Singletrack Mack

Invigorated Malaise at the Bandera 50K

2010-01-19T10:12:00.018-06:00

(From top to bottom)

1). Minutes before the start.

2). Follow the cairns and try not to trip!

3). Typical scruff and hills.

4). View from hill top with winding trail below.

5). Gorgeous flat section late in the race just begging to be hammered!

6). Finisher's medal well earned.

First, a side note...I ran the Bandera 50k in early January of 2006. I would love to run it again

--and it's simply a matter of making it a priority of money and time and will--in order to make that desire a reality. Of course, it's also a matter of whether my beat-up body will ever allow me to cover 50k again, but I remain hopeful and determined. If all goes well, it won't be long until these reminiscences will be replaced by race reports of freshly completed events. And so, Bandera...

The 2005 season was noteworthy for the fact I didn't race until late July, but then managed to cram in three trail marathons and three trail 50ks into the next five months. Bandera was the final race of this stretch, and in retrospect, I think I was a little physically drained. It also wasn't wise of me to position Bandera at the end of a nine-day trip to Texas with my wife, which included New Year's Eve on the Riverwalk in San Antonio, play time in the Hill Country, and beef--lots and lots of brisket and carne asada and brisket and carne asada--and brisket. Now, mind you, I'm not a beef guy, and for several years in my life even committed to being a vegetarian, but there's beef and then there's Texas beef--and I surrendered with giddy pleasure. And thus, my wife thinks my flagging later miles in the race were due to an overindulgence in brisket. And if she happens to be right, I must confess, the trade-off was justified--the brisket I devoured at the OST buffet in the quaint little town of Bandera was pure bliss.

The Bandera 50k is held in Hill Country State Park under the guidance of the very capable and accommodating Joe Prusaitis. By January, the rattlers have since hibernated at Hill Country, but keeping one eye on the ground is still a good idea since parts of the course are strewn with rocks. Joe even thought it might be fun to throw in a little off-trail trail--we followed rock cairns over a steep, rocky hill littered with smaller, you guessed it, rocks. There are trees in the park, some of them delightfully gnarly, but they provide little to no shade. The views from atop the many hills--MANY HILLS--are terrific. Being from the Midwest, and often immersed in dense forest, this was a rare delight. I'd never run anywhere quite like this before--huge expanses of scruffy, undulating terrain--and if you were careful, you could actually run and gaze out across the landscape. In short, the 50k single-loop course was tough and beautiful.

Temperatures were chilly at the start--low thirties--and quickly warmed to the upper seventies. I delight in running in warm weather, but I'm sure the unusual heat took as much of a toll on me as did the brisket and too many racing miles. After a vigorous first 13 miles or so, I faded quickly, much to my confusion, and slogged through the final 18 in a state of "invigorated malaise". Yes, that term pretty well describes the sheer joy and frustration of seeing a gorgeous piece of country present itself, just begging to be hammered, yet you are just too damn tired to muster anything more than a jog--or a walk. And so, you shake your head and chuckle, and resign yourself to enjoying the lovely surroundings, not wanting it to end but wanting it to end. When my race was all run and done some 7 1/2 hours later, I was surprised to have found myself finishing in the middle of the pack--which made me wonder how well I might have done had I been feeling strong. Now, you understand, my need to return.

And this time, I'll have brisket AFTER the race.

Otter Creek Tales

2009-12-12T13:38:00.006-06:00

(top photo) 2008 race. Savoring the day.

(bottom) Ohio River from atop a bluff.

For three of the past four years, the second weekend in December meant making the five-hour rode trip to Kentucky to run my final event of the season, the Otter Creek Trail Marathon. Otter Creek State Park, a little west of Louisville along the banks of the Ohio, sadly closed following last year's event and race directors Todd and Cindy Heady have since organized the Beautiful Trail races in Louisville. In fact, I've just realized marathoners may be finishing that event as I type these words. Every race has it's little bit of drama and stories, but my Otter Creek memories are particularly vivid--and quirky.

I loved the Otter Creek course--an 8-mile loop through rolling pine forest, along pretty Otter Creek, and atop a tall bluff overlooking the lazy, winding Ohio River. There were enough big hills there to grind down your legs, but also flatter areas you could attempt to hammer. That is, if the roots didn't trip you up. Tripping was the norm at Otter Creek. On my first visit there in 2005, I think I went down six times. The header I took at the finish line was a gem. My buddy, Al Chase, had finished just ahead of me and was waiting for me to come in. I had passed through the finishing area three times already on my loops, but was doing the final two-mile out-and-back. Meaning, I would be approaching the finish line from the opposite direction. I was running strong and feeling great--until I tripped on a lip rising up from the cement sidewalk and hit the ground hard just a yard or so from the finish line. I immediately looked up at race director Todd, who was manning the timing table, and asked, "Am I across?" "Close enough," he replied, while my compassionate friend Al was laughing hysterically. 'No," I muttered, "I'll make it official," and I crawled the final few feet to glory. Now, one would think one good tripping story would suffice for any event, but not Otter Creek. Advance to the following year, where on the back end of the course, on a long downhill, I stubbed my toe and went into a spectacular, out-of-control decent, landing on--make that, plowing down--the unsuspecting female runner in front of me. Having fallen on top of the poor woman, I was not hurt, as she cushioned my fall. Luckily, she survived without injury and I apologized profusely as I scurried ahead of her.

Yes, falls were just a part of racing at Otter Creek. The '05 race was also notable for its abundance of ice on the trail, especially on the first loop before temperatures turned the trail to a mixture of ice and mud. My friend Al slipped on an icy section of the creek trail and found himself frantically grasping at branches as he began sliding down the side of a bluff. No wonder he found my finishing line face plant so funny. But I am no better, as I found great amusement in watching Wild Bill, the head cross-country coach at the state champion high school in Indianapolis and my running partner for part of the '08 race, suffer his share of falls on this dastardly course. Thump! I would hear behind me. "Damn, " Bill would say, "I'm gonna feel that one tomorrow." He was much more polite than me, known to hurl resounding F-bombs into the air.

Part of Otter Creek's charm was it's low-key atmosphere. When Al crossed the finish line in'05,

there was no one else there. No one. Not even the race director. "Hello!" Al yelled. "I finished! Anybody here?!" Turns out, Todd was in the nearby parking lot, digging through the back of his truck for something. You see? Low-key. Can't get a story like that from a big city marathon. Cindy prepared terrific pre-race pastas and post-race soups. Her and Todd rented out a cabin at the park where runners would gather the night before the race. A great little gathering. Al and I rented a cabin that first year. It was atop the bluff overlooking the Ohio River and was just yards off the course. We could have turned it into an aid station had we wanted to. And the night after the marathon, he and I went for a walk down the trail. No flashlight was needed as a full moon reflected off the snowy/icy ground. It was magical.

When I crossed the finish line of last year's race, I continued on for another hundred yards or so--and wept. This little race had brought me so much joy after running it just three times. I only knew it with it's trees bare and a chill in the air. I wonder what Otter Creek might have looked like in the summer or fall. The park is now closed--and I'll never know.

Beach Run on the Riviera Maya

2009-11-29T18:25:00.011-06:00

(photos) Lovely tide pools.

Bird and crashing wave.

The mother load of coral.

Trail skimming past mansion hurricane devasted property.

Termite nest near mangroves.

Rocky section near mansion.

For me, there has always been a disconnect between the romantic image of beach running and the reality of actually doing it. If I can find a rare beach with hard packed sand to run on, then perhaps, an actual productive run is possible. But even then, I get easily bored running on along a flat, straight line--and then back again along the same damn flat, straight line. I guess I must be a high maintenance beach runner because not only do I want remotely runable terrain, but varied as well, and with some bends and roll and surprises along the way.

On a recent trip to the Mayan Riviera in Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula, I found a beach front route, one I enjoyed so much I actually ran it on two different days. I have named it Four Points, because it stretches from the northern point of Soliman Bay north of Tulum to the southern point of Tanka Bay. The two-hour out-and-back route follows two sandy crescents, passing two additional points of land, and turns around at the nauseatingly posh resort Dreams. I did not venture to try, but I imagine they would refill your water bottle there, adding a slice of lime and a colorful paper umbrella.

There is a variety of footing along the route, hence the appeal--from hard packed sand to the miserable slogging variety, and also traverses over rocky sections, a patch of actual trail running through a grove of palm trees, weedy sections, horrifying garbage-riddled sections, and even expanses of limestone pocked with tide pools. For those who dare the sea to get their feet wet, or for those who don't mind running in soaked shoes, there is also, of course, the waterline. Such a tease, the sea. One moment it gives you a glimpse of hard-packed good running, and the next, it playfully hurls a wave at your feet. Don't expect to outsmart it. You WILL have at least one wet foot before the run is over.

There are actually a few wilder-feeling, undeveloped sections of beach between the various bays, and it is here you will find yourself marveling at the bounty of coral (the second largest reef in the world runs parallel to the shore), maritime birds, and the afore mentioned tide pools. It is bliss. Along the developed sections, you will pass workers diligently raking the beach in front of their respective properties (why?)--a variety of casitas, small hotels, grand villas, and opulent mansions. There are also seemingly abandoned properties, some damaged by the hurricane of two years ago, and others, by the economic downturn.

This is a route which some runners may find frustrating, but seasoned and determined trail runners, accustomed to tackling and embracing all kinds of terrain (read: shitty) will enjoy.

Bring a camera and a laid-back attitude, and enjoy the little surprises and adventure along this slice of sun-drenched coast north of Tulum, Mexico.

A Little Slice of Trail Runner Heaven

2009-11-18T22:26:00.009-06:00

(left) A new trail in the making?

One of the best parts of running trails is discovering and exploring new ones. I was on a run today when I unexpectedly encountered a "new" trail. On a whim, I blew off my planned route in favor of following this undeveloped path of tire tracks, newly cut trees, and orange ribbons. When the tire tracks ended, I followed the ribbons. And when the ribbons ended, I was standing in a surreal-looking pasture in the middle of nowhere. So, I did what has become second nature to me--took pictures and bushwhacked my way through the expanse until I came to a familiar trail. This meant running through leg-grabbing weeds, on pillowy mounds of hay-like grass, and through a shallow swamp. It will be interesting to see if this route actually does turn into a trail, but if it doesn't, I still had the time of my life--scraped legs, soggy feet and all. It was a little slice of trail runner heaven.

Running/Hiking Hocking Hills area, Ohio

2009-10-30T12:58:00.017-05:00

(top to bottom) Inside The Rock House, Rim Trail at Conkles Hollow, Rock formation between Old Man's Cave and Cedar Falls, Ash Cave.

I recently explored some trails within seven hours of Chicago which rival the beauty of Kentucky's Natural Bridge State Park and Red River Gorge area--Hocking Hills, Ohio. It was on my to-do list ever since I heard about the bundle of races there (Hocking Hills Indian Runs) a few years back. The Indian Runs include distances of

10k to 60k. The photos on the website were intriguing and the September race date was inviting, but when I asked trusted ultrarunning resource Rob Apple, who has run just about everything in the country, whether he recommended the race, he replied it was fine, but not for true trail junkies--too much asphalt at Hocking Hills. From what I can gather, about half of the 20k loop is asphalt, so I scratched the race from my schedule. Still, those photos of the park stuck in my mind, and when my nagging PF messed up my racing season this year, I thought a visit to Hocking Hills for some "light" running and hiking might be just the kind of trip I needed this Fall.

There is much to explore in the Hocking Hills region of south central Ohio. I spent parts of three days poking around and had a good deal leftover for my return trip there someday (hopefully, soon!). Having run pretty hard the day before my trip, my first day in the area was spent simply hiking and exploring Rock House and Conkles Hollow. The hiking trails are quite short at the Rock House, but seeing the formation is a must. It is, indeed, more of a house than a cave, and particularly interesting once you make your way inside. At Conkles Hollow, there are trails which run through and above the gorge. I took the rim trail around and above the gorge, a 2 1/2 mile loop. The initial assent may be a tough climb for those in poor shape, but worth the effort once topping out. There are numerous unobstructed lookouts on one side of the gorge, particularly striking due to the fall color. The trail on the opposite of the gorge is more wooded, but afford interesting views of rock formations below. It is a lovely hike.

On Day 2, I essentially did an out-and-back from Upper Falls in the Old Man's Cave area to Cedar Falls, maybe 7 miles total. I had planned on running all the way to Ash Cave, three miles further, but lost the trail emerging from the gorge at Cedar Falls and lost precious daylight (and motivation) in the process of my search. As it turns out, when arriving at the parking lot from the Cedar Falls Gorge, you must take a HARD RIGHT where you will see a marker for the Buckeye Trail (obscured by a the branch of a tree, hence my wandering fruitlessly left). In retrospect, the blue blazes and stone markers of the Buckeye Trail are so abundant, that I am embarrassed at having lost the trail!

The trailhead for this run/hike can be found between the campground and the park buildings along State Road 664 at the top of Upper Falls. There is a stone marker there commemorating Grandma Gatewood, for whom this stretch of trail is name. IT IS A SPECTACULAR TRAIL, dropping into the gorge where you are immediately greeted with tall stone walls and waterfalls. The way to Old Man's Cave is paved, but lovely. Shortly after Old Man's Cave, the trail changes to dirt and follows a winding stream. To one side, is a tall rock face and along the way there are many delightful surprises including huge boulders and interesting rocky outcroppings to negotiate and appreciate. It is a little slice of trail running heaven--visually engaging and technically challenging. If want to get an actual run in, DO NOT BRING A CAMERA. Let me put it this way--if you want to actually the run this section, hike it first with your camera and get all the beautiful shots out of your system. Otherwise, just plan a run and shoot regimen and expect to be out there for a good 3 hours or more just for this simple 7-mile section!

I'm happy that I saved the 6-mile out-and-back from Cedar Falls to Ash Cave for the following morning as it felt "just right" before my drive back to Chicago. There is a large parking lot at Cedar Falls. At the far end, just hop on the wide trail with the wooden sign pointing to Ash Cave. It was interesting to see how different this section was from yesterday's trail. The Ash Cave section is more "traditional" woods running--a mix of wide trail and single track winding and undulating through the countryside. It felt much like Wisconsin's southern Ice Age Trail, and on this lovely, sunny fall day with temperatures close to 70 degrees, I was in a state of bliss. From this bucolic setting, Ash Cave, the largest formation in the Hocking Hills area, appears out of nowhere. It is not really a cave, but an enormous semi-circular rock formation gouged into the side of a cliff. Standing beneath it, embraced by it, is a wondrous experience.

The Hocking Hills area is a delight. Take some time to see it and go play.

I Retire From Ultrarunning--For 18 Hours

2009-09-27T22:39:00.013-05:00

(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

2009-09-24T21:03:00.009-05:00

The Galapagos Islands--unique in all the world.

Dances With Dirt 50k in Hell, Michigan

2009-09-06T22:58:00.009-05:00

(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

Getting "Chicked": The First True Step to Racing Enlightenment

2009-08-24T21:57:00.021-05:00

(above) Confident (cocky?) in pre-race photo. Little did I suspect, that the two women in the background would be part of the "Gang of Five" who "chicked" me late in the race!

Upon reading a popular running blog last night, a certain speedy male runner remarked that he had been "chicked" at a particular event, evidence of a less than stellar performance. Now, I'm not sure of the precise definition of what it means to be chicked--I'm assuming it is to be beaten by a woman--but I do know there are very few male runners who are fast enough to even bother counting, let alone, have the audacity to joke about it. For a middle-of-the-pack guy like me, I was humbled early on and can say without reservation that not only have I been "chicked", but I've been "gramped", "grammed", "paunched", "fat-butted" and damn nearly "mommed" by various runners these past ten years.

Back in the late 90's, I had good success in my first two ultras and having finished in the top fourth of the pack in the second one, figured I was already pretty damn fast. Naturally, I assumed with better training and experience, I would soon have a chance at cracking the top ten spots at some race before too long. So, it was during my third ultra, the rough 'n tumble Rattlesnake 50k in West Virginia, that I really got my first taste of humble pie. Not only was I chicked, but gramped to boot. Late in the race, maybe 27 miles in or so, I was pretty damn tired and moving along slowly--not hurting--but slowly and steadily, when up from behind, I began to hear laughing and chatter. Hikers? No, runners. Female runners. Four of them plus one dude. They passed me easily, still chattering and laughing and offered a friendly "hello". Now, in an event where there are only 136 starters, to be passed in late miles by five people in one quick swoop is rather demoralizing. But when you're slowly grinding down and they pass you, looking fresh, like they're on a 5-mile fun run--well, that just plain sucks. But not so fast--my competitive juices were stoked! I lit out after the gang of five, determined not to be so easily overtaken. This was a true test of my mettle. I was inspired, anxious to see if I could dig deep and maintain pursuit, match them stride for stride, carrying me to the finish! ...Oh well, I guess it's really not that surprising that I let them go after a feeble quarter of a mile chase. They wound up all finishing together, ahead of me by eight minutes. Then, if this bitter taste of comeuppance wasn't enough, in the final mile of the race, a guy with white hair and beard came up on me, huffing and puffing and grunting like a tenacious junkyard dog. I remember rolling my eyes and muttering, "Oh, c'mon now!" as I was hoping to just cruise comfortably to the finish. But there he was, this old guy of 53 (me, a young, svelte, dashing 44 at the time), and damned (as tired as I was) if I was going to let him pass me. I surprised myself by clicking into another gear and thought with gratification, and perhaps even a bit of smugness, that there was no way this old dude was going to hang with me now. Well, not only did he hang with me, but the old bastard wore me down and passed me, "gramped" me, crossing the finish line 14 seconds ahead of me. I distinctly remember thinking, as he continued to bear down on me, "This guy is practically killing himself. We're in the middle of the pack of a six-hour race, for Gods sakes! Why is it so damn important for him to beat me?!" It's because he was Andrew Colee, who I later learned was a tough-as-nails competitor and prolific ultrarunner from Florida--and that's just how he ran--balls out. Florida?! Beaten on mountainous trails by another flatlander?! Twas a bitter pill to swallow--and not the last time I'd battle Mr. Colee.

And then, there was the time I was nearly "mommed" at the 2005 Stump Jump 50k outside of Chattanooga, Tennessee. Now this happened on a day where I felt just fine, but was casually taking my time negotiating the very technical trail, and found myself far back in the pack late in the race. I initiated a conversation with a fellow runner , a middle-aged woman, who was just ahead of me. I think I brought up Alabama and Mountain Mist 50k, to which, the woman said "My son won that race a number of times." Say what? You are DeWayne Satterfield's mom? I had talked with DeWayne a couple of times over the years, liked him very much, and had a great deal of respect for his running prowess. So, it was kind of cool to meet his mom--especially under such unusual circumstances. Then it occurred to me--you can't let DeWayne's mom beat you! So, eventually I sped up, and on this day, avoided the momming. But I know the day will come when I will again face this challenge. Some of these moms can run their butts off, but I will be ready to do battle: Mano y Mom-o.

I always thought the worst thing in a race would be getting passed by an overweight runner.

Hence my terms, "paunched" or "fat-butted". Every race has some competitors who are flat-out overweight, but the amazing thing is, that sometimes they will surprise you with their speed and/or endurance. I've relaxed my attitude on this matter as well, not only because I've been passed by overweight runners, but mostly because I've become one of them! I don't intend on staying an overweight runner, but as recent race photos will document, I'm presently one of those paunchy guys out there. And yes, as slow as I've become, and with a mixture of pride and shame I must confess, that I have "paunched" some younger, leaner runners. Good grief.

If my own past thoughts are any indication, I, Myself, was an object of disdain as I passed these young pups! Perhaps, as I approach the ripe old age of 55, still carrying too much baggage around my waist, I may be approaching the optimal place in this whole pecking order. I am becoming the guy who looks like a pushover out there. If I get passed, so what? Nobody expects me to run well. And if I do pass younger, leaner runners, well, bully for me!

So, what of this whole class system in a sport where everyone truly cheers for everyone else?

It's all pretty simple. 95% of the folks who toe the line at an ultra deserve to be there, have put in the training, and have earned my respect before the starting gun even goes off. The other 5 % get my respect because they're runners--period. And if someone finishes ahead of me, more power to them. And if they finish behind me, good job as well. When it comes down to it, I am downright honored to be a part of these awesome events and to be competing with these dedicated athletes. And a final word to the speedy male runners who talk about getting "chicked" either out of genuine concern or simply playful bravado: A pair of younger, fresher, faster, prettier legs is inevitably gaining on you, so you might as well just submit like all the rest of us mid and back-of-the packers. Not only is getting chicked not such a bad thing, it is the first true step to racing enlightenment.

Germantown 50K Trail Run

2009-08-22T11:14:00.012-05:00

(photo) Me arriving at the pasture aid station before Twincreek. Yes, I'm walking, but there was a long hill leading up to the station. Give me a break!

Germantown 50k: August 23, 2008

It was one year ago today that I ran the Germantown 50k in southwest Ohio. Having finally gotten a knee problem under control (I love my knee straps--Pro-Tec Illiotibial Band), I was looking forward to a normal racing season when I developed an upper-respiratory infection which evolved into a slight case of pneumonia. I blame running on a treadmill in the warm, germ-infested air of a health club for my sickness, having had the same thing happen to me a few years earlier when I thought I'd skirt some of Winter's wrath by training indoors. The years in between, when I hit the trails (when I could) in the fresh, frigid, open air of the woods, I didn't get sick. Coincidence? I'm not so sure. I've come to believe that fresh air cleanses the body and I am hesitant to ever train indoors in the winter again. In any event, it took months of training to try and get back my lungs--I was even using an inhaler for awhile. I did a 25k in early July up at Afton, in Minnesota, just to work towards something, and then endeavored to do Germantown as a warm up for the fall. "Warm up" turned out to be an understatement.

Germantown is a small ultra run by Wes Fenton, a hard core and passionate ultrarunner.

This year's race (2008), was noteworthy as the course had changed from four loops in a contained park to a sprawling two-ended lollipop design which joined Germantown and Twincreek Metroparks parks with a paved bike path (and roads through a residential area). I give Wes a lot of credit for making the change. People had been used to the four loop course, but I, for one, find a meandering single loop much more intriguing--pavement and all! When I read about the course, it reminded me of the kind I often create for a long training run. On the other hand, I'm always timid about running inaugural events or events with major course changes because of the bugs that still need to be worked out. I was, however, hungry to run an ultra and threw caution to the wind.

Well, my fears did not go unfounded. I am not complaining--I had a great time at Germantown--but I did find myself wandering around on several occasions trying to find the course. At one point, several of us spread out like a search party. It isn't that Wes necessarily screwed up or didn't care. It just happened to be the first time the course was tested in a race situation. And for all my wandering around in confusion, I can take heart that my misfortune helped initiate the process of making things right. I'm sure this year's event went like butter.

The 2008 event was also noteworthy for its heat, having been moved from the fall (October, I think) to late August as part of a creation of the Southwestern Ohio 50k Trail Series. I believe the temperature reached 95 on this day with medium-high humidity. Now, I'm one of those rare runners who loves running in heat, loves the way it feels to run in heat, but I'm also aware of the havoc that heat plays on your body over the course of 31 miles. No matter how much you hydrate, it never seems to be enough, and eventually, your body succumbs. And how! Granted I was not in my best shape going in, granted I spent extra time out on the course due to wrong turns and wandering, granted this was a gloriously hot but brutal day to run, but man, oh man, I never thought I'd ever be forced to walk THE LAST SIX MILES! Very strange sensation, this walking during a race. My mind said "Go, go, go!" but my muscles said "No, no, no!" If I tried to even jog, let alone run, I'd start to cramp. So, walk I did through that lovely forest and did a pretty good job of letting go of the humiliation part of "being beaten by the course and the elements" and finding the pure joy of simply enjoying the day.

The course itself was pretty nice. Ultrarunning Magazine, under their new course rating scale--which I love--gives it a 2/2 in difficulty out of a possible 5/5. Rolling hills and a relatively smooth surface with some technical patches thrown into the mix. Both wooded areas of the course are lovely and I also enjoyed the vast, rolling pasture before entering Twincreek. I saw a huge dark-colored snake along that stretch, always a good boost for the adrenaline. The paved connector trail and residential roads are flat and tolerable--this coming from a guy who gets bored running on crushed limestone and wide dirt trails!

One of the stranger moments of the entire race was the finish. You seem to just pop out of the bushes at the end, and there, maybe twenty yards in front of you, is the finish line and the picnic shelter. No long, flat, dramatic stretch of grass to hammer-in to an applauding gathering of folks at the finish. Nope, not here. It's just BOOOP! Pop out of the bushes and you're home.

It's even funnier when you're seated at the shelter and you watch others pop out of the bushes.

Unfortunately, I didn't get to witness too many of those finishes as I straggled in at 8:01:46.

And to give you an idea of how my attitude toward racing has changed with age, I was actually happy with my accomplishment. Would I run the event again? Sure! For one, I like having an August event to choose from if needed. And secondly, I'd like another shot at shattering that formidable eight hour mark!

Parque Nacional Cajas, Ecuador

2009-08-19T22:16:00.011-05:00

(top to bottom)

Craggy peaks and mountain ponds.

Wildflowers!

Where's the trail? Enchanted forest.

I turn Diego on to an American delicacy--PowerBars.

Hiked Cajas: August 8, 2009
On our third full day in the mountains, Annie, myself, and our guide, Diego, drove about a half hour outside Cuenca to Cajas National Park to do a little exploring. It would prove to be a glorious 4 1/2 hour hike along some of the most interesting and stimulating landscape I've ever encountered. That being said, the terrific photos I took that day went bye bye along with my camera the following morning (see earlier blog). Luckily, Annie snapped a few on her camera as well--posted here. Our hike followed a popular loop trail starting from the park office, as well as some beautiful lesser-known side trails that Diego threw in to wow us. Wow us, indeed.

At roughly 4000 meters (13, 123 feet), this section of sprawling El Cajas is dominated by tundra vegetation, many lakes and lagoons, and a jagged, undulating landscape. There is a wildness, a rawness to the landscape which I found very appealing. The name of the park is said to have been derived from the Quichua word "cassa", meaning "gateway to the snowy mountains." Cajas also means "boxes" in Spanish, alluding to the small, box-like canyons that dominate the park.

The views in El Cajas are amazing and plentiful. With every twist and turn of the trail, there is something fascinating to look at from the very small--hummingbirds at work or delicate wildflowers--to the grand. Diego led us into a couple of forested areas, which look like, well, regular forests until you get inside. Populated by dense, tangled, sprawling tree limbs, you feel like you've entered some kind of eerie fantasy land. It is much like trying to navigate through a mangrove swamp 4000 meters above sea level. The bark from these trees can be peeled like the skin of an onion, hence the name "arbol de papel" or paper tree. They are one of the few trees in the world that are able to survive at such a high altitude.

The hike was moderately challenging due to the rolling terrain and the altitude. 4 1/2 hours was perfect for two people not yet acclimated to the altitude. I would have loved to have spent another day exploring a different section of the park, but also feel very fortunate to have been able to experience this day's hike. I was in a state of awe from start to finish.

Running Again! and Why I Race

2009-08-16T10:47:00.008-05:00

After encouraging results following my rigorous hikes in Ecuador, I attempted, for the third time since May 10th, to do a little running. I went out easy for an hour and fifteen minutes over rolling terrain and what do you know? My foot never stiffened up! It was a glorious day--89 degrees and humid with explosions of Queen Anne's Lace and Black-eyed Susans bordering the trail. When I got home, I did my foot and leg stretches and popped two Aleve for good measure. This morning, the heel is still fine! I will rest it two days, and hit the trails again on Tuesday with fingers still crossed.

Prior to my run, I was greatly moved by Tia Bodington's editorial in the August issue of Ultrarunning Magazine (Ultrarunning.com). She references the cover photo, in which, runner Karl Hoagland is being attended to by volunteer Mike Savage at this year's Western States 100-miler. Regarding Mike, she writes, "He's wet and dirty, hot and tired, but there's something in his eyes that inspires me to work harder and go longer on my run today." I became choked-up upon reading these words and looking at the cover photo--because I realized what I missed most about racing. Racing has always appealed to me because it created a goal to work towards. I loved the drama and anticipation which led up to race day. I loved the travel and the pre-race buzz. But I was never quite sure why half the time, I found myself muttering to myself once the race had commenced. Racing can be punishing and I sometimes questioned what the hell I was doing out there. Now I know. Having not raced all season, I know. I miss being wet and dirty, hot and tired, and pushing myself to my limits. I actually miss the struggle and the discomfort. Not only do I miss it, I wonder if I actually NEED it. I haven't felt myself all year because I haven't been able to challenge myself, mentally and physically, in that same way all year. When I finally race again (please, next year!) I will be mindful of these words and this realization, and I will embrace the struggle during races rather than fight or question it. And I will smile and laugh at this masochistic streak that inhabits us distance runners!

Hiking The Quilotoa Crater

2009-08-15T23:54:00.017-05:00

(top to bottom)

Spectacular Quilotoa Crater Lake.

Grand view of a windswept backbone.

The serene valley side of the trail.

Me, being pummeled by fierce wind.

Annie, on the crater side of the trail.

Quilotoa hike:

August 11, 2009

The day following our Cotopaxi hike, Annie and I explored The Quilotoa Crater with guide Rueben. The crater is an amazing natural formation, some two miles wide, and now filled with water after the caldera was formed some 800 years ago. At 3914 meters in elevation (12,841 feet), we had anticipated an easier hike than the previous day's effort at Cotopaxi. The most common hike at Quilotoa is a half-hour decent to the lake followed by hike back up which can take three to four times longer than the plunge down. Many people opt to take a horse back up the crater because the hiking can be arduous, especially for those not acclimated to the altitude. Some people use the Quilotoa down and up to help condition themselves for more strenuous hikes later in their trips. We were looking for the most scenic hike, and at our guide's suggestion, took the rim trail to the left. It proved to be a great decision, as we were treated to a hike which offered a steady dose of hills as well as breathtaking views not only of the crater lake, but of a huge valley on the other side of the trail. At times, along several backbones, there were tremendous views on either side of us. Wind was again a prominent element in the hike, particularly when the trail wound to the crater side. On one particular overlook, the gusts must been close to 70 mph, forcing you to widen your stance so as not to be literally blown off the mountain! On the valley side, the wind was often blocked, and in the bright sun, the temperature felt immediately twenty degrees warmer than the crater side. We limited our hike to a two-hour out and back and had a pleasant lunch ensconced in some tall grass over-looking a cliff.

To our guide, I exclaimed, "I love paja!" referring to this grass, the same type of grass I had been seeing throughout the high altitudes of the Andes. Rueben laughed and enlightened me to the fact that word "paja" was also local slang for masturbation. To which, I again replied, "I love paja!"

Save for the altitude, this is a moderately easy hike, and offers one jaw-dropping view after another. The crater lake is a sight to behold--simply magical!

Cotopaxi Crawl

2009-08-15T12:10:00.034-05:00

(left) Cotopaxi on a clear day.

(above) Annie slowly ascending the mountain.

(below) My guide, Rueben, standing near the glacier.

(above) Me, dwarfed by the base of the glacier.

(below) Me, relishing the moment in this amazing, surreal environment.

Cotopaxi hike:

August 10, 2009

While waiting for photos to arrive from the earlier part of my trip to Ecuador, I do have a few to share from the latter part, my time in the mountains. Visited the volcano Cotopaxi, about 50 miles south of Quito, with a guide Rueben, my wife Annie, and a couple from Ireland, Ronan and Jean. Cotopaxi is a majestic, white-capped mountain and still considered an active volcano, although its last major eruption was in 1940. We drove our four-wheel drive vehicle to a parking lot 4500 meters (14,764 ft.) up , weaving around various cars and a bus which had gotten stuck in the volcanic sand. From there, we were to simply hike up the mountain, gaining 300 meters in elevation, to a yellow house which practically glowed against the dark, bleak landscape. Easy enough, right? Temperatures were probably in the low 40s, constant winds pummeled us with gusts as high as 50 mph, the surface of the mountain was something akin to scree or sand--certainly no firm footing was to be found--and the air, to say the least, was quite thin. Annie and I had spent three days in the mountain city of Cuenca but were no way acclimatized. In fact, this was to be the highest altitude in which we had ever hiked.

What a fabulous experience! The conditions were just so raw. I made note of our starting time, but failed to look at my watch upon arrival of the yellow house, but at the risk of sounding like a real wimp, this stretch of 300 meters may have taken the lot of us as long as 45 minutes to ascend! Certainly a half hour. You would plow ahead for 30 baby steps and then stop to gain your breath. 30 more steps, take a photo. Repeat. Repeat. Each time you stopped, a feeling of light-headiness would rush through you. And then, you would gaze about at the amazing landscape, the raw conditions you were fighting through, and smile. It was glorious!

Upon reaching the yellow house, we were able to use the toilet, and then the five us had lunch.

The house also serves as a jumping off point for the hikers who go on to summit the mountain.

Since the cap of the volcano is a giant glacier, it is safer to embark at midnight when the ice is the most safe. I had no appetite for reaching the summit, but I did want to see the glacier, so after lunch, Rueben and I (he gave me "a look" when I said I wanted to hike higher) climbed another 200 meters to the glacier. Before long, I was at 16, 404 feet. Wow. As much as I enjoyed the earlier climb, this one was even more intense. The landscape immediately became eerier, we crossed a stream of glacier run-off, and pelted by sleet, we arrived at the foot of the glacier. It was one of the most amazing places I've ever been. A wall of snow and ice loomed above us. We could not stay long as Rueben determined it was not safe due to all of the melting ice, but I savored the short time I was there. On the descent to the yellow house, I was able to jog down the mountain. Quite a rush as well, especially for a trail runner who has been laid up for so long!

To do this hike, one needs only to be in average physical condition. It is not the "test your mettle" type of hike, but it is certainly an emotional rush and I highly recommend playing on Cotopaxi for the sheer intensity of the experience.

Ripped Off in Ecuador!

2009-08-13T23:30:00.008-05:00

Camera Stolen: August 9, 2009

I have come to think of myself as a fairly savvy traveler. I take many precautions to minimize the risk of being a victim of crime. I wear my wallet under my shirt, wear my day pack on the front of my body in crowds, use a hotel safe when possible--you get the idea. But in Ecuador this past week, I learned a hard lesson--you can NEVER let your guard down. 99% of the people in the world are good, but the other 1% are always ready to take advantage of a naive tourist. I was that naive tourist that day and I got ripped off.

My wife and I were at the bus station in the southern city of Cuenca. Like other bus station experiences for us in Latin American countries, things felt rushed and confusing. We speak only enough Spanish to get by, which compounds the stress of the situation. A young man, clean cut and well-dressed, notified us in English that our bus to Latacunga had arrived and could be boarded. I appreciated his thoughtful gesture and without a thought, headed toward the turnstile leading to the departing buses. For whatever reason, you needed to insert a dime in a metal box before the turnstile would turn, and naturally, we had no dimes. Meanwhile, a couple of men were telling us to give them our big backpacks so they could be loaded into the cargo area of the bus. We passed them on without hesitation. Mistake #1. Always follow your luggage to the cargo area and watch it being inserted. I would have had I not been stalled at the turnstile while my wife hurriedly went on a hunt for dimes. Luckily, these men were legit and our backpacks made it to Latacunga.

After my wife, after some difficulty, obtained the necessary dimes--more silly stress--we followed the clean-cut young man into our empty bus. He led us to our seats (which turned out NOT to be our seats) and started relieving us of our carry-on bags. By now, I had assumed he wasn't just a nice guy, but the conductor of the bus. My wife smartly hung on to her daypack, but I allowed the man to take our shopping bag plus my daypack, which he shoved into the upper cargo berth. I know, I know--NEVER let anyone handle your daypack--but after all the little hassles of the morning, I let down my guard and allowed him to be what I thought was amusingly overly-helpful. When he finished patting and securing the bags, I asked him the drive time to latacunga. He replied, "About seven hours," and left--for good--with my new

Canon pocket camera--so easy to hide in the hand of a professional pickpocket--which held all my photos (AWESOME SHOTS!) from Pueerto Lopez, the Galapagos Islands, and Cajas National Park. When I spoke to him, he had my camera in his pocket. Good grief!

It wasn't until a half hour into the ride, that I retrieved my camera bag--sans camera. At 54 years old, it's pretty amazing that I've never had anything stolen from me. So, it was for the first time that I experienced that sickening feeling of being violated, of anger and disbelief when one comes to the realization that your property is indeed gone. It is also noteworthy that as my wife and I searched our minds for all the possible scenarios for why the camera was missing, it took about fifteen minutes until we made the connection with the young man. Fifteen minutes! Of course it was him! That's how good this guy was. I felt like a complete idiot, and to make matters worse, I had to churn the events over and over while riding in a crowded bus for the next 7 1/2 hours. Pure torture. We had also assumed the afore-mentioned backpacks were gone too, that all the men had been in cahoots. So, it was with great relief that our bags arrived with us in Latacunga. But my shots, my beautiful shots from The Galapagos of all places, were gone. And I had let it happen. And he had had the audacity to do it right in front of us. So humiliating. I felt like a complete fool.

Hard lessons learned: NEVER let anyone handle a pack with your valuables no matter how trustworthy they seem. Remove your camera card from your camera and/or back up your photos on a disc. Don't let people rush you. Be wary of people who seem too helpful. Guard your valuables ALWAYS. You know, you read about all the precautions to take when traveling, but if you've never been a victim of a crime, they all just feel like going through the motions. From hereon, I will be more earnest and vigilant in applying these precautions.

Yes, I take responsibility for having allowed the crime to happen, but I find it amazing that there were no security precautions at the station. Anyone could go through the turnstile to the departing buses and anyone could board a bus without a ticket. Nobody was checking anything! With these lax conditions, I wonder how many other tourists have been ripped off at that station.

In the end, some of the great people I met on the trip said they would send me some of their photos. They are not my photos, but I will be delighted to have them. I can't say I won't ever get ripped off again in a poor, foreign country, but I will never get ripped off like this again. We must learn from our mistakes.

Plantar Fasciitis--The Heel That Wouldn't Heal

2009-07-24T21:17:00.012-05:00

I had assumed it was a condition that happened only to road runners. It started with some dull pain and stiffness in my arch following days that I ran. So, I bought new running shoes, thinking the old ones were wearing out, and even added an orthotic to support my arch. And I kept running. After a rough couple of years of dealing a knee problem and even working through a bout of walking pneumonia last year, I felt that 2009 was the year I could regain my running mojo. I badly wanted to get faster again. I wanted to take on more formidable challenges. And at age 54, and feeling my best years already behind me, I wanted to accomplish something NOW while I still was "relatively young." So, despite being fifteen pounds overweight, I set out to do something I hadn't been able to do since 2004--run a spring race. I signed up for races in both May and June--the Berryman Marathon in the Missouri Ozarks followed a month later by the Chattanooga Mountains Stage Race in Tennessee. A good plan, totally doable, and a nice base for subsequent ultras I hoped to actually hammer come fall. I trained carefully, so I thought, trying to increase my mileage slowly. But I wasn't running very well, and the weight wasn't falling off the way it used to. Still, I kept plugging away. Twelve days before Berryman, I did 4 hours 10 minutes on the Ice Age. The last hour I ran with a sore foot. By now, I had figured out I had plantar fasciitis. I had been experiencing the painful morning "walking on glass." Still, I kept training. Six days later, running in Palos, my foot became sore after just 45 minutes. I was actually running pretty well that day, turning the corner with some of my conditioning, but now everything I had worked so hard for was in jeopardy. I thought about the crappy spring weather I had trained through--unseasonable cold and wet on sloppy trails much of the time. And now, what? No pay off? So, I did what any other stubborn and driven runner might have done--ran an additional hour and a half that day on my bad foot! I needed to "test it", see how bad the pain would get, see if I thought I could endure the pain for a full 26 miles if I had to. As I trotted gingerly towards my car, I realized my spring races were a bust. I had traumatized my foot more than I should have, but at least I had a definitive answer regarding my ability to do the marathon.

It has been a rough, almost surreal summer for me. No real running since May 10th and just a

few hiking /jogging jaunts with my camera to photograph some of the trails I love. But even the hiking aggravates my foot. I've done a little road biking, but biking aggravates my foot. I'm on my feet a lot for the work I do, sometimes standing one one place for long periods of time, and that really aggravates my foot! However, I have found various ways to help control the discomfort. 1). I wear a night splint--The Dorsal Night Splint. It is light, easy to put on, and generally comfortable to sleep in. It works great--no more walking on broken glass in the morning. That being said, massage and stretch the foot before you get out of bed. Yes, even before you hit the bathroom. This is imperative. If you don't, you'll strain or even tear some of the small fibers in your foot, undoing the progress you made by sleeping in the night splint.

2). Ice the foot. Rolling my foot over a frozen can of grape juice has helped control the inflammation. I've worn the label of the can right off! 3). Take Aleve when the foot is sore. 4). Massage the foot while pulling the toes back. 5). Wear a heel cup or a thick, cushy insole. As I've said, I've had pretty good luck controlling the discomfort of PF. What has been frustrating is that I haven't been able to shake it completely, which means, no running, no hiking.

I recently came upon some good information at petemagill.blogspot.com and have been doing his recommended stretches (Look up plantar fasciitis stretches in the site index) the past twelve days with promising results. The toe curls with the towel befuddles me, so I found a big marble which I pick-up 100 times with my toes. Same motion; same benefit. Regarding the ankle orbits (rotations), I find it useful to close my eyes when I do them. They feel awkward (or maybe, it's just me who is stiff and uncoordinated), but with my eyes closed I am able to concentrate and get a better rotation on the ankle. It really helps to "work the rotation" rather just do circles with the ankle. That is, on the downswing, I point my toes, and then, on the upswing, I flex my heel. I work both of my feet and legs even though I only have PF in one heel. For one, I'm using it as a preventative in my good foot, and two, it gives my bad foot a quick rest before coming back to do the next exercise. My foot isn't heeled yet, but I finally feel like I'm making progress. Due to my tight ankles and calf muscles, I'm attacking the root of the problem rather than just treating the pain. I had tried doing standing calf stretches on several occasions, but they always aggravated the injury. Pete's stretches are done while lying on the floor--better in my case. Finally, my podiatrist today offered to do a steroid injection which I will seriously consider if my foot has not improved after my upcoming trip to Ecuador. The steroid needs to be followed by several weeks of light activity. Seeing that I will be doing some "light hiking" on the trip, I thought it prudent to wait.

It's funny. When I knew I lost my May and June races, I held on to the hope I could still possibly do an ultra in July. When that bubble burst, I thought could at least do some ultras in the fall. Poof! Well, maybe a 25k or two in the fall. Poof! Well, maybe I could at least do a little light running.

It's been a funny summer, filled with music concerts, restaurants, sporting events, visiting friends, and house projects. All sorts of fun and productive things. I've spent a lot of quality time with my wife, who happened to take time off from acting. It's been great. But I haven't spent much time in the woods. At times I'd normally be training, I'm painting the stairwell or hanging out with friends. It's all "normal guy stuff", but it feels weird. It doesn't feel like me--

I should be training. Early on with the injury, I was depressed. I felt empty. I was in mourning over the death of my running season. I've since managed to accept not racing for the year, but I still ache to be out on the trails. It's worst on the days it's 80 and sunny. And when I finally run again, I know it's going to be a long road back. But that's ok--at least I'll be running.

Seduced at the 1998 Kettle Moraine 100-Miler

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(Above) Me awaiting Brian's early morning arrival at Mile 76.

(Below) Brian looking strong at 5 miles.

The Brothers McGowan humming along.

Bri finishing in under 22 hours!

Bitten by the Ultra Bug:

In the spring of 1998, my brother Brian asked me to pace him for a ten mile stretch of the Kettle Moraine 100-miler in southern Wisconsin. I had been running for a little over a year at that point--nothing longer than three miles at a crack, and set out to work up to ten miles. A few weeks before Kettle, I managed to go for 112 minutes, the longest run of my life.

My brother sent me instructions for pacing him. Being a newbie, he forewarned me of things I may see on race day: Runners falling, runners bonking, runners quitting, runners passing, runners peeing and pooping, runners crying, runners bleeding, runners vomiting, runners talking to themselves. And if this wasn't enough to raise my eyebrows, he added, "There is only one thing I ask here. Please never say the words QUIT, STOP, or DROP. I feel I can be the only one that will know when I've had enough. This is one of the biggest challenges of my life and I give you my heart felt thanks for supporting me in this mission." A very exciting day was on the horizon.

Race day arrived and our family saw Brian off at the start, and then watched him as he whizzed past us, looking strong, at five miles. It was then back to the house to relax while his wife Victoria crewed for him. There, I would wait for her call to return back to the woods. The plan was to meet him at the Mile 76 aid station at Bluff Road early the next morning. I was awakened at 4:00 am by Victoria who excitedly told me to get my butt out there immediately because Brian was running way ahead of schedule. I quickly dressed and drove 40 minutes with my folks to Bluff Road where I sat by a tree and waited for Brian's arrival. He soon emerged shortly after daybreak, jogging down an alley of tall pines, and we headed out for what would be a momentous day for both of us. I had never been on the Ice Age Trail before and the beauty of the trail, along with the excitement of the event, was completely intoxicating. My presence gave Brian the mental lift he needed, and we glided along the rolling single-track trail. The weather was beautiful--warm and sunny--and the miles passed easily. After ten miles, I was no way ready to stop, and we just continued to run and run. Still rather new to running, I did not own any technical clothing, and "out of respect" for the racers, not wanting to appear as a poser, I misguidedly chose not to wear any tech clothes for the event. I now shake my head in amazement that I went on to run 24 miles that day in cotton clothing--and later paid for it with some rather raw spots on my arms and upper thighs!

The final five miles of the day were very tough physically, but unbelievably stimulating . Me, pushing up the hills with hands on beat up thighs, and my brother, fighting off extreme fatigue and hallucinations. With every turn, he would tell me the finish was coming up--and, of course, it wasn't. And then, there were the imaginary lizards he kept seeing off the side of the trail. Eventually, there it was in the distance, the coveted finish line, and just before crossing, I veered off trail so Brian could enjoy his well-earned accolades. In his first 100-miler, Brian finished 13th out of 98 starters in a time of 21 hours, 54 minutes, and 18 seconds! I am still in awe of his accomplishment that day.

I immediately sat down feeling tired, amazed and gratified by own accomplishment, and all in all rather dazed by the surreal flow of the morning's events. And then came the leg cramps! Both of my calves seized up no more than two minutes after stopping as I quickly learned the importance of eating and drinking in the course of running 24 miles on a warm day in June, a small detail I had pretty much over-looked in my naivete and excitement of the event.

It was on this day that I was bitten by the ultramarathon bug. My brother knew once he got me out there, it would happen. And I knew if I could run 24 miles having trained to go 10, I could surely go 31 with a little more training. With that thought in mind, I set out to run the Glacial 50k that coming October. Little did I know the extent of the drama that was about to unfold that fall.

The Big O gives me The Big Finger

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It was in 1975, I believe, that I had just finished running the bridal path at Brown Deer Park, and I was driving on the curving asphalt road inside the park, when I swerved out of the way to avoid hitting a man jogging. I had probably been messing with the radio and had temporarily taken my eyes off the road. I didn't come close enough to the man to injure him, but managed to startle him, and when I glanced into my rear view mirror, imagine my surprise to see basketball legend Oscar "The Big O" Robertson

giving me the finger! Oscar had lived in nearby Glendale when playing for the Milwaukee Bucks and although retired from basketball, must have been visiting Milwaukee at the time. I was too naive to think of stopping to apologize and drove off probably more unsettled than Oscar was. After all, it isn't every day that one of your sports heroes flips you off!

Roots of a Trail Lover

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(above) Pasture on the Wild Boar Trail, Willow Springs area, Chicago

(below) The crowd goes wild as my dad finishes a marathon "back in the day". Check out the racing bib and cotton outfit.

I trace my love for trails back to my childhood in Brown Deer, a northern suburb of Milwaukee. If a city suburb seems an unlikely place for these seeds to have planted, it is because our family was one of the first to build a house in our subdivision. There were no trails in the area per se, but there was a lot of open field, where army battles were fought with plastic rifles, forts were built out of scrap wood, and shortcuts to neighbors yards were regularly used. I loved the tall grass and weeds and to this day, I relish running through open pastures. We had no rivers or streams nearby, but we did have what we called "Beaver Creek", a large drainage ditch. To a young boy, Beaver Creek might as well have been the mighty Mississippi and I fondly remember racing wooden boats, or simply, Popsicle sticks with my friends. No wonder I'm still delighted when I get to cross a stream during a trail run.

One cannot underestimate "the play factor" when running single-track trail. It is on these trails where you're more likely to hop over logs, bound on top of big rocks, climb inclines on all fours, and yes, drench your feet while crossing streams. It is indeed running, but with a dash of grade school recess thrown in.

My dad took up running back in the late 60s when people looked at you as if you were crazy for doing such

a thing. He quit smoking, became a vegetarian, and started exercising all in one big swoop. His impetus for running was a book by Dr. Kenneth Cooper describing something called Aerobics, which had nothing to do with leg warmers, but rather, what we now call aerobic conditioning. Wearing street shoes, his early workouts consisted of walking only, but they eventually evolved into run/walks, and finally, with the acquisition of some kind of canvas sneaker, running. He wound up completing 16 marathons and years later, confessed he would have loved to have tried something called ultramarathons. They seemed so outrageous and dangerous in that era, when the act of running any kind of distance was considered weird and possibly unhealthy. Being the sole breadwinner of a family of four, he opted on the side of caution and curbed his intrigue for attempting a 50-miler. I have no doubt he would have been a good ultrarunner. He excelled at anything to which he applied himself.

My dad loved to do his weekend training runs at Brown Deer Park, which had a circular asphalt drive of something like two and a half miles. I accompanied him for runs on occasion, but chose to do the three-mile bridal path which circled on the outskirts of the park. Even then,

road running couldn't hold my interest. I remember giving him the business because he ran eight-minute miles. It seemed kind of cute, a guy his age, grinding out miles at that snail-like

pace. It's amazing how a few decades can change your perspective on things! I train harder, have more experience, and am mentally tougher than I was when I was seventeen, but if the young me and the current me were to race, the result would be laughably humiliating. Damn young legs! Damn lean, young bodies!

Following high school, I ran a little bit here and there when the urge struck me, but nothing of significance. I soon stopped running altogether and it wasn't until the fall of 1996, at the age of 41, that I was again bitten by the running bug. I guess it was my version of a mid-life crisis.

Single-Track Trail

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(above) Entering "The Needles" on the Chesler Park trail in Canyonlands National Park.

(above) The little-known ridge trail along the Cal-Sag Channel in Chicago's Palos area Forest Preserves.

Ahhh, single-track trail. It seduces you, draws you in, draws you close, and once you're on the trail you're compelled to follow it, anticipating it's constant surprises no matter how many times you may have traversed it before. A freshly fallen tree, an encounter with wildlife, the first blossom in Spring, the first snowfall--a trail constantly evolves. All trails have good things to offer, but it's on the single-track where the real drama lies. Off the beaten path. It's on the single-track where the secrets of the forest can be found. The stone arch obscured by trees, the elusive fox drinking from a stream. It's on the single-track where I find myself literally screaming with joy as I thunder down a winding descent. It's on the single-track where I stop in my tracks as I encounter a deer watching me from no more than ten yards away. She doesn't move, as many of the deer in the Chicago area show little fear of humans. I stop and we gaze at each other in silence for a solid minute. We are, in that suspended, elongated moment, not Man and Beast, but simply two of Nature's creatures. Equals passing by. It's on single-track where I've come upon sights so stunningly beautiful and awesome that my knees have literally buckled and tears have burst from eyes with excitement and disbelief.

When I'm driving, I crane my head every time I see a trail leading away from the road. It's a reflex action. Where does THIS trail go? And whenever I pass a familiar trail head, I wave to it (literally) and smile. It is like waving to a good friend. So many fond memories from the hours spent on that particular trail over the years, even when laboring in the late stage of a long training run. You develop relationships with your regular trails--you learn their terrain, their surfaces, their particular smells, their challenges, their visual delights, and as you run them, you become one with them. They have been an integral part of your highs and lows and you have shared the heat and the cold and the rain. There are days when you conquer the terrain, and others, when it humbles you, but always, always, there is an intensity out there--an intensity not just through physical exertion alone but exertion in such splendid, stimulating surroundings. Pure sensory fulfillment. Immersed in the moment, I'm sometimes conscious of my footsteps as I navigate the uneven terrain. I love the sound of my footsteps, of my breathing, of the liquid sloshing in my water bottles, the creaking of my hydration belt, the sound of silence--yes, even in Chicagoland!--when I stop in my tracks in a remote part of the Palos Forest Preserves or Wisconsin's Ice Age Trail. This is why I smile and wave--the memories are colorful and vivid and I quiver with anticipation of the next adventure.