Vermont 100 2003 Mike Bouscaren In the wee morn, about 20 hours after the start, a companion runner says, "Just think, the winner is already on his third dream by now." Others pick up, mentioning the shower, the meal, the warm bed, and finishing in daylight the same day. This is not for us, this is impossible for us, but we will finish as we can. Vermont's fifteenth running is my first 100 mile run. In the range of ultra runners from those just starting who hold much in awe, to the vets who think even a run write-up compromises the purity of experience, I'm moving from left to right. I can dream big and I dare to fail. In the hills around Woodstock on July 19th and 20th, I went into that dream and made it reality. Fulfilled and depleted, I want to share this with those also moving from left to right, because experience helps. And with those who elect not to run ultras, to remember that one person's view of extreme is another's of simple. "Chopsticks" is as challenging to me as Glenn Gould's Bach sonatas were to him. I ran the Miwok 100k in May as a training run, starting out slow and staying slow, finishing in 15 ½ hours (15 minute miles). There was some gas left in the tank. I figured if I ran the first 68 miles of Vermont at a 15.8 min per mile pace and the final 32 miles at a 17.8 min per mile pace, that would be 27.5 hours. So I set the over/under at 27.5 to 28 hours. You must have a game plan and it must be rehearsed and you have to stay with it, never going faster than planned unless you're close enough to the finish to burn energy saved to that point. Vermont has thirty-four aid stations, and I picked five for drop bags; mile 18, mile 44, mile 68, mile 84, and mile 90. The first four had a change of socks and shoes (foot care is as important as hydration, fuel, and electrolytes), and they all had energy drink mixed for my camelback, and other necessities to the point of redundancy. If you don't need it, you'll get it back after you finish, but if you don't have it, you might DNF because it wasn't there. A more experienced friend told me, "100 miles is easy, once you make it to mile 68 and your pacer." My friend John Dwyer had agreed to accompany me the last 32 miles. Formerly a 2:40 marathoner (my best was 3:40), John has a few dings from martial arts and hard use generally, and so has not been running in years. But he geared up for this, power-walking with a weight vest. I told him we'd probably walk most of the final piece anyway. From our many whitewater canoe adventures, I knew John would be resourceful if we had any trouble. Jim Hutchinson, race director, kindly agreed to show John and me most of the last 32 miles of the course a few weeks beforehand, and we power-walked that section the following day after a pleasant night camping at Ascutney State Park. Familiarity with the course proved a huge confidence builder. For many ultrarunners, the 100 mile run is proof of legitimacy. Not that 100 mile veterans don't respect those 100k and 50 mile runners, but I do recall at Rocky Raccoon when a century runner before the start said to us 50 milers, "So you're the folks going on the fun run?" We all know the rewards, the testing, the mind expansion, the thrill of the finish and the afterglow of accomplishment that ultrarunning provides, yet most will say the 100 yields proof of a mind's mettle beyond the ken of shorter distances. So there's pressure in anticipation of the first 100. There's a lot at stake. There's a lot invested and a lot to lose if you do not finish. It wouldn't be failure so much as a carried threat that if you did not try again and succeed, you might then have to look at it as failure. Who likes threats or do-overs? There's the night. Like most first timers, I'd not run through the night before. Sleep has been a nighttime staple all my life. I'd read about people getting verrry tired running through the night, people taking naps across the trail so the next runners along would trip over them and wake them up, runners who napped themselves out of the race altogether. Would I need sleep so much that I might fail? In the nights leading to the event, I lay in bed rehearsing; sleeplessness was my biggest concern, more so than the physical ability to finish. Yes, there really are fireworks and a piano man before the 4 a.m. start, theme from "Chariots of Fire" and all, to get the adrenaline flowing. The first few miles are dark, with uphill trails, before breaking onto the smooth packed dirt road that makes up 75% of the running surface. With first light I settle, check my time at Densmore Hill (mile 3.8) and see I'm on pace. The aid stations post the mileage but I keep a list taped to the water bottle I carry to ensure good pace monitoring. After mile 12 there's a road crossing and the Taftsville covered bridge. It's another New England shrine to me (like Tuckerman Ravine). I feel this is where I belong right now, in the country I'd crisscrossed so many times on ski, hiking, and canoe trips, seeing it differently, more intimately now. Closer towards Pomfret (mile 18) there's a delightful downhill - smooth wooded trail – still morning cool with sunlight reaching among the trees to fill open spaces I run through. Magic. John greets me at mile 18 with the drop bag. I change socks and shoes, shirt and shorts, add fuel, take sunglasses, and scoot (probably 12 minutes). My opinion on aid station strategy is know what you're going to do and execute efficiently, but don't worry about time. There's always time. What you don't want is to forget something that can put you in trouble just because you were in a rush. After Pomfret there's quite a bit of climbing (over the back of Suicide Six) on trails and a spectacular view to reward the effort approaching the top. Then quite a bit of down, mostly runnable. I had vowed to walk up ALL hills, and to run down as much as possible. Now it's getting hotter. The max temperature was mid 70's with intermittent cloud cover. For July we got a good break in the weather. Crossing over another shrine, Lincoln covered bridge (mile 36.1), I see kids playing in the water (oh how tempting), but know I must stick to the matter at hand. Here's a guy with ski poles going along merrily, seems to want to socialize. I had determined for the entire 100 miles to stay focused, to waste no extra energy nor allow distractions, and so went by with a simple hello. At Vondell Reservoir (mile 32.7) I saw my first drop, a guy with a knee problem. I suppose if one has an injury or feels iffy at all, chances are good he/she won't finish. I wonder why people feeling that way even start. They must feel compelled and fatalistic, a risky mix. I was on pace approaching Camp 10 Bear (mile 44.2), where the medical people weighed me (same 182 as pre-race weigh in), I changed again, added fuel, and took a bite of PB&J before going out at 3:30 p.m. About ½ mile along, here comes Jenny Capel heading towards mile 68.2, only 23 miles ahead of me! I do not indulge in this contrast as it could be demoralizing; I'm running my race, not anyone else's. Go Jenny! Somewhere not too far along there's a turn off to a smaller road marked "Agony Hill." Soon I'm in a rutted, muddy, boulder strewn, bug infested climb, so I slow to a manageable pace. You take what the day gives you, and there's always time. This passes soon enough. At Birmingham's (51.7) I figure I must've done the first 50 miles in about 13 hours. Back in the wooded trail, the persistent bowelly feeling I'd had since chugging a 350 calorie Boost nine hours ago needed attending to. Mosquitoes have a feast, but I come out feeling lighter. I'm tired and I think of John meeting me in about three hours at the second 10 Bear (mile 68.2). All the planning, buying new gear, the training he's put in to this; I cannot let him down. John served in the Marines. I was Navy, escaping Vietnam bullets. To help prepare for this run, I read about SEALS. LRRPS, Spec Ops and other men in 'Nam fighting the ultimate fight, deprived of sleep, all giving some, some giving it all for a cause they knew wasn't supported enough for them to win. My hardship here and now is but candlelight to those bonfires of energy and will. This much I can do. At Cox's (mile 60) there are quite a few people having a good time, barbecue going and liquor on the table. I take some ice and water, a pickle slice and a bite of grilled chicken, just for the taste, but spit it out in caution that it could spur nausea. On this point I had my best success ever combating nausea using crystallized ginger, in combination with Tums, Rolaids, and E-Load (in the day's heat). It's eight o'clock, and getting cooler. I can move a little faster now, and while I'd been getting behind pace a bit I start to make time back. 100k in 16 hours. At Brown School House (62.8) the volunteer cautions on approaching dark and the trail ahead. I have a flashlight but pick up the pace on this now uneven and gravelly trail to beat the dark as much as I can. Slower when dark. Back on the road now and it's dark but I'm lit and walking up the hill, thinking I should make mile 68.2 about 9:30 p.m. Now down and the welcoming lights of Camp 10 Bear. There's John looking good to go. I weigh in again (184, up 2), change, take a ½ cheese sandwich and the best chicken noodle soup ever. New shoes are a full size larger. I'd noticed my hands were swollen and surely my feet needed the extra room. Headlamp and fanny pack with extra clothes, chocolate covered espresso beans and Jolt caffeinated gum. We depart 10 Bear at 9:45. Now up an uneven trail in the woods, but it's familiar to us and we're in a cheery mood. Back on the road at the top of the hill and I suggest to John we try running the downslope. My body protests, so we go back to walking. No problem – our planned pace for this piece is 3 1/3 mph so walking will do. I eat the beans and chew four pieces of caffeine gum, with Juicy Fruit to taste – a good wad. I tell John I need to stop to empty pebbles from my shoes. A passing runner asks, "Everything O.K.?" I say I've collected all the pebbles from the road in my shoes and am pouring them out. He says thanks for taking them so others won't pick them up in their shoes. Such is the sense of nighttime thinking. We come upon a runner who has stopped to wait for us. He has been lost and says he's afraid of bears. He joins us. He's fidgety, moving his light all over and whistling. This disturbs the karma. As we reach Ashley (81.9), a volunteer asks, "What can I get you?" to which our new companion responds, "Coffee, please," sitting down in a chair as if it were a diner. This doesn't sit with me, so I say, "We'll meet you at Bills (83.4)." The guy bolts out of his chair and hurries to join us, coffee be damned. So I tell him bears are really shy creatures, not very large, and would run the other way if met by a human. Ever the prankster, John says, "Well they might be shy but my cousin saw one over in Plymouth that was nine feet tall. But it's really the wild boars out here you have to worry about at nighttime. They aren't shy and will come right after you." "John," I say, "do you know what you're doing?" Now we'll never lose "Mr. Karmalost." It's only 1½ miles, but from Ashley to Bill's is uphill on uneven terrain, and it seems longer. More Jolt gum. Bill's is a big station, with another weigh in (187, up 5 pounds), more world's best chicken noodle soup, and very helpful volunteers. Change of socks and new fuel for the camelback and we're out of there, somehow without our erstwhile companion. Maybe he's asking someone about the wild boars, I don't know. What I do know is I'm not sleepy, everything's working O.K. and my redoubtable pacer is laughing about our lost ursus-phobe. We're in fine shape as we hit a paved road stretch just before the long climb up Blood Hill. Because we'd done them before, Blood and Densmore Hills came under discussion: which was harder? We thought Densmore, but after completing them, Blood won out because while it may be shorter, it's a constant pitch while Densmore has breaks in it. Up, up, and more steeply up Blood we go. It's after 4 a.m. and I begin to worry about the pace. "Hey, John, let's try running the downhills for a while." This goes well, and by the time we reach Jenneville (mile 90), my legs have come back to life. As we fuel up, I tell John, "Let's put the hammer down. It's a quarter to five and we've got to hustle if we're going to beat 28 hours. I feel O.K. and I want to finish with nothing left, so let's use it up." We drop all non-essentials that we'd been carrying and run out of Jenneville. So we walk up but run down the hills as they roll under our feet. I've switched to grape/cranberry juice and it tastes great. I've got hot spots between the balls of my feet and stop to Vaseline them, which helps a little. There's always time, it's worth it. The new day's light also triggers diurnal body mechanisms, and we gain energy. We guess how long it will take to crest Densmore Hill as we begin up and forty minutes about does it. Now six miles to go and we're running downhill! We've made such good time from Jenneville that when we reach South Woodstock (96.1), I see there's even a chance to consider going for sub 27 hours. I consult with John: "If we can make 12 minute miles for the next four miles, we'll finish under 27." He says, "O.K. if you want to try, I'm game." But that is too ambitious, given my condition and the hills that remain before us. "Let's forget that one but still go up tempo." Were running, even some uphill sections. We pass about six people in the last four miles, sneaking up behind quietly then bursting past, like you play with people (and get played with) on your training runs. Where does this energy come from? I marvel at myself, running up a steep hill to pass another walker. "C'mon, John." (He's slowed to take his warmer shirt off.) I'm possessed. I'm going to finish. A small hint of sentimentality rises in my eyes but I deny it; no, I will finish strong. I want to run through. John catches up and I tell him we're going to finish together, no matter what. More trying uphills test us before we finally hear the cheers for finishing runners down the hill. I suggest, "Let's finish with the ultra shuffle, not a sprint, to show them what old hands we are." And so through in 27:12 to desultory cheers from a few bleary eyed finish line officials. It's 7:15 a.m.; how about a shower and some breakfast? And so we did, at the Creamery in Wooodstock. Sitting there, John and I couldn't stop repeating what a smooth go of it we had, and how well we felt sitting there in front of a large plate of eggs, potatoes, and hash. More coffee please, adrenaline's wearing off. For the next week I felt bone tired and weak. My digestive system balked and I logged above average hours of sleep. It should be no surprise that after 27 hours on the run, the body gets truly exhausted. But I came out of it without the slightest injury, fit as can be. I tried through the entire run to stay outside myself, as if I were observing my performance. This detachment certainly made it easier. I took one Succeed electrolyte tab every 45 minutes after the first 11/2 hours and hourly after it got cooler at night, and Advil as needed, probably 20-25 of them. I had no issues with urination. The weight gain wasn't risky as I'd taken plenty of electrolyte - maybe I drank more than I needed, but my weight returned to normal after 24 hours, and the foot swelling after 48. The body can do extraordinary things if you prepare it and control it with your mind rather than with your emotions. More than anything else, this is what I have learned from running100 miles. It was a grand undertaking and a grand experience. As the years go on, I've become more keen on making every day meaningful, possibly memorable. The 2003 Vermont 100 is one day I will always remember, as I continue on from left to right.