Vermont 100 Miler July 17 - 18, 2004 Problems? What problems? Months, weeks, and days before my first 100 Miler, I kept trying to redefine emerging issues as challenges instead of barriers. But it was getting harder and harder. The pattern had started right after I returned from Boston in April. That's when I found out that instead of running, I would be doing mental prep, e.g., reading race reports, seeing films ("Touching the Void") and doing physiotherapy for my new SIJ/disk injury. Bummer. After four weeks of torpedoed training runs, I was on the verge of despair. But suddenly, the injury began to resolve, and I was back in there. Or was I? It was May and I had done very little physical training. (In fact, I was exactly one training run away from dropping the whole idea of doing Vermont this year, but didn't. Thanks, Tyler.) Completing Vermont was also turning into more of an issue than it might otherwise have been, since part of my preparation involved announcing to the world--well in advance-- that I intended to try a 100 miler this summer. I thought that the pressure of outing my intentions would have a therapeutic effect on me if I began to contemplate quitting—and believe me, it did. I was even telling co-workers about it, so you know how far out on the limb I had gone. One of them, Diane, who lives in Vermont and commutes to work in Montreal, informed me that she would try to see me during the race to cheer me on. Although I was heartened by her show of support, I knew how impractical this idea was. Her husband strongly concurred, and before we parted for the summer, I got the impression that Diane was starting to understand this. By the end of May, training was going well. I had a couple of long runs under my belt and finally felt able to face a real test in the form of our annual around-the-island fundraiser for the Cedars Breast Clinic here in Montreal. Well, I didn't plan to run around the whole island, but I did about 50 miles of it and that made me feel pretty good. Three weeks later, when I was able to take on the local Fat Ass 50K (Quest for the Summit), I felt even stronger. Aside from a few toenail problems, things were definitely starting to look up. But time was running out--Vermont was exactly three weeks away. Meanwhile training partner, Elaine, and I had been assiduously practicing 10/5s as prescribed by Tyler, and I added hours of practice walking to that. I also continued with the rest of my routine—track on Tuesdays, tempo/hill run on Thursdays, easy run on Fridays. Finally, I entered the initial phase of tapering, very conscious of the need to manage this period properly. When faced with the choice of doing more or less, I forced myself to do less. I knew the taper was working when I started to fantasize incessantly about running around the block a few times, or even a few hundred. But I managed to hold on to the taper. As race day approached, I threw myself into a frenzy of organization—mapping out pacing scenarios, testing trail mix and gaiters, gathering all of the accessories and equipment needed to stoke the nine (!) drop bags I was planning to use in place of a live handler. (My pacer, Kate, agreed to meet me at a few of the aid stations, but since her primary responsibility was to push my butt to the finish line, we could not afford to waste her energy on crewing for me as well.) I also e-mailed Tyler weekly status reports and he responded with invaluable advice. Anna, who ran Vermont last year, sent words of encouragement and wisdom. My response to the stress of an increasing number of logistical uncertainties was to start living in the foot care section of pharmacies and running shops. In a desperate attempt to address toenail problems (real and possible), I was ripping through the latest edition of VonHof's Fixing Your Feet. Armed with information from this book, I examined every form of blister-proofing imaginable. The problem was, I really didn't know how to use any of that stuff and I was caught in the classic quandary of trying to "be prepared" without being so foolish as to "try something new" during a race. This paradox was to play itself out with excruciating precision as the day unfolded. Finally, one week to go. Very little running left to do, only two sessions of 2-3 miles. Monday night went perfectly. Tuesday was track night, but I had no intention of doing the workout (that would be crazy!!!!) so I decided to go up to the Mountain and simply observe. I wore street clothes just to be sure. At the end of the session I left with the group, chatting about Vermont, doing a pace slightly above a walk. And then, suddenly a root in the road caught my foot and, splat, I was down on the ground. After I got over the initial shock, I realized that there was no real structural damage to my legs. But the skin on my right knee was badly torn, blood was flowing, and my right index finger was hurting for some reason. I spent the evening at Royal Victoria Hospital, where I learned that my patella was not broken, but a bone in my finger was, and that I would be getting a tetanus shot right after my knee (by then, twice its normal size) was bandaged up. My response: first, I got mad; then I got over it. Yes, I was injured, but it was not fatal and I knew it. In my all-too-brief experience with the ultramarathon, I have come to suspect that it is a kind of mind game played with the body--preferably, but not necessarily, involving all body parts. Therefore, I decided that I would not be taken out of the run by THIS. I spent the rest of the week coping and packing. At last Friday arrived, and Kate and I were off. The car was loaded down with drop bags and all manner of running gear. The trip was smooth sailing all the way, and by 2:30 p.m. we walked into the registration tent for the weigh-in and pre-race briefing. Fine. Well, I admit that the only time I was queasy during the entire weekend was during that terrifying briefing in the meadow, but eventually I composed myself. I was able to do this because as part of my mental preparation I had read the rules of engagement (complete version) for Hardrock, just to get in the proper mood for Vermont. That worked well, and once the briefing was over we headed toward the pasta dinner where I managed to regain my appetite. As for the night's activities, we knew the score: eat up, lay out clothes, get to bed. We made it back to our hotel in record time, and by 7:00 p.m. I was unpacking my running gear for the next day. Did I mention that I have about 8 pairs of running shoes? I planted several of them in the drop bags because, well because this was my first "100" and you never know. The best pair, saved for the start of the race, was packed in my race-day bag. Imagine then, the look on my face when I pulled out my shoes and discovered—two left feet! Yeah, I have identical pairs of the shoes I intended to run in, but I did not manage to pack one shoe for each foot. What to do? I wasn't going to be able to sleep well anyway, so I bolted out of there in search of right shoes. Back to Silver Hill Meadow where vestiges of the pasta dinner were being cleared away under the direction of the R.D. He was pulling at some wires when I walked up and asked him where the drop bags were. "Gone" he said, "about 20 minutes ago." He offered directions so I could try to find them, but it was getting dark and I could sense that being on the back roads of Vermont at that hour was a recipe for disaster. I made my way back to the hotel where Kate and I discussed the options: either I could take her brand new running shoes (quickly rejected) or use my own street shoes (regular white tennis) and hope like hell that I had placed a pair of real running shoes in the first drop bag (18 miles into the run) because the next chance would be at mile 28. Then it was off to bed for the full one hour of sleep that I got that night. At 2:00 a.m. I was up like a shot, preparing to meet up with Tom, Admas and Roger, who had generously offered to drive me to the start. We arrived around 3:30, checked in, and got ready to go. It was pitch dark, not a pianist in sight. At exactly 4:00 a.m., we huddled together (Jurek at the front) and suddenly, we were off. Not long after the sun came up, I met up with Aaron, who was to be my running companion for the duration of the day. First of all, I should say that Aaron is a fabulous runner with lots of experience. You know the type—2:40 marathoner, ran Leadville last year (and previously), Western States, Old Dominion, etc. All those alluring ultra names that first-timers like me string together and whisper like a mantra. Anyway, Aaron's specialty is running downhill (whereas my strength is on the ups) so we joined forces for the better part of the day and had a wonderful time. We labored up one hill after another, on road and trails, across fields. The hills were endless. And of course, every one we climbed had to be descended—a totally quad-busting experience for me. Meanwhile, having changed into real shoes (yes, they were found at Pomfret-mile 18- and were the worst pair I owned, but they felt like gloves to me) and partaken of just about everything on offer at the aid stations, including whopping dabs of antibiotic cream for my knee, I was in a pretty mellow mood. My plan, finalized with Carl in Montreal, was to do 4 miles per hour for 20 hours and then any pace I wanted until the end. My overall goal was to finish, preferably in 28 hours. With that basic strategy, I had mapped out my ETA for every aid station and I think that up until nightfall, we were hitting the target within 15 minutes or so. As we ran from station to station, I was overcome by the serene majesty of the countryside. One stunning view after another appeared around every corner while Aaron and I ran and chatted about our lives. The horses, magnificent animals, soon caught up with us; I thought I'd never seen any more beautiful. And the ease with which they seemed to run! Their riders spoke good-humoredly with us and then rode on by. This was, as I had dreamed it would be, the perfect endless run. Eventually, reality caught up with me again, however, when I noticed something like a blister starting on the top of two of my toes. As I was experienced enough with this feeling from previous runs, I knew that I would have to stop and attend to it immediately. I told Aaron to push on and I sat down by the side of the road to get to work. On Tyler's advice, I was carrying a strategically stocked running pack, so I pulled out the blister gear and fixed things up. Meanwhile the security bikes came by and asked if I needed anything. I said I didn't so they left, but not before informing me that I was in the very back of the pack. Perhaps there were nine other runners behind me. "Well good," I thought. I was supposed to start slow and stay slow for a very long time. That element of the run seemed to be going very well indeed. I joined Aaron again as we moved into early afternoon, having lost the shade of the trees. We found ourselves on the stretch of hot, concrete highway that had been advertised in the pre-race briefing. At this point, we'd been out for nine or ten hours, it was blazing hot, and we were heading (what else?) uphill again. Just as we crossed the highway, however, a car pulled up in front of us and a woman--Diane--jumped out and came running towards me. I couldn't believe it. How did she find me? (Blind determination.) How long did it take her and friend, Rosemary, to drive there? (Three and a half hours!) How long did she get to walk with me? (About five minutes.) I was completely blown away by this gesture and vowed to myself once again (the first having gone to Tyler) that I would finish the run no matter WHAT. Aaron and I kept on going, heading towards the woods and onto the trail. Just before we reached it, he stopped briefly to use the port-a-john and I ran towards Agony Hill by myself. As luck would have it, the skies opened up at that point and a thundershower shook itself down onto the trail. It was a magical moment. I was not afraid, but rather transfixed by the thought that I was just another living thing out there, caught up in the elements with no choice but to run. Aaron eventually re-joined me and we enjoyed the cool of the shower which ended soon after. We were heading into Camp 10 Bear for the first time, right on schedule, at about 3:15 p.m. Camp 10 Bear had loomed large in my mind from the first moment I read about it in the race reports and it did not disappoint. As we sailed into it, I immediately saw Kate, and then miracle of miracles, another co-worker, Tristan, who had traveled for over four hours to see me run. With his mother in tow, he had arrived about 5 minutes before I did and once again, I was simply astounded by his presence. How did he find me precisely at that moment? (Vow number three quickly followed.) We chatted briefly, but Aaron and I had to get down to business. First the weigh-in, which, to everyone's amusement, confirmed that I had gained two pounds over the course of the day. I admit that I was eating and drinking everything in sight, but two pounds up? Seemed a bit much to me. Nevertheless, the medic was more than satisfied and we prepared to take off again, knowing that on our return, the pacers would be there to help us run through the night. Another huge helping of food, and then Aaron and I continued on the roads and in the woods, to and through aid stations, where we never stayed for long. "Bibs 79 and 88 checking in" was how I announced our arrival at each station over the course of the day. First, Tracer Brook, then Cox's, and finally, just after dusk, back to 10 Bear. Occasionally, I would point out something beautiful to look at or Aaron would start a new anecdote about his life back in Los Alamos. And we just kept going. It was sublime. Approaching Camp 10 Bear again, we passed bull frogs singing out bass notes loud and long, and as we trotted in we could see a group of people peering at us in the dark. These were the pacers, anxiously awaiting their runners so they could start on the last thirty-two miles of the run. I found Kate while Aaron stayed with Walt, and then unbelievably, I noticed that Tristan and his mother were still there! They had waited six hours for my return, just to see what was going to happen next. Incredible. Again, we had to weigh in, and I found I was still two pounds up. Man, those Snicker bites are lethal. Aaron laughed as he informed me that he, too, had gained a pound. After several minutes devoted to organizing clothing, insect repellant, and flashlights, as well as taking more food, we were ready to head out again. This time, we were running in pairs with our pacers and it soon became evident that Aaron and I would be separated in the moonless dark for good. I was quickly diverted from that thought when, just after we left 10 Bear, I noticed a slightly scratchy feeling on the soles of my feet which I thought must be tiny grains of dirt or sand. The feeling was so slight as to be hardly noticeable, but I made a mental note to check it out at the next aid station. Alas, it was too late—foot care research notwithstanding--as by the time we arrived, the grainy feeling had turned to heat and then to blister. I was growing one specimen on each foot the size of large souffled potatoes. Of course, the creation of a blister takes time, so I had many, many hours to develop them into the heart-shaped monsters they became. In the meantime, I was thrilled to have finally hooked up with Kate, who led me into the pitch dark of the woods. In the weeks leading up to the run, I had mused often about the overnight portion of the run. On the one hand, I thought it would be wonderful to escape the direct attack of the heat, but on the other, I was uncertain about how I would respond to the sleep deficit or other distractions of the night. While I had practiced overnight running in Montreal, nothing could really prepare me for this starlit section of the course. For one thing, as soon as we got deep into the woods, our headlamps were attracting swarms of moths. They were in my eyes, mouth, nose and ears and seemed to time their attacks on my face just as my feet found new rocks to torture the blisters. This went on for a while and it was the only time that I admit I got a bit cranky. Okay, I was positively insufferable. But, like everything else in racing, it didn't last. For one thing, Kate was determined to make things as fun and fast as possible. It was she who first noticed the stars and when I looked up, I found them thick and close, almost in my face. (I instantly thought of Anna, who was so smitten with them last year.) Overnight, Kate prodded me (-"Do you feel like running?" –"No." -"Shuffling?" –"Okay." – "Then do it!"), sang to me, guided me, and in general, made our time under the stars a true delight. For another, it was during the night that I realized how powerfully delicious the aromas of flowers and fields were and how lucky we were to see fireflies. By the time we moved into the last third of the run—the new part of the course—I had acquired a real fondness for the roads, which gave my sore feet a welcome break from the unevenness of the trails. As we headed toward Bill's (mile 89), I reconnected with all those runners who had written race reports in previous years. Although I thought I was prepared for what Bill's would hold, I was surprised by how poignant I found the scene to be. Cots, chairs, and food were everywhere, with aid station workers and runners in various positions and states of consciousness. And of course, the infamous scale! I got on and was told I had gained yet another pound. Time to whine, I thought, as I carefully explained to the crew that among my many goals for this first 100 miler, gaining weight was not one of them. They just laughed as I stepped down onto my swollen soles again. Finally, Kate and I headed out for the last eleven miles. Eleven. Sounds so little, feels so much. After a brief diversion (maybe half a mile) into an unmarked part of the course that turned out to be foreign territory, we picked our way along the true path as the sky brightened into soothing dawn. Another unforgettable memory for me to bring home. As we ambled along the open road, noting the appearance of a deer in the fresh fields, I finally started to feel the effects of my sleepless nights. It wasn't intolerable, but I was sort of wandering all over the road, so Kate started talking and singing again. Not long after that, however, it occurred to me that aside from the blisters, I was in pretty good shape. The residual twinges of the pre-race injuries had vanished. Heart and head were great. Legs were good enough that I could have done a lot more running if it hadn't been for the feet, but I suppose that's like saying I would finished sooner if only I were faster. As we entered the woods once again and approached the hill that had been identified as the place where runners would descend to cross the finish line, I started to perk right up. Energy was back and so was my brain as I realized that I might actually be able to hit the target. I still couldn't accelerate very well, but there was just enough of a whiff of the barn to get me doing something more than slow-mo. And then it started. Instead of proceeding down the side of the hill, the course began to weave around and around, in our favorite direction--up--never even remotely approaching the promised descent. It went on for so long that I finally got it through my head that this was just the usual finish line managing to elude the ever-hopeful runners, ensuring once again that you simply couldn't get there from here. As we started on yet another series of loops across yet another field, I glanced down at my watch and was mortified to see how late it had gotten! I immediately remembered all those races when, not knowing where I stood, I chose to maintain pace, just letting it happen. I remembered finding out later how, if only I had pushed, I would have met or exceeded my goal even though I did not feel I could push one bit harder at the time. The collective voices of my coaches floated in my head and woke me up. "Run, dammit run, or you will regret it!" And so, with no urging from Kate, who was just ahead of me on the field, I started to run. It wasn't fast, but it was a run and I did it when I didn't feel like doing it, which made it all the sweeter when I finally found the steep incline on the hill and ran through the banner, crossing the line in 27:55:36. In that moment, I felt the exquisite thrill of that elusive finish; every effort I had laid down for this run was more than repaid by a rushing sense of satisfaction and completion. Body and soul were smiling, reflected it seemed, in the faces of those gathered at the finish line to cheer the runners through. Later, I found Aaron at the post-race brunch where we shared stories about the night and it was then that I realized what a model of composure he had been. I thought of all the things that had happened to me in the planning and running of Vermont and how small my challenges must have been compared to what Aaron would have faced in those epic ultras. And even this one must have had its moments for my running companion, aged 72. But you'd never know it to look at him. Oh well, another perfect example to add to my book on mental preparation, a special dictionary that turns every definition into a solution. Barbara Freedman August 27, 2004 With heartfelt thanks to Tyler, without whom I wouldn't have even tried. Thanks, too, for superb support from Carl, Dorys, Anna, Kate, Yves, Dan, Elaine, Jim, Dave, Naomi, Inta, RVH, Diane, Tristan, and Aaron.