First of all, some of you may be asking yourselves, what the hell is the Old Dominion 100k? Okay, so there is no such thing. There is an older, more traditionally known race of 100 miles that has been run every year since 1979. But what kind of crazy people run 100 miles? Not I, at least not this year. If you’re looking for an inspiring tale of triumph over adversity, go no further. But if you enjoy tales of suffering, failure, disappointment, etc., then you’re a sick person; you might enjoy this report. As always, the longer the event, the more long-winded the report, so this one is a doozy.
Preamble:
It’s all Oprah’s fault. That fat bitch ruined marathons. She cheapened the impressive effort that Pheidippides founded 2500 years ago. Now, every sorry jogger thinks they can go the distance. 26.2 is no longer a feat; it’s a commonality. Runners World recently featured an article about 100 milers becoming the new marathon. Chris McDougall’s Born to Run made it seem so simple. So, after a dozen marathons (some good, some bad, some just ugly), I decided to go after a bucket list target of getting a buckle.
The Old Dominion is a low-key event. Unlike most other 100 milers, it does not sell out months in advance or use a lottery for entry. It’s an honest, old-fashioned, no frills experience, managed for its entirety by the same family. No sponsors, no free t-shirts, no hoopla, no mercy.
I signed up on Tuesday for the Saturday race. This was the last possible day to register. When I emailed my completed application, I secretly hoped the race director would reject the entry, saying too late since I hadn’t yet paid (it’s such an old-fashioned race, you still have to mail your entry fee). Instead, Mr. Waldron (a.k.a. Ray) said sure, you’re in, just bring your check to the check-in on Friday.
I told very few people of my intention to run this race, because though I felt like I was in decent shape, I was not overly confident of my fitness for this new distance. If I failed, the fewer people who knew about it, the fewer times I’d have to admit my failure. The two people I told (outside of the guy at the local running store – he doesn’t count) were younger brother Keith (in the hopes that he might be able to be my pit crew), and wife Sai (in the hopes that she would not declare me missing or change the locks while I was gone for the weekend). Sai had previously forbidden me from running a 100 miler unless I bumped up my life insurance coverage; I still refuse to do so, because I fear for my life when I become worth more to her dead than alive. Nonetheless, I assured my beloved that while I might not be successful in this foray, I was confident that I would not die in the process. One other person learned of my plans on Friday, as I was sneaking out of the office early to drive to Woodstock, Virginia. In my rear-view mirror, I espied a beautiful Aston Martin right behind me. I figured it had to be either James Bond, or more likely, James Davis. Being so close to the home office, it was Mr. Davis, who pulled up beside me at the next traffic light. I waved, and hoped that would be the end of it, with the Owner of the company not asking why I was leaving so early, but moments later, my company cell phone was ringing, and I was engaged in friendly small talk that included a question of my weekend plans. Sadly, I am not a good liar, so I confessed my plan to try to run 100 miles. Jim was incredulous, and peppered me with questions of my training. He commented on the mountains around Woodstock, and though friendly as ever, managed to expose my unpreparedness for the next day. Okay, so now three people knew my plans. Keith and Sai know me well enough to be unsurprised when I do something stupid or fall on my face. I didn’t want to let the big boss down; now there was added pressure.
My Friday routine was completely disjointed, starting with my unusual morning run (trying to get as much separation between my last day of training and the next day of racing). I arrived at the office a little later than normal, and had an early meeting. Between the two, I skipped breakfast. Later, shortly before lunchtime, I was asked to participate in an interview at 12:30, which then caused me to skip lunch. I managed to scarf down a large piece of cake left in the break room (Congrats to someone, brunch to me), then hit the road for the roughly two hour drive to Woodstock. Note that it should be less than two hours under ideal conditions. Heading west on 66 on a Friday afternoon adds time. I checked into the hotel, and managed to arrive at the race check-in at 4:45 ahead of the 5:00 briefing, with stomach growling. Once there, I realized that I was not amidst the normal crowd of normal-looking people you typically see at normal distance events. These people were all lean, mean, hard-core runners! Oprah has not yet infected this sport (other than wannabes like me trying to infiltrate their ranks). At check-in, one of the race officials asked about my drop bags. I told her that they were back at the hotel, and that I figured I’d drop them race morning. No dice, she explained that they were loading the drop bags that night. So, I ran back to the hotel (literally right across the street – can’t beat that convenience), scrambled to assemble my gear (which was supposed to be my exciting Friday night entertainment), ran back, and dropped what I hoped was everything I might need. It was a half-assed, harried effort of someone who didn’t know what the hell they were doing. Is now a good time to blame Keith? If he hadn’t selfishly made plans to work on Saturday, he might have been able to crew for me, in which case I wouldn’t have had to rely on a drop bag! Really, the nerve of him, not leaving his weekend plans wide open for my last minute whimsy.
The race briefing included some cool event history (the founder, Mr. Waldron’s mother, started this event after witnessing firsthand the crazy guys running the Western States horse course, and thought, why not allow runners on our horse course too?), detailed course directions (in one ear and out the other – can you imagine how many turns there are in a hundred miles?), inspiring platitudes (71 years to the day of the invasion of Normandy – just think of what those soldiers went through that day to provide the freedom for us to do something stupid like run more or less for 24 hours), and introductions to the different people who graciously volunteered their time to help us through the race. My favorite takeaway was race director Ray’s comment that it is not a race against the competition, so much as you versus the course versus the clock. I was a hefty 145 pounds at the pre-race check-in. This would be double checked at a couple points along the course to make sure that my body wasn’t doing anything stupid (besides trying to run 100 miles).
Afterwards, I headed directly for the pizza shop across the street from the hotel for some much needed sustenance. I was invited to sit with some like-minded participants, who all clearly knew much more about the event than I did. They shared stories of previous misadventures, compared notes on other races, and spoke of different course sections and intersections which meant nothing to a newbie like me. My paltry three 50 milers and handful of 50Ks were sadly not in the same league. But they were very friendly, and the lasagna helped fill a big void in my big gut. I stopped at 7-11 afterwards for some water and orange juice, went back to the hotel, and was in bed by 9 for my 3 a.m. alarm.
The Run:
Upon awakening, I ate a power bar, drank my orange juice, loaded up everything (handheld water bottle with energy gels in the pouch, fanny pack with more gels, power bar, energy chews and an empty water bottle to be filled at an early aid station with Gatorade, running cap with first headlamp, spare flashlight in pocket, toilet paper). Everything was good to go, except for me. For some reason, I couldn’t go! Normally, my most regular bowel movements are the race-day shits, which start early and often on race morning, leading up to last minute dumps right before the gun goes off. This morning, nada, despite the mountain of lasagna I ate the night before. I’ve done my fair share of shitting in the woods, but I wanted to start out fresh and not have to head off trail too early in the race, especially while there would still be plenty of people around. Oh well. After one last failed attempt, I headed over to the start just as Mr. Waldron was wrapping up his pre-race prayer, and moments later, I was startled to hear them yell Go! Maybe I was still half asleep, because it took me a couple seconds to register that that was that, and to start my watch.
Around sixty of us started out with a lap around the outside of the fairgrounds track, then ran through the sleeping town of Woodstock. A few miles later, we started the first climb, up eleven or twelve switchbacks. I was somewhere around mid-pack I think, though in the dark, it was hard to say. I knew there were some fast people way in front of me, and still people behind. I tried to follow others’ leads in alternately slogging and walking up the steep portions. Still, at the first checkpoint, 7.18 miles in, my watch read 68 minutes and change, which meant that I was averaging under 10 minutes per mile, which was too fast. I told myself to slow down (but do I ever listen?). I had already drained my water bottle. The humidity was noticeable from the start.
After a few miles on a nice rolling road, we reached checkpoint #2. We were directed to continue up the road for around 75 yards, then turn left into the woods. Two guys in front of me missed the turn, so I did my good deed of the day in yelling for them to come back (the turn was marked with double ribbons, as Ray said it would be). The two guys were grateful not to have added too much extra; one of the pre-race stories was about a guy who ended up adding 18 miles to his run one year, but still finished in under the 28 hour cutoff. The trail was a little rocky, with enough leaves and lingering cover of darkness to make it somewhat treacherous. I turned my ankles a few times, but nothing serious, and stumbled a bit but never left my feet. Returning to the road, we spent the next 18 miles on rolling, farm-country lanes. Very bucolic, with either fog or low clouds enveloping us. I continued my mantra: slow down, don’t think, it’s not a race against others, just do your thing. This part of the run was easy. I debated how best to harness my energy; should I forcefully hold back, or just take what the course had to offer and roll with it? I tried a little of both.
At one point in this stretch, I started to run and talk with Megan. She had completed this race once before in under 21 hours, had done a bunch of other 100 milers, and had recently run 131 miles in 24 hours. Her resume shamed me, and reminded me that I had no business running with her at this stage of the race, so I backed off and watched her cruise away. Still, I passed 25 miles at around 4:17 elapsed time, which would work out to just over 17 hours overall if I maintained that pace (which would have been faster than last year’s winner). In other words, I was going too fast (and there were plenty of people well in front of me, so it wasn’t just me taking off like an idiot and passing the leaders, or anything of that sort).
Around mile 33 we entered another trail. This time, it was straight up. We wound our way back down a steep fire road, only to enter another trail, straight up again. This just seemed mean to me. Walking the long hills brought my overall pace back to reality. Then the downhill trail was even worse. It was rocky and steep, which meant lots of braking. Each time, I could sense my quads counting down the number of times they’d let me keep doing this to them, before they said no more. Around 42 miles in, I took my first piss of the day. I expected it to be some weird color because of my body telling me to stop, but it was actually normal. Still hadn’t gotten a chance to use my toilet paper though.
Shortly thereafter, we reached the next checkpoint that also featured our first weigh-in. After 43+ miles of running / hiking / sweating, the onsite doctor told me to step gingerly onto the scale, because bigger people like me sometimes cause it problems. Did she really just say that she was worried I would break her scale? My weight after all the aforementioned exertions: 145 pounds, same as the day before. I complained that if I couldn’t lose weight after running more than 40 miles, I guess I’m stuck with it.
We were given a relatively flat road for the next 4.5 miles. It should have been an opportunity to put it back into cruise control, but the legs were not feeling so great after the previous 10 mile rollercoaster. We checked in again, and were sent up a steep road for another 3.2 miles. They marked the 50 mile point along this way, which I hit at 2:06 p.m., or 10:06 after starting. So much for my 17 hour finish. So long to my 20 hour finish. So what, as long as I could run the next 50 miles in under 14 hours, I could claim a buckle. How hard could it be to manage 16 minute miles? A friendly runner named Dave with whom I’d had passing conversations over the earlier part of the day passed me again and complimented me on my new personal best with every step! 50 miles plus and counting.
The sun was beating down at this time, and the next stretch between stops was a grueling 5.65 miles. I had forgotten to load ice in my hat as I had done earlier, so the suffering worsened. I yo-yoed back and forth with a girl who seemed to be suffering too. When I would run, she would walk, and vice versa so that we would pass back and forth but never run together. I tried ticking off the seconds in my mind (run for the next 100 seconds, then 200, then 300, etc.), but every time I’d pass or be passed, words of encouragement would be exchanged, and I’d lose my count and have to start over. Despite my attempt to keep things positive, one of our last exchanges involved her repeating the word “pain” over and over again. I knew the feeling. Not sure how she fared after that.
I stopped to stretch in the middle of the road at one point, and while bent at the waist, another girl passed me looking worried. Just stretching! She was relieved to see that I was not vomiting. I passed a guy walking in who looked absolutely miserable. He said he was packing it in because the blisters on his feet were too brutal. I told him they could probably treat him at the next checkpoint, but he said enough was enough.
At the 57 mile aid station, a tall skinny guy foisted a handful of S-caps upon me after hearing my complaint of blown quads. The quads weren’t cramping, so I doubted the sodium pills would help, but he assured me they would. He said that since I’m a bigger guy, I could take two to start, then follow up with one per hour. Bigger guy? First the scale-break comment, now this? Maybe I should stick to fatass runs or look into the Clydesdale competitions. Anyway, I recognized this guy from the 2014 JFK 50, when I spent ~15 miles chasing him and a hot chick down the C&O towpath. By the time I caught up to him on the road, the hot chick had disappeared (maybe she was an illusion?).
It was hard to say if the S-caps would have any magical effect, because as soon as we left this aid station, we were sent straight up a steep ATV trail. Back to walking / power hiking. The few times when the trail would level off, I’d try to run a little, but the quads would not comply. This three mile stretch took me an hour. I was around 60 miles at 5 p.m. Some mental math told me that at this pace, I could not finish inside of 24 hours. I could probably still beat the 8 a.m. cutoff, but the idea of going another 15 hours did not appeal to me anymore. I resolved to reach the next aid station (where I had my drop bag waiting), and drop out.
The next 4.5 miles continued on the ATV trail, with lots of mud, puddles, rocks, and any other reason I can think of not to have been able to find any kind of flow. After an interminable period of walking alone, I tried this pathetic looking thing I termed my “blown-quad shuffle”. It was a cross between a slow walk, start of a jog, swinging arms for momentum, ugly mess of a gait that was supposed to make this final stretch of mine not take forever. It did not work. What did help pass this time, however, was a girl with phenomenal legs (I had seen those legs in the hot pink compression socks eons / hours ago on the switchbacks); she came up from behind to entertain herself watching my sorry shuffle, because she spent several minutes lingering in this position. Most other runners quickly passed me by, but not this one. So we got to talking.
Kristen is a badass runner who was having a bad day. After winning her first 100 miler earlier this year, she over-trained herself to injury and had to back off on distance. She still ran Boston, and had another marathon planned a week after Old Dominion in Idaho as part of her plans to complete a marathon in all 50 states (why else would anyone go to Idaho?). Pre-injury, she’s a 100+ miles per week kind of running freak (more than double my usual efforts). Since Kristen was already signed up for this event, she decided on the Monday before to honor the application and run despite her injury and recent lack of training. This was stupid, she admitted to me. When I told her that I had only signed up on Tuesday without proper training, she told me that I was even more stupid. Hard to argue, since I was on my way out of this attempt. She was committed to finish, courtesy of her strict crew chief who wouldn’t hear of her dropping. I put two and two together and asked if he happened to be the tall skinny guy who shoved S-caps at me and pushed me on six miles previously, and it was confirmed. Kristen also paced him at the previous JFK 50, so she was the hot chick I was chasing last November! We ran / walked / shuffled through the next three miles with her sharing tales of her running exploits (including a poorly planned but completed Grand Canyon rim to rim to rim) and discussion of the Boston Marathon qualifying being too easy for women (her argument, not mine).
At last! Aid Station #16, Little Fort, Mile 64.25. As we arrived, one of the aid station attendees ran over to me with my drop bag, which contained a couple of energy bars, a clean shirt, my headlamp, some more toilet paper, and not much else. Since there wasn’t an extra set of quads to replace my trashed ones, I officially called it a day at 6:26 p.m., 14:26 after starting. I had completed 103.4 kilometers, thus the Old Dominion 100k moniker atop this lengthy report. For what it’s worth, having run 37 miles Sunday through Friday, I did total 101 miles for the week (just couldn’t go the distance for the day); it’s not worth much, and surely not worth a buckle. In the battle between me and the course and the clock, the course won the day.
The After:
The Little Fort aid station people were awesome. They accepted my resignation, arranged transportation for me back to the start, and fed me. Meanwhile, Kristen’s tall skinny crew guy was MIA. She was a little angry, since he had her headlamp and was supposed to have the pleasure of popping her blisters. Since I wasn’t going to need it, I gave her my headlamp to use, and got the hell out of there.
I awoke in pain and looked at the clock at 3 a.m. At that time it hit me that I should have still been out on the course, plodding along towards a 4 a.m. finish. Instead, since having quit at 6:30, I had eaten a hamburger, 4 slices of pizza, and a three scoop sundae, taken a nice long shower, updated the family that I was still alive, watched some TV, and slept for hours, all the while other more intrepid troopers continued the good fight that night. More power to them; I went back to bed.
Sunday morning, I woke around 6:15 (too early), fought it for a bit, and finally gave up and got up. Another comforting shower, bags packed, car loaded, I limped across the street to the finish area to pick up my two headlamps (mine from the start of the race, and the one I lent to Kristen from the end of her race). It was around 7:45 a.m., and I heard commotion as people cheered in two guys finishing just in front of the 28 hour cutoff! They looked extremely relieved. I ran into Dave, who suffered through some nasty nausea for the last ten miles before finishing in 22+ hours. He asked if I was hanging around for the post-run breakfast, but I declined. Leave the celebratory meal for the finishers.
I went back to the hotel for their free breakfast. In the hotel, a tiny guy commented that he had the same Dirty German Endurance Fest shirt that I was wearing. He told me that he’s the guy who broke the course record for the fifty mile race in 2014, by pacing considerably faster for that distance than I was able to run for the 50k. I remembered his name from the results, and called him out as Amos Desjardins. I told him that I heard he was crushing it on the course the day before (based on what I had heard from my chauffeur home). Amos said that he was, up until he took a nasty spill on the ATV trail, landed on his water bottle, knocked the wind out of his sails, and fell into a ravine. Getting up wet, muddy, and winded, he fell a few more times on his way to third place overall. I told him I thought the ATV trail sucked too, and he seemed shocked to realize that I had run (I have to lose some weight if I want to fit it with this crowd!). I told him that I quit right after the ATV trail, which he said might have been a good idea for himself. Not sure who won, since I haven’t seen the official results yet, but I know Olivier (the flying Frenchman from Arlington) was surely in the mix. He’s lapped me a few times on the loop runs I’ve done. Karsten, the bearded Anton Krupicka look-alike was also racing. He smoked me at the Icy 8 in February as well as in Charlottesville in April. Those guys are good.
Anyway, I got home around 10:30 a.m., took a nap, then got back to work. 23 hours after ending my pursuit of the elusive buckle, I ran a painful 4 miles that was surprisingly not as bad as I thought it would be.
Post-Amble:
Did I learn my lesson? I am consistently competitive in the shorter road races or even up to 50k (top 10% usually), but can’t hold a candle to the ultra nuts in their longer events. Either I need to step up my training, work on specificity (more hills – train those quads), and lose some weight, or I need to stick to Oprah events. Come on, who doesn’t love Oprah?
Traipse Reports - Trips and Races 