Miwok 2003 – Mike Bouscaren April 30 2003 – 3 days Today leaves 3 days of rest before the MiWok 100k run Saturday May 3rd. In this training cycle I've put the most in ever: 18 reps with the 25 pound dumbbells and 100 reps of the scissor kick; three 29 mile runs, one back to back 20 and four consecutive weeks of 55, 60, 53, and 60 miles. It's been relatively easy compared to training for the Rocky Raccoon 50 miler because the cold hasn't been a shut down factor. It was the coldest winter I can remember in Boston. I have noted that in west coast runs I place at the 80th percentile. That would put my estimated time at 15 ½ hours. Other locations have resulted in a 50th percentile place, as with RR where 10 ½ hours is the 50% history and exactly my result, too. I made a new recent mark for the 10 mile tempo run at 1 hour 26 minutes and also ran one hour 56 minutes for 13 miles in my last fast (sic) run. I've switched to Saucony Hurricane which seem lighter than the Asics I had been using for years - reminder that trying new stuff sometimes gives positive results. I've switched to Hammer Gel from gu, and will try Succeed Amino after Clip and Accelerade progressively through the 62.1 miles. Weather is expected to be rainy but cooler, and this may help. I've set on being more patient this time, and I'm ready. May 3rd - Miwok starts at 5:40 a.m. As usual I found interesting reading to help me prepare mentally. Why do ultrarunners say upon finishing, "I'll never do this again," only to return? Why do furloughed soldiers after enduring the horrors of war find a curious longing to return to battle? It's the face of opposites. Visiting the edge, we find the center. Reaching exhaustion, we find how to relax. Daily trivia and life's cheap thrills leave us longing for a real deal. Going deep, we hold on to something worth remembering. Answers to such questions are found in "Running Through The Wall" – personal encounters with the ultramarathon – edited by Neal Jamison, and in "A Step Beyond" – a definitive guide to ultrarunning, edited by Don Allison. As we stood in dark drizzle, RD John Medinger told us to reflect on how fortunate we were to be here, capable of doing this, to enjoy the scenery of the day, and above all, to have fun. You say, how can running 62 miles be fun? Read the books, my friend, and read this, just for fun. You have to learn to relax. You cannot compare your progress to the progress of others, because they are not you. Time is your friend, it is not something to beat. It will take time. Body is athlete, mind is coach. You will feed yourself, take fluids and electrolytes, even ibuprofen. Your feet get the attention of a teen face, because they make abrasive contact hour upon hour and must not be allowed to become a reason to stop. You'll find there can be reasons to stop, but nearly all of them are just pleadings of a weak soul. Blood and vomit are not sufficient, but you may know that if your viability is invaded, it would be a good idea to call it a day. You must do everything you can to stay viable. After John signals the start with a simple "Go" I let the faster and the eager ones go ahead, crossing the beach with high flat steps to keep the sand out. And soon up on the road, to climb 800 feet over three miles, with a rewarding view of the Golden Gate Bridge, south posts in the dawning sun, north posts in a cloud. I see Terry and John Rhodes ( "movie stars" from "A Race For The Soul," found on the Western States 100 website ) and I know their pace will be measured as mine should be, so I contain my enthusiasm to run and follow them for a few miles. At the Bunker Road ( 5.5 miles ) aid station, there's "Tropical John" assisting at the water stop with an open mouth half gallon pitcher. I ask if I can drink straight out of it: "What, you don't even have a water bottle?" he asks, letting me drink. Many more runners carry 24 ounce water bottles in their hands, while I use a camelback. In it are two scoops of Accelerade with 40 ounces of water, enough to last to the Pan Toll ( mile 21 ) aid station, if I drink additional water at the aid stations along the way. There, I have left two full bottles, one with Clip and one with Amino, for 20-35 miles and 50-62 miles respectively, plus Clip and Amino powder in a bottle to carry and fill at mile 35 to last until mile 50. There are two pairs of shoes, socks, shirts, a windbreaker for the last 12 miles, vaseline, band aids, Hammer Gel flasks, and two turkey sandwiches. It's been meticulously planned. In my pockets I carry S! electrolytes and Advil, Tums, Jolt caffeinated gum, and two vitamin tablets. The climbs to Tennesee Valley ( 11.2 miles ) and Muir Beach ( 15.3 miles ) aid stations are muddy from the falling rain and shoes hold on to a heavy layer as I plod along. The descent to Muir Beach is very slick and watery; as I brake to guard against falling backward with a slip out footplant. Careful, big fella, you don't want to wrench your back. You think, "How'm I doin?" and the answer is "OK - I haven't done anything stupid yet." The sections in the valley from Muir Beach to the big climb ( 1385 feet from miles 16-19 ) and then later out from miles 53-58 are where you see gnarly poison oak reaching out into the narrow path, ready to give you a little present to remember the day. So auto-correcting from slips in the mud you also gyrate to dodge these little tendrils. Rubber band man! I accept the slow climb to Pan Toll, rehearse my aid station routine, and take in the scene: yes, this is a splendid day! The sun has come out intermittently, warming open areas between pine and eucalyptus forest patches. Look, here's a photographer – make sure he can see your number and say thanks for that. With new socks, shoes and shirt, fuel and encouragement from onlookers at Pan Toll I head down the ridge to Bolinas ( mile 27.7 ) with glorious views of the coastline and bold blue blooms of flowers contrasting with the dominant deep green grass. Occasional rivulets stream down the slope we're traversing, offering the chance to dip your hat or handkerchief for a cooler if you wish. You take what the day offers. From Bolinas to the turnaround at Olema ( 35.4 miles ) the rains have left unavoidable pond crossings across the way. After skirting the edges, cat-like, I finally take the example of returning runners who simply splash straight through them, dry feet be damned! Then finally out into a clearing - there's still maybe two miles to the turnaround, and it's getting long. Now I remind myself, be patient, it'll come to you more easily than if you try to bring it to yourself. I mean, flow down there instead of trying to reel it in. I make Olema 27 minutes in front of the cut-off, with time to wring the mud out of my socks and refuel ( takes seven minutes ). Aid station strategy has to balance getting in and out quickly while still taking care of needs that if not attended to could hasten a bonk, an injury, or the dread DNF. Now back. There's always a charge of free energy when you know you're directed towards the finish ( even if it's a marathon away ). Long walk up the slope and out of the clearing into the watery woods where the real work begins. This section does seem to go on and on, I think because it's shady and mostly uphill. Oddly, here I become flagrantly flatulent. For a while I try to contain the toots until after I pass or am passed, but before long my butt blasts freely play a good imitation of the trumpet theme from the Mighty Mighty Bosstones' "Knock On Wood." This is hilarious to me at least and makes for good entertainment ( ! ) as I glacially grind towards aid at Bolinas ( mile 43.2 ). I spend miles thinking when I get to Bolinas I'll rinse the mud out of my socks and shoes - then how fine my feet will feel. There's a guy ahead encouraging the runner just ahead of me with "You're looking good, just a mile to the aid station," then to me, "Boy, you look real tired." But I'm not feeling too tired ( forget what I look like ) and I take it as a very unnecessary negative thought, quickly dismissing it. Approaching aid I wriggle my muddy toes inside the shoes and feel no pain so elect not to stop. Save time. Show that dude something. Then out of the woods into the fields again, climbing irregularly to Pan Toll ( mile 50 ). This is a tough stretch with side hill traverses, and the idea is not to dwell on circumstances, just keep moving as well as possible. Walk, shuffle, walk, run a bit. At Pan Toll I go with a full change of shirt, shoes and socks, washing the feet and pin pricking a toe blister, then a band aid and thin layer of foot vaseline. This takes more than fifteen minutes, and I go out having dropped my pills, then retrieve them after the moving inventory reveals their absence. Maybe three minutes lost there. There's time gained and time lost – sometimes it seems I'm slower than time and sometimes it's slower than me. Some time I'll finish. I remember not to dwell on time – that's stressful – but rather fix on the path, the placement of footsteps, the chances to really run, not forcing those either when I should walk ( any upslope ). Flow, flow and go. I'm trying to swallow the potato chips I've chewed while peeing discreetly along the side of the trail when I start to heave. There's no uptake because my stomach's pretty empty but I keep dry heaving. I manage to sip the camelback tube and the Amino mix and a Tums put that to rest. The downhill after mile 50 marks a big psychological turning point. I know I will finish from here in three hours and change. All we need to do is monitor the system - electrolytes, fluids, Hammer Gel, Advil, and bites of food at the two remaining aid stations. Everything's working and I'm reasonably comfortable. Couple of pieces of caffeinated gum. There are steep gradients before aid at Highway 1 ( 55 miles ) and after Tennessee valley ( mile 58.4 ). I think "cruel and unusual" to myself and almost out loud to runners with me but hold those words because they're negative and we want only positives always. Soldier up one step at a time, get on with it. By now the downhills hurt my toes as they compress against the toe box; it's too steep to stride, so now the steep ups are easier than the steep downs. Stan Jensen's chicken noodle soup at Tennessee Valley was promised me by a volunteer at Pan Toll. I see a tall jackrabbit dart through the brush, then flush a covey of game birds up into the heavy air. My thoughts return to the soup. As I reach the aid station, Stan approaches me with, "What can I get you?" Oh, savory moment. "Chicken noodle soup," I say. He - "We have lentil." Me- "Lentil?" He- "Yes, lentil soup, it's good." I sip a little. It's not chicken noodle. You take what the day offers. "Thank you for the soup, Stan," and on I go. As light fades into darkness, I put on my green LED flashlight. Its beam introduces a new companionship I find comforting. It will be my escort in the few short miles to the finish. Glow sticks now mark turns at intersections. Now there's pavement – this makes a very pleasant surprise because I can smooth it out without worrying about mud, rocks, and toe bangers. There's an intersection with no glow stick. In the dark I follow the pavement past a fence partway across to the edge of a cliff – I think briefly what my day might be like if I'd just kept running on the pavement and out into space where gravity and rocks below would do an ugly number on me. Quick physical and mental 180 from that spot back to the intended trail and I see the lights of Rodeo Beach far below. It cannot be too long now. Again, the idea is not to dwell on time but on the steps leading down, not to worry when the path seems to turn away from the lights, and remind myself the finish will come to me if I let time pass to get me there. Now it's all here in front of me ( "Nice downhill finish," says the website ), the fences, the lights everywhere, the volunteers, and the final turn into the canopy shelter with the big digital clock speeding towards 15:32:59, where time stops for me with a pencil entry. I sit on an ice chest under the barbecue tent. I'm not hungry but I'm full in a different way. It's 12:15 a.m. in Boston and time to let time go and head for bed.