Third time’s the charm? Definitely a debatable notion. My first JFK 50 Miler in November 2013 was really painful, but not painful enough to scare me away from doing it again in 2014. 2014 was worse, but not so bad that I didn’t sign up again in 2015. However, a couple weeks before embarking on another eight to nine hour effort, I recognized that my training was insufficient to handle the distance, and dropped out before starting. I’ve faked my way through plenty of shorter races, but fifty miles seemed like a bad idea. In 2016 I never recovered enough from Comrades to consider a fall ultra (that race really kicked my ass!), and 2017 was the first year of Teddy, which meant that I was not allowed out to train (that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it, despite what Sai may say).
But 2018 was a new year, and after June (past Teddy’s milestone first birthday party), I was running again regularly. July, August, September all went well, with consistent running every day, actually totaling some decent mileage. In early October I ran the Freedom’s Run Marathon, felt good, and decided that I was ready for another run at Kennedy’s race, the oldest and largest ultra in the USA (at a fraction of the size and age of Comrades, but not too far off in distance or price, and a much easier commute). If you can run 26.2 miles rather comfortably, what’s another 24? (Approximately five hours, as it turns out).
In the six weeks between the two efforts, I eased back in week one, still working out the knots from the first foray. Week two was back to average mileage, with week three culminating in a nice 19-mile long run, with a large section on the C&O canal, followed by some big hills on the roads back home (like a mini JFK, without the Appalachian Trail part). Week four was solid, around fifty miles, and week five was intended to be similar before a short taper in week six, culminating with the Saturday race. Where the wheels fell off was in week five, when my mileage went from eight miles on Sunday, seven on Monday, five on Tuesday, followed by a series of three-mile efforts in subsequent days. Why the drop-off? Mexican water. The all-inclusive resort was pretty, but they should really consider excluding some of the microbes that prevent gringos like me from running more than a mile at a time without running for the toilet.
At least the trip ended a week before the big race. I had seven days to recover from days of excess (too much food, too many cervezas, too few miles, and way too many trips to el bano). I felt fortunate to have had a good day on the return flight, thinking the problem was through, but then the next day, my stomach told me otherwise. And the day after that, same story. I had to alter my usual neighborhood runs to pass more home renovation projects, memorizing each potential portapot stop. You can take the gringo out of Mexico, but the stomach bug is staying with him. (I always thought that you drank the worm in tequila, not in tap water). Three days out from JFK, I seriously pondered how I could handle 50 miles, when I’d need to stop roughly twenty-five times. There are a lot of aid stations on the course, but not that many. Aside from the inconvenience of incontinence and its associated chafing, it kind of felt like I was being punched in the stomach repeatedly. Again, not a fun way to spend a day running. Most cases of Montezuma’s Revenge abate after about a week of that shit, and I was overdue to stop doing it. Enter Imodium, crossed fingers, and clenched sphincter, and I figured I’d give it a go.
3:45 a.m. alarm, warm shower to wake-up, pop tarts for breakfast, and an unpleasant 4:30 B.M. before heading out the door. Around 5:30, still a few miles out from the Boonsboro High School, B.M. #2 at a gas station. It’s hard to say if it was part of the Mexican souvenir or race-day shits, but I popped an Imodium, hopped back in the car, and continued to the race. Parking was tough, with roughly 900 runners this year. I circled the school, following lines of vehicles trying to find an open space before another random lot opened up for a couple dozen cars over by some distant tennis courts. I had just enough time to run in, pick up my number, run back to my car, drop off my stuff, run over to a random, lonely, dark portapot adjacent to the tennis courts (I fortunately had my headlamp in my car), and then head with the crowds for the half mile walk to the starting line for our 6:30 a.m. departure.
Without any fanfare or hoopla, a gunshot told us to go, and we headed up the road. The first couple of miles are easy, while the day is young, the legs are fresh, the road is dry and fast, even if it is steadily uphill. Still, a sprint out of the gate is ill-advised unless you’re one of the bad-asses aiming for winning the thing (I talked to a guy afterwards who said that the leaders took off at 5:30 / mile pace), so I felt okay hitting the first mile around nine minutes. After 2.5 miles of asphalt, we entered a short mile of trail, where we learned that the snow from two days before, while not accumulating much, remained as mush and mud that would be a persistent theme throughout much of the day. The morning temp was around mid-30s, which was a great running temperature, if not so great course conditions (shorts, tee shirt, arm sleeves, gloves and a baseball cap for me; the plan was to be able to peel off the sleeves or lose the gloves somewhere along the way, but the sun rarely came out once it came up, and I never warmed up too much).
Mile 3.5 to 5.5 is on another steep paved road before we get back on single-track Appalachian Trail for the next ten miles. According to the race website, we gained 1,172 feet in the first 5.5 miles, most of which is given back on the switchbacks between 14.5 and 15.5 miles. In between, the AT rolled up and down (no major climbs or descents), over roots and rocks and leaves, with plenty of slush to boot. I booted quite a bit of the wet stuff, slipping and sliding all over the place. Do you aim your feet for the wet, slippery rocks on the trail? Or do you avoid them, and take your chances in the steps beside them, where it might be stable ground, or you might sink down up to your ankle? My usual short stride was even shorter, and several times I misjudged a step, only to slip down the front of a rock before catching myself. (I never felt the need for gators before, but on this day, they would have been extremely helpful to keep the cold mud out of my shoes). Someone made a comment early on the trail that we had thirty five miles of mud ahead of us… I was just super excited to have reached the main trail section almost an hour into the race without having stopped for a bathroom break. It was my longest uninterrupted stretch in nearly two weeks!
A few foolhardy foot harriers hurried by me on the trail, but for the most part I held my own and picked up more than my fair share over the next nine miles. Pace was an afterthought. It was a steady battle of physics, between gravity and friction and momentum. I kept my body in motion, somehow enjoying the mud run that I thought was approaching its end at the C&O canal section. The mile of downhill switchbacks brought back my more cautious cadence, and a multitude of men passed me during this short, scary stretch. I hit the canal trail (race mile 15.5) at 2:47:25 (per the official results splits), meaning I was averaging close to 11 minutes per mile. But my butt never hit the ground (or a portapot), so I was happy.
The first flat canal mile had me passing back many of the guys who had passed me on the last treacherous stretch of the AT, as I started hitting around 8 minute miles for a few markers before my legs told me that that was not going to last for too long. By my rough mental math, I needed to clear the C&O by 1 p.m. to beat my initial goal of 8 hours for the race. Mind you, this goal was set before I’d seen how messy the trail was, and it was the same target I’d had for every other fifty miler I’d run, and never hit. The symmetry of an even 8 hour fifty is nothing like the two hour marathon or four minute mile, but maybe it’s my own white whale (the course record at JFK is 5:21, so my target of ~1.5 times longer is not that aggressive – It’s like a three hour marathon or a six minute mile, neither of which is out of the realm of possibilities for me, even if it’s been a few years since I’ve run that fast for 26.2). I needed a 3:43 canal marathon to give myself a 90 minute cushion for the last eight miles of hilly roads. 3:43 is 8.5 minutes per mile, so every 8 meant banked time! If only it was that easy.
I carried a new handheld water bottle that worked great (the insulated, ergonomic bottle is so much more comfortable than my old, cold big bottle). Only complaint with the new bottle is that the lid is easy to misalign, meaning that I spilled cold water on my gloves the first few times I stopped to refill it before figuring out how to slowly line it up to seal properly. I had a couple of packets of fruit snacks (my go-to sustenance from the previous marathon). The first snack pack went down ninety minutes in. An hour later, I picked up a gel at an aid station, and it was disgusting. An hour after that, I ate my other snack. Around this time, my stomach started to send a couple of mixed messages: 1) I was really hungry! 2) My Imodium was wearing off! My rumbling stomach simultaneously told me both things. I popped my last Imodium tablet, hoping that it would do the trick for the second (messier) problem, and then I went to town on the junk food on offer at the aid stations. First up, a handful of M&Ms. Then, a bunch of salty pretzels. Mmmm, cookies! Somewhere midrace I decided I needed something warmer, because having spent the last three hours with soaking wet, cold feet had me a little chilled. Chicken broth to the rescue! Instead of focusing on the clock, I went on a food run, snacking and snacking with a few miles in between each junk food feast.
The C&O canal section lacked the rocks and roots of the AT, but it retained its share of the snow, slush, mud and mush, such that every time my feet would regain sensation, I’d hit another puddle of mud or water or whatever, and I’d be numb again (though numb is not a bad way to be when you’re putting your feet through such a beating). My pace dropped off, despite my banked time, and I watched a few people pass me through the rough middle miles. Fortunately, my legs felt a lot better than what I’d remembered from my previous runs on this course (some near cramping, but no real cramping), and the usual thoughts of dropping out never entered my mind. I really did just chip away at the overall distance one aid station at a time, with a minute or two of walking out of each aid station while I ate some empty calories before I’d start up my slow jog again.
The last stretch of the race on the roads is a second wind (or third or fourth, but who’s counting?), changing up the scenery after an eternity on the C&O. I knew this from previous experience, recalling the elation of leaving the canal and running up a big (paved) hill for a change! Knowing that this was ahead of me, I just had to get to mile 41.8, and I’d be on easy street, or something like that. Miles 30 – 36 were tough, but each step got me closer to the anticipated relief of real roads.
When I hit the aid station at Mile 38.4, I refilled my water bottle and went for broke. Only three (and change) left on the canal trail? No problem. I hit the turnoff aid station, and didn’t stop, going straight for the road. My flat, muddy marathon ended up at a 4:10:28, getting me to eight miles to go at 1:30 p.m. (seven hours in). I’d like to say that I dropped the hammer and cruised in under an hour to hit my goal, and I could say that, but it would be a lie. Instead, I steadily ran it in, moving up in the field, reeling off people who looked like they were not enjoying the pounding of asphalt anywhere near as much as I was. I skipped the six mile to go aid station, still pushing forward to the finish. I skipped the four mile to go aid station, pulling for that finish line. How is it that the road was 80% uphill? Three miles to go, I passed a young guy (I’m now in that middle age group where more than half the competitors look like youngsters to me) who I encouraged to keep it up and finish strong. Son of a bitch, but he took the bait and ran with me, rather than simply falling behind. 1.3 miles from the finish, he pulled up to grab a coke at the aid station while I carried on, aiming for that impending end line. A minute later, he caught back up, shared his own encouragement with me, and proceeded to drop me and another guy in front of us on his way to that strong finish I had suggested miles before. If only I’d gone for coke instead of going for broke, maybe I could have gone with him.
I didn’t have a nice sprint to the finish, but I did run sub-9 miles for the last eight. I crossed the line at 8:13:30, which is an improvement over my previous personal best of 8:15:49, run five years earlier (in my younger days) on much drier trails. The winner ran 5:34, which is 13 minutes slower than the course record. Using the same 1.5 multiplier from earlier, I figure the conditions cost me an extra 19.5 minutes, which equates to beating eight hours by six whole minutes! (Wait, it doesn’t work that way?). $%@! I guess I’ll have to try again.
Traipse Reports - Trips and Races 