Headlands Hundred: August 11-12, 2007 Attention, ultrarunners. I know you are into pain and desperately seeking thrills, so I’m going to make your day when I tell you about the Headlands Hundred, which runs out of Sausalito, California and covers some of the most exquisitely painful territory on earth. Naturally, it’s spectacularly beautiful, too. Earlier this year, I was looking for a Western States qualifier and also longing to do an inaugural ultra. I’d run two races in the Marin area (Double Dipsea and Angel Island) a couple of years ago, so when R.D.s, Wendell and Sarah made their announcement about the new Headlands Hundred, I jumped on board. But hold on there, little pony, not so fast. Turns out you have to qualify to run this one, and as I didn’t exactly have the pre-req, I had to offer an equivalent and beg for mercy. The R.D.s graciously relented and--innocent me--I proceeded to plan as if I knew what I was doing. I guess runners are like most people. They look for something new to do and then start training based on what they’ve done in the past. No matter. Regardless of what I’d done, the fact of the matter is, I did the bulk of my training for this race on flat, flat, flat. Other than looking forward to enjoying the scenery, mountains didn’t even enter into my thinking. For one thing, we don’t have any here in Montreal. For another, my training plan was dictated by my travel schedule and there wasn’t a heck of a lot of climbing in it. But I didn’t let it worry me; I wasn’t smart enough for that. I managed to concoct an unorthodox and irrelevant (but sexy) training plan anyway, along these lines: * Tybee Island Marathon (February 3 ) * Paris/Boston Marathons (April 15 and 16) * 38 mile Birthday Run with Markus and Barry (May 31) * Mt. Algonquin Summit Hike, Adirondacks, 3000 feet (June 9) * Montreal Fat Ass: Quest for the Summit 100K (June 17) * Ocean Park Training Run-26 miles (July 22) * Ocean Park 5K (July 27 ) * Ste. Anne de Bellevue Training Run- 21 miles (July 29) Meanwhile, just to spice things up, I agreed to share the details of this project with The (Montreal) Gazette--one of our city's major newspapers--whose staff seemed interested in my story. Freelancer Alyson Grant, not only produced a couple of extensive features leading up to the race, but also planned to provide online coverage of my run, and she agreed to crew for me throughout the race. Talk about endurance. (Talk about pressure.) So let’s just say that the stakes were fairly high when I rolled into San Francisco about a week before the race began. I was into a hard taper by then and had nowhere to put my pent-up energy, even as the pressure mounted. Al and I toured local landmarks and coffee shops, enjoying ourselves with relative abandon until it was time to focus on the race. More bad news: in addition to my non-specific training runs, I chose to violate other cardinal rules of ultra racing. For one thing, I decided to tape my feet for this race, never having done it before. I know, I know. But I had to do it because I couldn’t face the possibility of growing pancake-sized blisters on the soles of my feet again as I had done in Vermont a few years ago. For another thing, I was using some untested pieces of clothing—like socks. I know, I know. I won’t even bother to explain that one. Luckily, the almost predictable complications did not emerge. And thank God. I had enough to worry about once I got a glimpse of the trails. Just after I finished taping my feet and fell into bed (late) the night before the race, I felt a suspicious irritation under the little toe on my left foot. On closer inspection, I found a horizontal tear across the bottom of the toe. It looked and felt something like athlete’s foot. Say, what? I never get that. Nevertheless, I could feel it pulsing already, and I wasn’t even running. That, and the sudden realization that I had just taped my feet for the very first time and could not undo it, sent me into the twilight zone where I stayed most of the night, uninterrupted by sleep. In fact, I don’t remember sleeping at all, but Al claims I was out for a bit—perhaps an hour or so. In any case, I got up—no need for the three alarms--feeling like I had a hangover. We quickly got ready and headed over to Rodeo Beach, having staked it out earlier in the week. By the time I got to the starting line, I had heard enough rumblings about the course to put a jolt of fear in my stomach. I was uncharacteristically subdued as we started moving onto the beach and up the first trail into the hills. Al and pacer, Jeff, (more of him later) waved me off, and the 41 of us finally got going. The race began normally enough, runners chatting in low tones as we moved through the miles under overcast skies and cool temperatures. Gradually, the chatter increased, as did the pace, and by the time we arrived at the first aid station eight and a half miles later, we were all prancing around and cutting up. It was the last time I was to think the unthinkable: “Am I really going to do this?” By then, I had hooked up with a young runner, Janet, and a few others, including Bill, who cheerfully explained that we were all of one family, born with the “excessive” gene. We laughed when he said it, but by the end of the run, we got it. The course consists of one 50 mile loop out of Rodeo Beach followed by two 25 mile loops, ending at Rodeo. After those first eight miles, things got a lot better in the pit of my stomach. I stopped thinking so much about the stuff I couldn’t control and started enjoying the scenery. The weather was that amazing San Francisco “yes/no” variety: not hot, not cold--just delicious air. Perfection. The early morning grey skies were a big help in keeping me comfortable, especially as we started climbing. And climb we did. By the time I reached the Muir Beach aid station at mile seventeen, we had gained 1800 feet of elevation and come back down 1600. Once that was done, we immediately surged up another 1100 feet over five miles (dropping 1340 on the way down) and then went back up again for 1500 feet over five. Oh. So that’s how it was going to be. At this point, runners were speculating about what the hardest stretch would be. Surely, it would be Muir Beach to Pantoll (miles 17-22), a section that took us through the notoriously difficult Dipsea Trail (hint: one of its landmarks is called Cardiac Hill). And yes, that was very hard. But then we were faced with a long stretch out to Bolinas Ridge in full sun, on tiny track tacked to the side of the wheat colored hills. The views of the sand and surf below were breathtaking, and the sight of the entire stretch of Stinson Beach over the sheer drop below added to the thrill. But the running was tough. It was on one of these cliff-hugging trails that a runner approaching from the opposite direction (obviously a contender) stopped near me looking mighty sick. He said his stomach was in revolt and he was out of Rolaids--did I have any? I dug into my overstuffed waist pack and got them out. He took them, thanked me with a groan, and was gone. I continued to make my way to the Ridge as the heat intensified. Finally, I arrived at the aid station and found Al and the others in a shady spot under the trees. I was running on empty and this looked like paradise. Al quickly jumped into action, offering me food, drink, anything I wanted. But I didn’t have a lot of time to take advantage of the service. I quickly refueled and then headed back out into the sun again. The thought of repeating the journey to Pantoll was discouraging and enticing at the same time. Having just run it, I knew precisely how rough the trip would be. But once done, surely the hardest part would be over. Moreover, I’d have thirty-five miles under my belt and a good crack at making the 9:00 p.m. cutoff. I started running at a fairly good clip and found that instead of suffering, I was actually starting to feel better. So typical of the long run: it goes on forever, but nothing lasts. I picked up the pace again and felt the joy of the run. Joy or not, I was mighty glad to arrive at Pantoll and was in pretty high spirits as I set out for Rodeo Beach, via Muir Beach and Tennessee Valley. Little did I know how loaded those last two words were: Tennessee Valley. And as for my high spirits, well, they didn’t last. It was late afternoon and I began what felt like one of the most taxing climbs of the race. As I approached the start of the T.V. ascent from the floor of the trail (reached via a rather pernicious switchback) I was already wondering about the toll this section had taken on my quads. But I quickly forgot about all that as I started up the next climb (1300 feet over five miles). This was true hiking territory and indeed, I passed several day trippers. It’s the kind of trail where you’re always seeing the top just ahead, only to find there’s more, always more, and as hard as you hike/run, it’s not enough. One of the day-hikers wanted to know how far we were going. He was doing two and a half hours, a decent enough trek. But when I told him our two and a half hours were buried inside of a hundred miles, he gasped in disbelief. We parted ways at the summit of this stretch; he was done and we were just warming up. Then it was down, down, down to Rodeo Beach again, in search of dinner and Jeff, who would finally join me. Although I hadn’t trained on real hills, I have some natural strength on the ups. But the downs are a different matter entirely. I was feeling sore with every step and I had to pick my way slowly down to the beach. Somehow I managed to land there in good time, an hour an a half before the cutoff. By then, I was buoyant again, cheered at the thought of taking a break with Jeff and Al. And it was so good to see them. I also knew I’d done fifty miles and would somehow have to find the gas to do fifty more. While slurping down chicken soup and anything else I could find, I felt cold air moving in. The gusting winds were fierce, relentless and the temperature was dropping fast. I needed to change clothes before we started the first 25 mile loop. Jeff, who’d seemed thrilled to see me at first, focused soon enough, and began shooing me out of the aid station. No time to linger, and the pacer knows it better than anyone. A word about Jeff. I met him on the PCTR message board a few short weeks before my arrival and he saved this race for me. He knew the trails cold and was only thrown off the scent once--in the fog--and he still managed to keep us on the course. No extra miles! Although this was his first pacing assignment, he was brilliant at it because he understood completely that there was only one thing that mattered: making sure I finished. His balancing act consisted of managing me (with whip and warmth), as well as navigating the course and attending to his own physical needs. He was with me for fifty demanding miles, after all. And he was pure “pro” all the way. As we headed to the beach and up the trail again, night was all but installed. I could no longer see the rough changes in the ground ahead of me, despite the fancy new headlight I’d brought for just this purpose. The light probably would have worked well in the flat forest of my last race, but here on sliding gravel and root-worn trails, it wasn’t good enough. Once again, I saw the elite runners with their body lamps and vowed I would own them for my next hundred miler. I slowed to a hike and there were times when Jeff claimed I wasn’t even doing much of that. But I took it all in stride, knowing that I would do whatever I had to. At least that was my thinking at mile 55. Although the wind died down as we moved deeper into the trail, new issues emerged. Having tackled the challenging Tennessee Valley climbs twice already, we began the third round, but this time in the dark. The higher we climbed, the foggier it got, until I was just as blind looking up as I was peering down. If the fog wasn’t rolling in, then the clouds were. Watching them shift from one side of a hilltop to another was a first for me, and if it hadn’t interfered with forward movement, I might have lingered with them awhile. I was in another world. Up, up, up, all night long. I could not see it, but I could feel it. The pace had settled into fast hike or slow hike, depending on the slope. Finally, we would manage to hit a summit, and on one of these we could see the stars abundantly scattered across the sky. Why do I do 100s? This is why: incomparable beauty, only accessible on a trip in a dream state. But the dream often verges on nightmare when you get to the miles 60-80. (After that, you grit your teeth and dig in for the long haul. You’d have to shoot me to get me off the course after mile 90. Of course, the deadlines are so strict that the cutoff police would, in all likelihood, be glad to oblige.) All of these miles were done overnight and there were times when I thought I was hallucinating because I saw and “felt” shady bowers hanging just over my head, creating a kind of “trail tunnel” effect. Jeff was in fine form as he checked his watch relentlessly and warned me that we were losing time. It was true. I was a full hour behind my projected pace and I was in danger of missing the cutoff. Of all the things that scare me about 100s, DNFs are the worst. And yet, they are an integral part of the ultra experience because there are no guarantees with 100s—for anybody. There are an infinite number of ways to lose the finish, and of those, missing the cutoff has got to be the cruelest. Jeff had a way with words, so when he issued warnings, he had my complete attention. If up was tough, down was worse. By the time I entered T.V. for the very last time, my quads were screaming louder than birds with bread on the beach. Because of the pitch of the descents and the loose gravel covering them, I had to keep putting on the breaks, which meant the quads were constantly on call. This made re-starting the pace at anything faster than a limp problematic. Nevertheless, as I approached mile 96, I could see a photographer snapping pictures of me from a short distance away and I was determined to run into him. I forced myself to run hard—and this, on the nasty entry into T.V. I leapt across the rocks as if I had only just begun because I was damned if I was going to limp into the last aid station. It was a huge effort; even Jeff looked at me in shock and instantly promised me extra time at the food table. Well, now it can be told. This was the moment when Al made her mark as the world’s greatest crew: without a word from me, without a hint, she’d brought bags of ice for me to place on my aching legs. It was bliss. No matter about the missing rice, never mind about falling asleep; I don’t want to hear even a crack about her driving—the ice alone sealed Al’s place in crew heaven. Star quality, pure and simple. Meanwhile, the little blisters that were growing on the un-taped spots started to blow up into menacing little balloons that eventually ripped away at my feet and turned them into “hamburger”. But this, and the throbbing quads, seemed trivial in the face of my all but certain prospect of finishing in time. A small group or workers cheered loudly as I entered Tennessee Valley and Al look ridiculously happy. The photographer was smiling too, as he snapped away. The peerless Jeff, actually asked permission to accompany me to he finish, saying he knew I could do it alone but wanted to come along. I howled in disbelief and begged him to come with me. And so, for the last time, we turned toward the trail and headed—up. As climbing gone wild was the defining characteristic of Headlands, why should I be surprised at this last laugh on us? But now it was full daylight and the magnitude of the difficulty was all the greater because I could see it while I was doing it. I stripped down to my singlet, dropping everything but the waist pack, so I could walk and run free. As we approached the top after ascending 820 feet, I found out what those “shady bowers” really were when I saw columns of bushes forming a path on part of the trail. There was nothing overhead, but the bushy enclosure had created the tunnel effect. By this time, we were out in the exposed sun again and I was completely unprotected from it. Still, there were only two miles between me and ‘it” so we pushed on. The final descent (1060 feet) put the hammer down on my blistered feet and burning quads, and also paved the way for the worst injury I was to sustain in the entire event—a serious sunburn to my lips, which later got infected and took an exceedingly painful week to heal. “Barb, how is it possible that you could run 100 miles and take the worst hit in your mouth?” I don’t think I really want to pursue that. Somewhere around a mile 99, I could see the small “people dots” milling around the finish line far below and I ached to be there. Finally, Jeff and I reached the bottom and I got to do what I love to do—sprint to the finish—this time, with Jeff in tow. As I blasted across the line, the troops were cheering wildly, cameras were clicking, and I was caught in a round of hugs that felt for all the world like the best moment of my running life. With a finishing time of 30:36:05, I had done what I had set out to do, but in retrospect, I am somewhat shocked that I did. Not that I ever doubted my commitment, my efforts (misguided as they were), or my determination. Moreover, the support I had was nothing short of superb. But this course was something else. It made me stretch far beyond anything I’d ever tried. I guess I’m shocked because I didn’t even have the imagination to conjure up its impossibility. And yet, somehow I am on the other side of the Headlands Hundred, with my body and my dreams intact. Barbara Freedman (Montreal, Quebec) September, 2007