The Barkley Fall Classic 50K

Lazarus Lake, the architect of our misery

On September 17, I ran the Barkley Fall Classic. Mile for mile, it was the most difficult race I've ever done. It was awesome.

A Quick History Lesson

On April 4, 1968, James Earl Ray assassinated Martin Luther King Jr. in Memphis, TN. He was caught and sentenced to 99 years in Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary, a maximum security prison in the heart of the rugged mountains of Frozen Head State Park in Tennessee. In 1977, he escaped over the prison wall and fled into the steep brier infested wilderness. After 54 hours, he was found hiding under a pile of brush. He was cold, hungry, and exhausted. He had managed to go less than 8 miles in that time.

A cocky young ultrarunner named Gary Cantrell found Ray's feeble effort hilarious, and boasted that he could go 100 miles in that time. In the spring of 1984, he created the Barkley Marathons, a 60 hour 100 mile run through the heart of Frozen Head. Of the 800+ people who have attempted the Barkley since then, only 17 have finished, making it one of the most difficult endurance events on the planet. It is so difficult, in fact, that finishing a single 20 mile Barkley loop is considered a major accomplishment. Finishing 60 miles is considered a "Fun Run" and is the crowning accomplishment in some runners' careers. There are many peculiarities which make the Barkley unique and more difficult than other ultramarathons. For a more comprehensive description, I highly recommend watching The Barkley Marathons: The Race That Eats Its Young.

In 2014, Gary (who has since adopted the moniker Lazarus Lake or simply Laz) created the Barkley Fall Classic, along with the help of Steve Durbin, aka Durb. The BFC is a 50K race designed to give runners a taste of the big Barkley. Unlike its predecessor, the BFC course is marked and has aid stations at regular intervals. Like its predecessor, it contains some heinous climbs through some of the most inhospitable terrain on the planet. The prize for finishing is a Croix de Barque, pictured below. I earned one in 2015, and I was hoping to earn another this year.

Hard earned hardware

Speaking of Laz...

Most race directors try to develop a strong rapport with their runners, sending informative and friendly messages before race day. Laz, on the other hand, has a wry sense of humor and sends sarcastic, often dis-informative messages to the racers, and even engages in friendly pre-race heckling. Some examples:

"i will be surprised if more than 10% of the starters

can bring home the croix de barque.

if you get one of those babies,

it will mark you as a MAN among men

(we will be surprised if any women win one)"

and

"Notice: 

All Barkley Fall Classic Aid Station Fare is guaranteed to be totally inorganic. Our aid station offerings are the product of multiple levels of processing, and can not be traced to any living source, plant or animal. Artificial preservatives are not required, as no microorganisms have yet evolved that can survive on this stuff."

But, like the Oracle in The Matrix, he is not telling you the truth, nor is he necessarily telling you what he believes to be true. He is telling you exactly what you need to hear to succeed in his race. Or, occasionally, he is just amusing himself. I was raised on a steady diet of sarcasm, so I find Laz's brand of humor hilarious. His comments are sprinkled throughout this report for your (and mostly my own) amusement.

Laz and I bonding at the 2015 BFC. He refused to get closer than this because I was too sweaty and smelly.

Laz also has a funny way of measuring distances in his races. Most big Barkley runners will tell you that the 100 mile course is really more like 120-130 miles. A "Laz mile" tends to be a little farther than a statute mile and much more difficult. In a Laz race, you have to redefine your concept of how long a mile takes to run. To add to the confusion, no GPS's were allowed in the race (due to the use of private property), so runners had no way of knowing how far they had gone except at aid stations.

The Early Trails

After months of sacrificing our weekends for long trail runs and hill repeats, Alex and I arrived at Frozen Head State park just in time to hear the ceremonial conch shell being blown, signaling one hour until the start of the race. At precisely 7am, Laz lit his cigarette, and the race was on.

Waiting for the race to start, back when we were young and happy

The first mile of the course was on a paved roadway. Last year I had started conservatively and ended up behind a line of runners when we got to the narrow single track trails. This year, I decided to start more aggressively to get out in front. Unfortunately, it appeared that everyone else had the same strategy. By the time we reached the famed yellow gate, there were at least 100 runners ahead of me. I planted a kiss on the gate (at the request of Kat Bermudez, whose husband Jun ran the big Barkley this spring), and began my ascent on the Bird Mountain trail.

Conga line on the Bird Mountain Trail
Photo by David White

"The worst climbs are in the second half of the course. The importance of this information will become obvious, when you start doing the climbs in the first half."

The 1,500 foot climb up the Bird Mountain Trail was slow but fairly uneventful. I chatted with the other runners as we power hiked our way up the fourteen switchbacks to the ridge line. The descent, however, was slow and painful. I like to fly on the downhills, and there was a huge line of runners in front of me who were tip-toeing cautiously down the trail. Ultrarunners refer to this as being in a conga line. Unlike weddings, conga lines in races are not enjoyable, at least not for me. I started to get antsy. As The Dude would say, I could not abide.

I began passing runners two or three at a time whenever the trail was wide enough. Most of them were kind enough to step to the side of the trail when I asked to pass, but others were a bit more stubborn and forced me to go off-trail to get around them. By the time we reached the end of the descent, 1,500 vertical feet later, I had passed about twenty people. I paid for this improvement in the form of a twisted ankle and an epic faceplant half way down the mountain. Luckily, no serious damage was done, except to my ego.

The second climb and descent on the North Boundary Trail was more of the same. During the ascent, I spent a few minutes talking to Christian Griffith, who led a blind runner through half of a big Barkley loop earlier in the year (BAMF!). Christian would go on to finish the full 50K in 11:42 after, for reasons unknown to me, stripping down to just his compression shorts. Running through Frozen Head does strange things to people's minds. After 2 hours and 15 minutes of hard work, I finally reached the first aid station... at mile 7.6. No, that number is not a mistake. Yes, that's an average pace of about 17:45 per mile. And yes, fellow BFC runners, that mileage is accurate (check the Frozen Head Park map). That's just how much harder a "Laz mile" than a normal mile.

After quickly refilling my water bottles, I was back on the trail and heading toward The Garden Spot. I got my bib punched by Barkley Fun Run finisher Mike Dobies, who offered the following sage advice: "You know, you're supposed to use your map." However, I would eventually decide that the best use of the cloth map was mopping sweat off my forehead.

The next few miles were fairly runnable (by Barkley standards), and I made good time to the Tub Spring aid station at mile 12.4. I don't remember how much time had elapsed at this point, but let's just assume that it was a lot. On the other hand, I was steadily passing people on every flat or downhill section, so I figured I was doing well. The following miles were again fairly runnable, and we eventually came to a ridge with a steep descent on either side.

The Hard Parts

"there will be times that you look at what lies ahead and think.... "no way!"

"yes, way."

This is where the course gets interesting. And this is what separates the Barkley Fall Classic from other races.

There are three off-trail hills in the Barkley Fall Classic, all of which have creative names and follow power line cuts. The first of these is Testicle Spectacle. As the legend goes, Barkley legend Frozen Ed Furtaw was scouting the course with Laz when they stumbled upon a monstrous climb through briers and brush. In awe, Frozen Ed crossed himself and said "spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch." Laz misheard him and named the hill Testicle Spectacle, reasoning that a climb this severe would be a display of testicular fortitude.

Pictures don't really do justice to this hill, but here's an attempt.

Testicle Spectacle from near the top of the climb
Photo by David White

But that picture makes it look a little too peaceful. Here's one from down in the trenches.

Runners climbing/descending the Testicle

We started at the top of this hill, followed the power lines to the bottom, frantically bushwhacked through the woods to get to an aid station, and then did the whole thing in reverse. Some of the descents were so steep that people were sliding down on their butts. I attempted to ski down them by pointing my feet to the side and sliding down slowly. This seemed to work well. On the ensuing climb, many sections required us to crawl on all fours, grasping desperately at roots and briers growing on the dusty hillside. All told, this single hill took 90 minutes of time as well as most of the skin on my thighs. On the bright side, I ran into Alex shortly before the summit. She was in good spirits and was not too far behind me. We exchanged a gross sweaty kiss in the middle of the trail before going our separate ways.

Next up was Meth Lab Hill, which (as far as I know) does not actually have a meth lab on it. It just looks like it should. This was another brier strewn descent, but mercifully we did not have to climb back to the top. It did require more bushwhacking as well as my remaining skin, however.

After a few more quick miles, now running completely alone, I reached the aid station at the gates of the now defunct Brushy Mountain Prison. Here a wonderful volunteer offered me a couple of ice cubes to put under my hat and the most delicious sip Coke I've ever had. He also informed me that I was somewhere around 20-25th place. Cool!

Brushy Mountain State Penitentary, surrounded by the mountains of Frozen Head State Park
Photo by Carolynn Nauta

The course wound through the main prison building, which had been left to decay after it was shuttered in 2009. It seemed more like the setting of an 80's horror movie than a competitive trail race. But it was also a temporary reprieve from the scalding sun, so I wasn't about to complain. I followed the course markings through the building and into the back courtyard, where a ladder was propped against the against the exterior wall. My eyes lit up. We were going to escape from the prison! I climbed over and took a mental picture of my surroundings, disappointed that I hadn't brought a camera. Luckily, some friends of mine did.

Climbing the prison wall
Photo by Alex

The view from the prison wall
Photo by David White

It was here that I caught up to a group that included Barkley Fun Run finisher Byron Backer and British runner Tobias Sangster-Bullers. Byron appeared to be suffering but would go on to finish the 50K in 12:50. Tobias seemed cheerful, but he would choose not to continue after completing the marathon distance in 8:12. Together we navigated to the prison tunnel, a water filled tunnel which runs underneath the prison grounds and features heavily in the Barkley documentary. The tunnel was pitch black except for a pin prick of light at the far end. I walked slowly and deliberately, happy to have some time for my heart rate to settle down before the next climb.

Walking through the prison tunnel
Photo by David White

"the BFC is going to break you down like a shotgun."

If you told me to design the least runnable mile of terrain I could imagine, I would show you a picture of Rat Jaw. Speaking of which, here's a picture of Rat Jaw.

See the trail? Me neither.

The old Barkley course, when drawn on a map, resembled a rat's head. One of the more brutal climbs on the course, a 1.2 mile off-trail trek which ascended 1,700 feet, appeared to be the jaw of the rat. Hence the name. Rat Jaw is another power line cut which barrels uphill from the prison to the highest point in Frozen Head State Park. Last year the climb was infested with ten foot high saw briers (pictured above) which made forward progress impossibly slow. This year the briers were mowed by the power company, possibly in an act of pity. This had the unfortunate side effect of removing all shade, leaving us to bear the full brunt of the sun on what was now a 90 degree day.

The first couple feet of climbing give you some idea of what you're in for.

The first pitch of Rat Jaw
Photo by Mary Hosbrough

If this was in a climbing gym, it would be considered a low grade bouldering problem. If you make it to this point in the course, there are two things to consider. The bad news is that this is only a small fraction of the climbing involved in Rat Jaw. The good news is that some day, the sun will engulf the earth in a fiery inferno, and life as we know it will cease to exist. The point is that there is a definite end to the suffering.

Somewhere in the midst of the Rat
Photo by Carolynn Nauta

There are no words that can adequately convey the amount of suffering involved in scaling an  infinitely long, impossibly steep, brier strewn, hot as balls hellscape. Perhaps the best account comes from Mean Jean Baker's race report: "Rat Jaw became my new childbirth experience and horrifically reset my pain tolerance."

Finally reaching the top in the 2015 race

After many, many, many (MANY!) false summits, I finally reached the top of the climb. I had started from the prison with a group of three and I was again by myself, having slowly eked away from them over the course of the climb. I glanced at my wristwatch. It had taken 59 minutes to go 1.2 miles. In a race. Where I passed people. The climb was hard, I guess, is the point I'm trying to make.

Once at the top of the climb, I scaled the fire tower for another bib punch. I took a second to enjoy the view...

Oooh, aaahhh....
Photo by Alex

...before making my way back down to Tub Spring, where I voraciously gulped down several bottle fulls of water. After another 4 or 5 downhill miles, I got to Laz at the decision point. If I went straight and chose the marathon finish, would be done in ten minutes and have my head buried in a cooler full of ice shortly thereafter. This seemed tempting. If I turned left, I had a grueling 9+ mile 2,000 foot climb and descent ahead of me before I could cool off.

"if it was easy, what would be the point?"

Needless to say, I turned left.

One Final Push

After a quick sock change and a swig of Coke from my drop bag, I made the left turn to continue on to the 50K finish line. Laz's parting words were "the rest of the course is a gentle downhill." Ha!

The one redeeming quality of the Chimney Top Trail is that it's an actual trail, unlike the previous climbs on the course. Unfortunately, it is also a viciously steep and poorly maintained trail. With the help of another runner, I navigated the tricky beginning of the trail and then began the long march to the Chimney Top capstones.

I climbed steadily for about half an hour before reaching a descent, which I recognized from last year as the first of many false summits. After a few welcome minutes of downhill running, the trail resumed its ascent of Chimney Top Mountain. My legs were starting to get tired, but nothing was painful yet, so I pushed hard during this climb. I caught up to and passed Dewayne Satterfield, who is a Barkley Fun Run finisher and elite master's runner. In our brief encounter, he paid me one of the nicest compliments I have ever received during a race: "Go ahead. Your climbing pace is faster than mine." The months of hill repeats had finally paid off!

The sandstone caps at the peak of Chimney Top Mountain
Photo from outdoorknoxville.com

The final push to the summit was so steep that I had to grab trees for leverage. It was hard to believe that this was an actual trail! After an hour and fifteen minutes of climbing since the decision point, I finally reached the capstones. I broke into a feeble jog, but the trail was so rocky that my pace was barely faster than a walk. I slowly descended a few hundred feet before climbing again to a neighboring peak. I still had some life left in my legs, but the trail was just to technical to allow actual running.

Half an hour after reaching the capstones, I came to the Spicewood aid station, which marked the beginning of the long descent to the finish. I was finally done climbing! I reached the aid station at the same time as another runner and decided that I was going to beat him to the finish. Luckily for me, he stopped for a while to re-hydrate and chat with the lone volunteer, while I stopped just long enough to fill a water bottle.

I took off down the trail, looking to put an exclamation point on what I considered a successful day of running. My quads still felt good, so I pushed hard on the runnable terrain. After thirty minutes, I had lost all of the elevation that I had fought to gain over the preceding two hours. As I rounded a bend, Laz and the aid station came into view. A few spectators clapped as I emerged from the woods and hit the pavement for the final mile of the course.

With no other runners around and no pressing time goals, I was able to enjoy the final few minutes of the race and take in the scenery. It was still blisteringly hot, but I was almost done. As I came into the finish area, I spotted Alex. This meant that she had not made the time cutoff at the marathon mark, which I knew would be heartbreaking for her. Despite this, she smiled and cheered for me as I ran past her.

Coming into the finish line
Photo by Alex

The finish line was pretty subdued since not many runners had come in yet (first world problems...), but I was ecstatic to be done.

Finally done!
Photo by Misty Herron Wong

I crossed the finish line in 10:10:47, 12th place of 324 starters. I had finished 47 minutes faster than last year on a harder course and in worse conditions. I had also posted the sixth fastest time on the climb and descent of Chimney Top, meaning that I finished strong. My race was a success!

Epilogue

"thank you for sharing your great adventure with me.

the mixture of joy and pain in your faces,

as you flew past me on the homestretch

will inspire me forever."

The one downside to my race was that I could not share my victory with Alex. Having trained for months specifically for this race, she was inconsolable about not being able to finish the 50K. More devastatingly, she knew that she would have to come back to the BFC again to finally beat the course. However, she had overcome the heat, the briers, the harder course, and four wasp stings to improve her BFC time by more than two hours since last year. She is an inspiration, and she will continue to improve as she develops more experience.

We lounged around for an hour, icing ourselves down while we watched the other runners finish, until the sand flies finally drove us away. We then spent a night in a quaint little bed and breakfast before driving down to Great Smoky Mountain National Park to continue our Tennessee adventure.

Rat bites and a Croix de Barque: my Barkley souvenirs

So How Hard Is It?

It's hard to describe the difficulty of this course in words. It has to be experienced to be fully appreciated.

On one hand, most of the course is on established trails, which are not overly technical by east coast standards (west coast runners, who tend to have a different definition of "technical," might be in for a surprise though). In fact, there is almost no navigation required, unlike the big Barkley. On the other hand, the off trail segments are devastatingly slow. By my estimations, my pace on Testicle Spectacle and Rat Jaw were 45:00/mile and 49:00/mile respectively. And believe me, I was not dawdling on these climbs. Add to this the stress of thrashing around in saw briers, being stung by wasps, and the lack of aid stations, and you have one of the hardest 50K's around.

Consider the following fact: In 2013, Jason Lantz won the Vermont 100, one of the oldest and most prestigious trail ultras on the east coast. Over the course of that race, which cumulatively climbs 15,000 feet, he averaged 9:14/mile. At the Barkley Fall Classic, a race that is about one third the distance, he averaged 14:10/mile.

In a word, it's difficult.

On My First DNF

I'm going to post my last two races out of order because I'd rather not dwell on this one for too long. On 9/17, I ran the Barkley Fall Classic and had one of the best performances of my life. One week later, I entered the Mountain Madness 50K and dropped out of the race for the first time in my running career. The latter story will be the focus of this post.

Background

After a brutal Barkley race the prior weekend and three days of intense hiking in the Great Smoky Mountains, Alex and I signed up for Mountain Madness on a whim. We both had "credits" with NJ Trail Series from volunteering and making the podium in previous races. This allowed us to sign up for about $20 combined. Alex wisely chose the 7 miler, and I decided to use the 50K as my last long training run before Grindstone 100, which will be on 10/7.

The Race

The MoMa course is held on the beautiful single track trails of Ringwood State Park in NJ's Ramapo Mountains. The 50K has about 5,000 feet of elevation gain and is known for being rocky and technical. I decided that this would be excellent preparation for the technical trails that I would face during Grindstone, and I told myself that this would not be a "race" in the conventional sense, but rather a long easy effort to get in more mileage. The last thing I wanted to do was push too hard and injure myself two weeks before my 'A' race for the year.

We started promptly at 9am in perfect 60 degree weather. Although I'm usually a solitary runner, I quickly found myself behind a group of three guys about my age, some of whom had run the course before. This allowed me to put my head down and just focus on running, while leaving the tricky navigation up to them (mistake #1). We chatted as we effortlessly clicked off the first few miles of rocky trail. Unbeknownst to us at the time, we made a crucial navigation error only 2.3 miles into the race, where the course crosses over itself. Following an arrow that was not intended for us, we had turned right instead of going straight at an intersection (mistake #2).

The clusterfiasco that was my MoMa race

We followed this trail for a mile and a half, all of it in exactly the wrong direction. At mile 3.9, we came to a fork in the trail that we were not expecting. After a too-quick glance at the map and a bit of frantic discussion, we chose to go left and took off at a brisk pace (mistake #3). Half a mile later, we realized that we were approaching the finish line (27 miles too soon!) and turned back. We came back to the fork at mile 4.9 and decided that we should have gone right, although we were still on the wrong section of trail entirely (mistake #4). We followed this trail for another half mile until we saw an arrow that pointed back in the direction that we came from and realized that we were - at best - several miles off course.

At this point, the three other runners decided that their race was over and ran straight to the finish. I decided to continue on by myself, still not totally sure where I was on the course. I floundered around in the wilderness for a while, running way too fast on my tired legs with the intention of making up lost ground. By the time I figured out where I was, I had gone almost six miles off course. I arrived at the first aid station more than an hour behind my anticipated time.

Regardless, I wanted to finish the race. I was feeling strong, and the weather was perfect, now sunny and 70 degrees. Unfortunately, my body had other plans.

Half a mile from the aid station, still running hard to make up for lost time, I felt a familiar tightness in my right hamstring. It was the same little cluster of muscle fibers that had bothered me during, and after, the NJ marathon. I knew that I could run through this issue as long as I was cautious. Hell, I had run 7:15 miles at the end of that marathon without too much issue. As that thought went through my head, I tripped over a small rock and extended my right leg to catch myself. My hamstring seized, and what had been a small twinge of pain turned into a full on muscle pull. My race was over; I just didn't know it yet.

I gingerly jogged onward, but the hamstring complained. I tried stretching. I walked for a bit. I stretched again. Nothing worked. I could still run, but every step put me at risk of further injuring myself and jeopardizing my Grindstone 100 race. My Hardrock and Western States qualifier. My one chance this year to enter the lottery for the two most prestigious 100 mile races in the country. I knew what I had to do. I limped back to the aid station and informed the volunteers that I was dropping out. I had a long and solemn seven mile walk back to the finish line to think about what had just transpired.

A few 25K runners passed me as I got close to the finish, and I could hear the crowd cheering for them. I ducked behind a nearby building and sneaked into the finish area. I didn't want people cheering as I came in.

Some Perspective

I always took a lot of pride - maybe too much pride - in finishing every race that I started. Until this past weekend, I had run 6 marathons and 17 ultramarathons and never dropped out, despite fighting through heat, cold, rain, snow, and extreme fatigue. This stubbornness has even earned me a few victories in races where no other runner was willing to continue.

I always imagined that my first DNF (did not finish) would result from some horrific injury: a broken leg, being struck by lightning, getting mauled by a bear, etc. Instead, it was a small twinge of pain in the back of my leg and the specter of missing my goal race.

I suppose I made the mature decision to drop before hurting myself even worse and compromising months of training and preparation. I suppose it was only a matter of time before I had to withdraw from a race for one reason or another. It still stings. But what's done is done. My hamstring is healing, and I'm on track to start my big race in 10 days (gulp!). Alex, incidentally, had a great MoMa race and finished on the podium in third! Her success softened the blow from my epic failure.

A Final Analogy

This self serving post has gone on for way too long already, but I want to finish with a final thought.

Back before Alex and I became runners, we were indoor rock climbers. We would go to a rock gym 2-3 times a week and usually spend a couple hours top-roping and bouldering. We had very different approaches to climbing. Alex hated falling, and she would choose routes that she knew she could complete. I, on the other hand, had no qualms about flailing around on routes that were well above my ability level, falling repeatedly while Alex dutifully belayed. Often, I tried to convince her that she needed to fall more. Falling was a sign that you were pushing your limits during a climb. That you were challenging yourself and improving.

Since taking up running, our attitudes have switched somewhat. I have used conservative race strategies, and even avoided a few races altogether, to maximize my chances of finishing everything I started. Alex, on the other hand, has signed up for a few races that she knew would be tough, maybe even impossible, to finish.

So maybe I need to fall more.

Or maybe I should just stop overthinking these things and go for a run.

The Great New York 100 Mile Running Exposition

Running by the Unisphere around mile 55

The fifth running of the Great New York 100 Mile Running Exposition took place on June 18 of this year. The 2015 edition of TGNY had been my first 100 miler, and I was looking to build on my experience from the previous 12 months of running and hopefully come away with another top 10 finish. I had the usual suspects crewing and pacing me during the race: Alex, Dave, and Julie, with the new addition of ultrarunner Harry Uberti.

Some Pre-Race Drama

After a ludicrously early alarm clock and an hour of driving, we got to the starting line at Times Square at 4am. This left an hour for us to prepare before the start of the race.

I believe it was Confucius who said "One must start a race with a full heart and empty bowels." Not one to ignore running advice from an ancient Chinese philosopher, I made a bee-line for the McDonald's bathroom across the street, only to find that it was closed for repairs. No matter! I went down the block to the Starbucks. Surely a coffee-based business would open early and have a bathroom for its customers. Nope!

The next few stores we tried were also closed. A porta-John in a nearby construction zone turned out to be locked. Starting to feel the effects of my morning coffee (and probably some pre-race jitters) I broke into a nervous sweat and contemplated whether there was a discreet way of crapping on the sidewalk in the middle of Times Square.

Folks, let it be known that "The City That Never Sleeps" apparently stops pooping for a few hours each day.

After more than half an hour of searching, we finally found another McDonald's (which had strobe lights and was blasting techno music - ah, New York City!) with an open bathroom. I had to wait a few minutes for a man who - judging by the sounds he was making - was attempting to pass a whole cantaloupe. But at last, I had accomplished my first goal of the day.

I suppose at some point I should talk about the race.

The Race

TGNY is unique among urban ultras in that it is composed of a single massive loop around the perimeter of New York City, as opposed to many small loops. It is also held on open roads, sidewalks, bike paths, etc., so part of the adventure is dealing with traffic and pedestrians.

TGNY course map

My plan was to start out at a conservative 10:00/mile pace and try to maintain that pace as long as possible. I figured that I would slow down a bit in the second half of the race, but I wanted to avoid a complete meltdown like the one I had last year, where I walked the final 20 miles of the course.

We took off shortly after 5am from Times Square, heading north past Central Park, Morningside Park, and Grant's Tomb. The headliner of the race was ultra-phenom Mike Wardian, who is known for racing nearly every weekend of the year, and occasionally multiple times in the same weekend. On June 6-7, he had finished 4th in the highly competitive San Diego 100. He then ran the San Diego Rock 'n' Roll Half Marathon on the morning of June 8 in a time of 1:18:28 (5:59/mile average pace). So, yeah, I wasn't planning on winning this thing. I wished him luck at the starting line and figured I wouldn't seen him for the rest of the race. Spoiler alert: that's exactly what happened.

Course record holder Tommy Sung Pyon (aka Teaspoon) was sidelined with a lingering injury and local running stud Paul Denunzio was not able to start. This left the podium wide open for us regular runners. My running buddies Charlotte Dequeker and Ke'mani Smith were back this year. Charlotte had put in a solid year of running, finishing 10th woman at the North Face Bear Mountain 50 miler and third woman at the grueling Mt. Tammany 10. Ke'mani, after finishing TGNY 2015 on a torn quadriceps, had fully recovered and finished 5th at the Lake Waramaug 100K in April.

Milling around before the start of the race

The majority of the field quickly left me in the dust. I'm a very conservative runner in ultras, and my typical race strategy goes something like this: the first third of a race should feel really really ridiculously easy. So easy that you feel like you can run all day and never get tired. The middle third should be where it starts to feel like work, but you're still not pushing too hard. Your legs are a little tired, but not particularly painful. The last third of the race is where the gloves come off. Every step takes effort. There is very little "zoning out" or daydreaming because it takes all of your concentration to keep your body moving forward. Crying is acceptable.

I realized pretty quickly that the first third of this race was not going to feel ridiculously easy.  My mile splits were pretty much on target, but that magical run-all-day feeling was just not there. My legs didn't have that springy-ness that typically accompanies a two week taper and race day adrenaline, but instead felt sluggish and heavy. By the time I pulled into the mile 10 aid station, my right IT band was tightening up, and I new I was in for a long day.

Things Start to Heat Up!

No, literally. Racer Jürgen Englerth did some research and found that 2016 was the hottest TGNY in its five year history. Temperatures only peaked at 86 degrees, but that felt like a sauna after a relatively mild spring.

Coming into the mile 20 and already feeling the heat

Luckily, my crew was well prepared with bags of ice, which they stuffed into bandannas and tied around my neck at every aid station. Every time I saw them, it was like a pit stop at a Formula 1 race. Alex would hand me a towel or wet sponge to cool off, Julie would swap out my water bottles, Dave would fill a Dixie cup with berries and hand it off. Within 30 seconds, I was off. We were a well oiled machine.

The worst part of the course came at mile 47 when the course followed the Joe Michaels Health Walk. I don't know who Joe Michaels was, but he must have been a real jerk, because his "health walk" is a 2.5 mile stretch of shadeless sun-scorched asphalt which follows the Cross Island Parkway. This was a serious low point for me. My ice melted quickly in the blistering heat. The asphalt pathway absorbed and re-radiated the sun's heat at me from below. The health walk seemed endless.

The Perks of Being Insane

Luckily, my subconscious has this fun habit of playing music while I run. Sometimes the songs are fun and motivating. I'll rock out to Black Keys, Cold War Kids, or Band of Horses on long training runs. What did my subconscious have in store for me today? Probably something great to get me out of this funk, right?

Wrong.

Just Like Fire, by Pink.

Yes, that Pink. Yes, I clearly have some questionable taste in music. I should probably take that top 40 station off my car's presets. If you haven't heard this song (and I don't honestly recommend that you listen to it), it has a wonderfully poetic refrain that goes like this:

We can get 'em runnin', runnin', runnin'

where the "in" in "runnin" is emphasized every time. There's also some stuff about fire and burning and whatnot, but my subconscious doesn't know those lyrics. So the following battle played out in my head while I ran.

Subconscious: We can get 'em runnin', runnin', runnin'

Conscious Me: Hey that's cool and all, but do you know any other lyrics? 

Subconscious: LOL nope! We can get 'em runnin', runnin', runnin'

This went on for several more hours, including a few hours that I spent with my pacers. I opted not to tell them that my subconscious mind was being microwaved in the heat and that it was getting revenge by driving the rest of my brain crazy.

Right then, back to the race!

The Race, Part 2

Shortly before the mile 50 aid station, I blatantly disregarded a course marking and ended up running an extra quarter mile. In a race this long, a few minutes doesn't make much of a difference. Surely this momentary lapse would not come back to bite me in the ass!

New ice bandanna and a cold wet towel to wipe my face off. Nothing better in a hot race!

Reaching the half way point was simultaneously a mental boost and also a bit demoralizing. The heat was taking its toll on me despite the best efforts of my crew, and there was still a lot of running left to do. Thankfully, I picked up my first pacer, Julie, at mile 55. Our conversation helped pass the time and also kept Pink to a dull roar in the back of my mind.

Around this point, I learned that I was in fourth place, and only a few minutes behind Charlotte and another male runner. I passed the guy soon afterwards, and Julie and I worked on stalking Charlotte (sorry Charlotte, but it is a race after all!).

We caught sight of Charlotte and her pacer somewhere around mile 70 and, after exchanging pleasantries and a few encouraging words, we parted ways. I was now in second place with thirty miles left to run. Or thirty miles left to walk. Or crawl. Depending on how my legs felt like performing after 13+ hours of movement.

Shortly after leaving Charlotte, I picked up my second pacer, Harry. Harry and I had met at the Wildcat Ridge Romp the previous summer, where he was running his first ultra, and I was taking a crack at the 100K. Harry's wife Eileen had somehow gotten roped into crewing me while Alex and Julie were out on the course, and we've all been friends ever since.

We made good progress through Rockaway Beach, Jacob Riis Park, and across the Marine Parkway Bridge, and we passed the time easily by telling each other our life stories. My legs were starting to tighten up by this point though, and I was forced to walk for a few minutes after every aid station to loosen them back up. Nevertheless, most of my mile splits were in the 11:00-12:00 range.

Coming into Sheepshead Bay (mile 80) with Harry

We passed through Coney Island around 9pm, just as the last rays of twilight were disappearing. Some quick calculations told me that I was on pace for about a 1am (20 hour) finish time. Given the heat of the day, I was happy with this anticipated result. Shortly afterwards, Harry's pacing leg ended, and I picked up Alex for the final push to the finish.

Alex and I ran an endless (though very scenic) five mile stretch along the Belt Parkway Bike Path and underneath the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, followed by an endless (and not very scenic) 2.5 mile stretch of 4th Avenue in Brooklyn. Each block in this section was about 250 feet long, and each crosswalk  at the end of a block meant that we had to stop and look for traffic. This constant stopping and starting disrupted my rhythm and made my legs ache. But there were people hunting me, so there was no time to stop and pity myself.

At mile 96, we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and were treated to a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline. Of course, Alex had to point this out to me, because I have a habit of looking at the ground while I run.

Alex: Wow! This view is amazing! 

Me: (glancing around for the first time in 10 minutes) Holy crap! I should look up more often!

We crossed the bridge and had just over an hour to do the remaining four miles and finish sub-20. I was feeling pretty content with how my race had gone and was starting to wax poetic about how running is, like, a metaphor for life, or some silly shit like that.

But then, it happened.

That Thing That Happened

Three miles from the finish line, I heard an ominous pat pat pat of footsteps behind me. I had heard this many times throughout the day and it was always just a random runner who was doing his weekend run. Not this time though. A flash of yellow reflective material whirred by me, followed by a slightly less bright, slightly slower flash. It was the unmistakable sight of a runner and his pacer. I had just been stalked and then passed - as I like to say - with authority.

"Oh f*******ck me!" I shouted to no one in particular.

He was going too fast for me to keep up at this point. My legs were shot. I was perfectly content with a third place finish.

Then I had a sudden change of heart.

"I have to give him a run for his money," I said to Alex, as I took off.

A burst of adrenaline propelled me forward, and I was sprinting. My legs screamed, but somehow accepted the order that my brain had issued.

I had to keep that reflective yellow blur in my sights. I had to catch him. If he was going to take second place from me, he was damn well going to earn it.

My GPS showed that I briefly hit 6:57/mile as I chased the other runner through the streets of Manhattan. I had just run this section of the course in a training run, and I had a faint hope that I could use this knowledge to my benefit. I chose my street crossings carefully, trying to take the shortest possible path as we climbed north on Broadway.

I lost sight of him in Union Square Park when we took different routes around the crowd of people gathered there. I kept pushing. My breath was ragged. It felt like the final few miles of a 10K, not a 100 miler.

With one block to go, the finish line came into sight. I couldn't see the other runner, but I had to stop at a crosswalk and wait for traffic. I had visions of him running in from another direction while I waited, helpless.

Portrait of a frustrated runner

The light changed, and I sprinted the final feet to the finish line.

Happy to be done, but not sure about my placing

"Did I beat him?" I asked race director Phil McCarthy.

"Nope," he responded, and gestured to a seated finisher.

Mike Shaddow was his name. He had bested me by two minutes and twenty seconds. Roughly the amount of time I spent off course at mile fifty. Less time than it required for a mid-race bathroom break earlier in the day. One point four seconds per mile.

On the other hand, he had forced me to dig deeper that I've ever had to at that stage in a race. My last three miles were, by far, the fastest I ran in the entire race: 7:58, 8:36, and 9:11 (incuding stoppage time at crosswalks). He had run 7:30 for each of the last three miles to beat me. We had brought out the very best in each other.

We had run so well, in fact, that we both dropped our pacers. Alex came running in a few minutes later with Mike's pacer. She was distraught that she missed me finishing, particularly since she had done 85 fewer miles than I had. I couldn't have asked for a better pacer though.

"WTF was that, Ry?"
**shrug**

I celebrated by sitting the heck down and finally giving my legs a rest. My final finishing time was 19:39:50, with 50 mile splits of 9:31 and 10:09. I had finally run a decent second half in a 100 mile race.

Mike Wardian, who had finished more than three hours earlier, came sauntering over, and I tried to make conversation while I silently geeked out about talking to a famous ultrarunner.

Men's podium: Mike Wardian, Mike Shaddow, and yours truly

Charlotte finished shortly afterwards in 20:04:05. We are quickly developing a friendly rivalry, which will again be tested at the Grindstone 100 in October. Ke'mani finished in 24:39:53, a three hour improvement over his time from last year.

Post Race Thoughts

I've had a lot of time to digest my thoughts from this race, and I have to say that I'm proud of how I did. The fact that I was still able to run well at the end of a 100 miler shows that (a) my training is paying off and (b) my pacing and fueling strategy worked beautifully. Of course I wish that I had been able to hold onto second place, but that's just more fuel for my future training runs.

Next up on the schedule is the Barkley Fall Classic 50K on 9/17 and Grindstone 100 on 10/6. I'll try to get the race reports for those done a little more quickly!

The Good, the Bad, and the Runny

Holy cow, it's been a while since I updated this blog! Since we last met, I've done a smart thing, a dumb thing, and some running things:

1. Smart thing: I finally finished my PhD! After almost seven years of grad school, I defended my thesis and officially became Dr. RyRuns.
2. Dumb thing, part 1: I challenged Alex to race me up a downward-moving escalator the day before the NJ Marathon and Half Marathon (her A race for the spring).
3. Dumb thing, part 2: On the last step of the escalator, I gave her a playful push from behind and sent her sprawling out on the razor sharp steps. Her big toe took the brunt of the impact. Hilarity did not ensue (she's okay though).
4. Running things: It's been a busy couple of months - NJ Marathon (5/1), Mayapple 100K (5/21), Tough Mudder Philly (5/22), RVRR "Train"ing Run (6/4), Goat Butt 10K (6/12), TGNY 100 (6/18), and Revolutionary Run 10K (7/4).

Done!!

Here's a quick report on the highlights...

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NJ Marathon (5/1)

After a fitful 3 hours of sleep in a smoky motel room, Alex, Julie, Dave, and I arrived at Raceway Park around 6:30am. The weather was a mild 50 degrees and overcast - perfect running weather for someone like me. After my vicious escalator attack the previous night, Alex was nervous about running with a sore toe. On the other hand, I was feeling weighed down by my guilt. So in a way, we were both victims.

Anyway...

My goal for the race was 3:20 (7:38/mi), which would be a 5 minute PR and a 15 minute improvement over last years NJ Marathon time. After a mad dash from the porta potty line, I settled in behind a 1:40 half marathon pacer just before the national anthem began. At 7:30, the elite wave left, and two minutes later I crossed the starting line.

Miles 1-6: 7:30, 7:21, 7:38, 7:33, 7:27, 7:33

The first few miles of a marathon are always... interesting. After a two week taper, my legs were feeling fresh and my breathing was easy. However, my last two speed workouts had been terrible, and I began the race with lingering doubts about my ability to run "fast" miles. After a few miles, these thoughts began to subside and I got into a decent rhythm, running just ahead of the 1:40 pacer.

Miles 7-13: 7:31, 7:30, 7:24, 7:29, 7:27, 7:29, 7:33

I was in a pretty good groove in this section despite the fact that we seemed to be running directly into the wind the entire way. Somewhere in here, it began to rain, and I was glad to have my arm sleeves keeping me somewhat warm. I crossed the half way point in about 1:39, a minute ahead of schedule.

Miles 14-20: 7:45, 7:30, 7:30, 7:25, 7:23, 7:15, 7:22

The half marathon group peeled off and finished their race, leaving me to run by myself. My first solo mile was a bit slow as I attempted to set my own pace. Still feeling good, I regained my rhythm and rattled off a series of sub-7:30 miles. The rain and wind both became more intense, but I loved every minute of the cool weather. Mile 19 marked the end of the out-and-back section of the race, and we turned northward for the final stretch. As I neared mile 20, I was conscious of the fact that the final 10K of the marathon was historically difficult for me. I was anxious to see how my legs would respond to the dreaded "wall."

Miles 21-26: 7:21, 7:29, 7:14, 7:23, 7:13, 7:09

Once I hit mile 20 feeling strong, I decided to push the pace a bit. Now running with the wind. I opened up my stride and hammered out my fastest miles of the race. A few miles from the finish I felt my right hamstring starting to tighten up, and I decided not to increase my speed any further. A brief, but amusing internal dialogue went through my head:

"My legs hurt. Maybe I should slow down."

"Oh yeah? Well at least no one tripped you on an escalator, dumbass!"

"Touche."

Despite all this, mile 26 was my fastest mile of the day, and the last few tenths of a mile were under  a 7:00/mi pace. I crossed the finish line in 3:17:09 (7:31/mi) and 163rd out of 1,953 finishers.

Still feeling strong at the end of the race!

Thoughts: If I ever had any doubts that I'm a cold weather runner, this race sealed the deal. The temperature at the finish was 47 degrees with driving rain, and I felt fantastic. This was also my second consecutive marathon running negative splits, so I feel like I'm finally figuring out the distance. Most importantly of all, Alex's toe didn't bother her during the race, and she finished with a huge PR. Disaster averted! Julie and Dave also ran strong races despite the nasty weather. A good day all around.

Strava and official results.

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Mayapple 100K (5/21)

This was my first run as a PhD, so I felt like I needed to prove that my degree wasn't weighing me down. As the only finisher of the race last year, I also felt the need to defend my humble title (and amusingly enough, the NJ 100K trail champion title that came with it).

The 100K division was a small but experienced field. Aside from myself, there was Shawangunk Ridge Trail 70M course record holder Jason Berry, ultra veteran Joe Limone, obstacle course racer Billy Richards (who was running while carrying a full sized American flag), and the ever cheerful Roger Jones. In the pre-race briefing, the race director singled me out as the previous year's only finisher. While I was proud of the accomplishment, I didn't like the idea of having a target on my back for the rest of the day.

Milling around before the start while displaying my typical race-day intensity

The course consisted of three figure-8 loops of about 21 miles each. We would run through the start/finish area at the beginning and middle of each loop, meaning that I only had to carry 10 miles (about two hours) worth of food and water.

Loop 1: We set off at 6am in cool but extremely humid weather. The 2015 edition of Mayapple had featured 90 degree heat, which sapped my energy over the course of the day. I was hoping for a solid performance in the relatively mild weather this year. My expectations changed quickly as I had to scurry into the bushes not once, not twice, but three times in the first 15 miles to answer the call of nature.

My day was very literally starting out shitty.

Nevertheless, I finished the first 21-mile loop in 4:17 for an average pace of 12:16/mi. This loop also included a three minute intermission while I and several other runners couldn't find the course markings, which were either removed by vandals or were never put up in the first place (we didn't ask).

Crewed by my wonderful wife (who ran the 10 miler and made it back just in time to help me), I made quick work of the aid station and headed out for my second loop. Thankfully, my digestive issues subsided, and I found myself running alone with no idea what place I was in. Perfect! This allowed me to zone out and just enjoy the run for a bit.

Starting loop two by myself

Loop 2: The next 20 miles were fairly uneventful, and I remained blissfully unaware of my standing among the 100K competitors for the entirety of the loop. Running mostly alone, I was able to relax and enjoy the semi-technical single track and rolling hills of South Mountain Reservation. The weather was pleasantly cool, hovering in the mid-60's all day, and the sky was overcast. I finished the second loop in 4:12 (12:00/mi) still feeling strong. Now 2/3rds into the race, I asked Alex if she knew what place I was in. She wasn't sure (due to some "creative" tracking by the race organizers), but she had a sneaking suspicion that I was in first.

Loop 3: I had another quick turnaround at the aid station and headed out, determined to maintain my lead. My legs were starting to feel tired, but this was the part of ultrarunning that I loved. See, I'm not fast by any standard. But I have an incredible ability to suffer (thanks grad school!).

One by one I grinded out the remaining miles, forcing myself to run all but the steepest climbs and pushing the pace on the flats and descents. With a few miles left, I pushed the pace even harder, determined to get the very best from my tired legs. I crossed the finish line in first place for a total time of 12:51:31 (12:15/mi) and a 4:22 final loop (12:29/mi).

Posing with my second USATF medal

Thoughts: This was the strongest I have ever felt at the end of a 100K+ race, and a good indicator that my training was going well. Funny enough, it was also my third win out of three 100K's. That's right folks, I am undefeated at the 100 kilometer distance. Ha!

I tested my post-race recovery by running the Philly Tough Mudder with Alex and her family the next day. I hobbled a bit at the start as my muscles and joints warmed up, but ended up feeling pretty good all day - a good sign for my 100 miler in 4 weeks.

Strava and official results.

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The Other Races

RVRR "Train"ing Run: After two weeks of recovery, I ran a 34 mile "Train"ing Run with the Raritan Valley Road Runners, which followed the length of the Delaware-Raritan Canal Path from Trenton to New Brunswick. The goal of this event was take a bunch of runners of varying abilities and have them all finish the run together. Starting times for 34-mile pace groups were staggered with slower groups starting earlier than faster groups. Each pace group then formed a "train" which would stop at designated points along the path and pick up more runners.

I felt bold and signed up for the 8:30/mi pace group, which ended up being myself and one other runner. Neither of us knew the course very well, so we got off course and were almost immediately 5 minutes behind our scheduled arrival times at the "stations." We tried to make up for it my running 8:15-8:20 miles, but the added effort made me hit the wall hard. My last five miles were all around 10:00, and I learned a valuable lesson about pacing. On the other hand, the food and beer at the finish line were fantastic. So, all around, not a bad day!

Strava

Goat Butt: With a week left before TGNY100, I decided to get one last trail run in. Goat Butt was a 10 miler through the forests of Mendham, NJ. To be honest, the main reason I signed up was for the awesome shirt, designed by local ultrarunner Elaine Acosta.

I mean, how can you not sign up for this?

I pushed the pace hard on the first climb up a paved road before permanently losing the lead to Paul Denunzio (who would go on to win the race) as we left the road and followed a powerline cut. The course climbed continuously for the first three miles, and I wound up running in fourth, just a few steps behind the third place runner. Unfortunately, we took a 15(!!) minute detour on the wrong trail after missing a switchback (are you sensing a theme here?). In an ultra, this would be a small mistake. But in a race this short, there was no time to recover. I finished in 1:48, twenty-six minutes off the lead and three minutes behind 3rd place. Oh well.

Strava

TGNY100: Race report coming soon!

Revolutionary Run: My annual pilgrimage to Washington Crossing State Park to celebrate the birth of my country by wearing outrageously short American flag shorts.

Sky's out, thighs out!

This would likely be my only chance to race a 10K this year, so I wanted to make it count. I went out aggressively with a 6:34 first mile, but faded a bit with splits of 6:45, 6:51, 6:53, 7:00, and 6:55. I finished in 42:44, just 46 seconds faster than my previous best. Coming only two weeks after my hundred miler and having done no speed work this year, I'm pleased with the result.