I'm used to training on.  It is also quite varied, which is also appealing.  The weather always seems to be lovely--70s and sunny.  The atmosphere is festive and lively, and the ultrarunners are received with respect and enthusiasm by the many relay runners.  I'm seldom affected by the sight and sound of spectators during a race--I'm usually too tired or too focused to care one way or the other--but I must confess, I have been energized coming into aid stations by the comments and encouragement of the spectators at DWD.  

All in all, I've had a great time at Dirt in Hell, and  look forward to taking on the new challenges offered by DWD at Gnaw Bone in southern Indiana and Devils Lake in Wisconsin.  If this seems like the type of race that would appeal to you, check out their website at: Danceswithdirt.com