Withlacoochee 100k – 2002               Mike Bouscaren

The 2002 Rails to Trails event came off in near perfect conditions. I'd 
been checking the weather forecast beginning ten days in advance, and 
it was 85 degrees the week before – a four toenail, many blistered 
possibility on that asphalt. People planning a winter trip to Florida 
would normally be disappointed to wake up the first day there to 
overcast, drizzly conditions, but not us 20 odd starters, shaking our 
legs before the 6 a.m. start – this was a perfect day for a 62 mile 
run!

I confess to being an ultra internet junkie. I'm indebted to Stan 
Jensen, Don Allison, Robert Mathis, Jim Winne, Kevin Sayre, Jay Hodde, 
David Horton, Blake Wood, David Blaikie, Matt Mahoney, and the many 
others whom I've gotten to know and learned from through this resource. 
I'm late to the game, at 54, having started with the Bull Run 50 miler 
in 2000, then the Garden State 50, Catalina 100k, Mt Hood PCT 50, and 
the Stone Cat Ale 50 over the next 22 months.  I've read many ultra 
reports, trying to understand better just what is this "magic" that Baz 
Hawley refers to, trying to catch it in the ultras that I run. John 
Dodds and John Prohira are especially gifted in describing the feeling 
of going deep, in its stress and in its humor. And there are so many 
others who have been there, whose stories inspire my 3:50 a.m. wake ups 
for those 10 mile training runs on weekdays before work, and the long 
runs on weekends.

The zone is serendipitous.  Last fall while watching Chris Matthews' 
"Hardball" I saw Rob Schultheis talking about Pathans, their caves, the 
topography of Afghanistan. There was something in his eyes saying, 
"Come with me." I sent for his book "Night Letters," but that wasn't 
it. It was his other books, "Bone Games," "Fool's Gold," and "The 
Hidden West" that told of his quest for the vision, the near-satori, 
the out of body experience we begin to feel when we run ultras. "Fool's 
Gold" is about Telluride, the San Juans, Hardrock ground. It led me to 
Bob Boeder's "Hardrock Fever," which he autographed for me with, "To 
Mike – Keep the faith. Never give up."  I saved reading Bob's book for 
the flight to Tampa, knowing it would help me peak emotionally for 
Withlacoochee. Bob didn't let me down.


There's the pace. You want to conserve, but you want your best result. 
You want to go deeper than ever before, but you don't want to go so far 
that you can't come back again another day. On trail runs, it's the 
hills that dictate the pace. On flat runs like Withlacoochee, you have 
to go on self-knowledge; in a way, it's a greater test. I had a vague 
plan, as precise as it could be with the unknown variables in front of 
me, having never run a flat paved 100k before, and of course, the 
weather. My perceived limits would have me finishing somewhere between 
12 and 13 hours.

It's a paved rail bed, so straight that in the morning darkness it 
looked as if we were running in the space left after the world had been 
cut in half.  With the drizzle I figured go up tempo a bit to put time 
in the bank in case it got sunny and hot later. Still dark at the first 
aid station 5k in – aid stations every 5k to the 25k turnaround, a 
double out and back layout – about 35 minutes there. Quick math in the 
head, let's see, 35 times five, add a little walking time after every 
aid station, that's a three hour lap, at the edge of my imaginary 
envelope. Go there. 

The aid station volunteers were great, many of them ultra runners also, 
not failing to ask, "What can I get you?" as I approached. This was 
funny for a lot of reasons, mostly because the question seemed framed 
in the interest of not having to slow people down as they flew on to a 
WR, a PR, or the coveted gold winner's buckle. In case you didn't 
notice by my 12 minute pace. Heck, I don't know what I want until I see 
what you've got, and it's all covered up to stay out of the drizzle, so 
I have to lift and peek, spoiling precious seconds, tupperware tops 
wresting away my hopes for fame and glory, har,  har ! For me, shopping 
is half the fun 90% of the time, anyway. Suitably fortified with a bit 
of banana or orange or pretzel, I walk on to stretch out before 
resuming the run after about 100 yards. Repeat 20 times and you're in 
the barn, seems simple enough.

First turn at 25k in just under three hours. Reload the camelback with 
Accelerade, forget to remember to water down the bandana for a cooling 
rinse, shoot a gu and a few pretzels ( alas, no potatoes ) and back in 
the other direction down the world split in half. Since the 


drizzle continues, I keep on putting time in the bank, making even 35 
minute intervals to the aid stations. One Succeed! and one advil every 
hour work, now mostly with pretzels, to keep a workable fuel mixture in 
the engine. I wonder, does this matter, since Bernd Heinrich set a WR 
on Ben and Jerry's ?

OK, now halfway at just under six hours, find the drop bag, "WHERE'S 
THE DROP BAGS?" and dig for the dry socks, another thin coat of 
Vaseline on the tootsies, new shirt, forget to remember the gum ( a new 
last stages idea ), tie the shoes loose, walk out with very savory 
chicken noodle soup, saying to any who might listen, but mostly for 
myself, "See you in about six and a half hours." 

Hey, it doesn't get any better than this – just to think of the scale 
of having run six hours with more than six to go – "Keep the faith. 
Never give up." – and still drizzling, what a perfect day!   Now I'm 
struggling to make the 35 minute intervals, the next one ( from 50k to 
55k ) closer to 40.  Digging now, approaching vision quest ground, if 
it will have me. I resolve to try making the third leg in as close to 
three hours as I can. The next 5k's a miserable 40 minutes again. The 
leaders go by me for the third time, in their final burst to the 
finish, flushed, eyes bulging. What's left for me?

Tim the Greek from New York is left for me. Tim passed me at 25k and as 
I approached 50, he had what I figured was a 20 minute lead. Don't 
chase him, let him come to you. I met Tim the Greek ( self-described ) 
last year at Catalina – he was with the peripatetic Henri Girault - and 
he asked me the same question again today, "What's your last name, 
Mike?"  Tim doesn't give you his last name, probably because he knows 
from experience that you might ask him how to spell it and then forget 
it anyway, but he wants to know YOUR last name.  Tim's very congenial. 
He also has the same story – "I never train, I just go and run and 
we'll see what happens." The sun has come out, and it's getting hotter. 
I admire Tim just like all of you, no matter your age, physique, or 
motivation ( Lord knows there's all kinds ). You're doin' it, that's 
all that matters.  I bet myself that Tim's moth has flown too close to 
the light bulb. Sure enough, he comes into sight at about 78k, listing 
a bit to the right, in an uncomfortable 


looking walk.  My deal is never to lord, always to encourage, and so, 
"Way to go Tim, there's some good chicken noodle soup ahead at the 
turnaround."


It's a reminder that now in the fourth quarter you have to really 
focus, because it can get away from you if you don't pay attention. I 
make the turn 10 minutes on the wrong side of 9 hours, but still think 
I have a shot at 12 for the finish. Funny how you still fight time 
after your best times are behind you. But like fear, time is a more 
pragmatic motivator than, "I'll just run as hard as I can for the next 
15 miles." That doesn't work – my watch is my meat thermometer. 

From 75 to 80k I speed with all my might in 45 minutes, 10 minutes 
slower than my earlier intervals. Forget the 12 hour scenario, now 
what's realistic? Again, some quick math in the head ( there have been 
ultras I couldn't do this ) – now a 12:45 finish or better becomes my 
new goal. Curious how you think pretty clearly on running faster, but 
the mechanism just won't cooperate. I try a short walk to limber and 
stretch, resuming at a better pace, but it lasts about 10 minutes 
before Archie Bell and the Drells come back with the tighten up. I'm 
still running, but in slow motion. The next anything, the next aid 
station will revive me. I try Mountain Dew, I get a mountain dry mouth. 
Nothing sweet appeals. I drink Accelerade from my camelback without 
breathing, to escape the taste. No nausea, just dry. Where's the magic? 
Pretzels and water work a little. I've got nine miles to go, and I 
think why am I torturing myself, I won't ever again eat another hateful 
pretzel. 

Passing the second last aid station, 10k to go – just a measly 10k, 
c'mon, get up and go! - one hour and thirty minutes will get me a 
12:30.  Already I think only of the next step, the next aid station 
under the tall highway bridge, cool water, renewal – there it is, way 
off yonder, straight down the way, looking improbably close. I go, not 
looking at my watch, only at the bridge getting glacially closer to me.
"What can I get for you?" she asks, when I approach. It's so funny.
A fresh set of legs, perhaps? I fumble in the tupperware, knocking 



over a cup of water she had carefully poured earlier, to clutch a few 
pringles, and two remaining cups of water, one of which I pour on my 
empty head. 

It's 5 before the hour now, with 5k left to finish. What're you made 
of? Soldier on and nothing to save now! Make it work! Go, go, go! I 
resolve now I will not look at my watch any more. I will finish and 
earn that buckle. I will finish running as I have the entire way and I 
may never run another ultra after this one. It is approaching dark.
I want to go faster but I can't, so I go as fast as I can, damn the 
right knee and damn the toe blister, not going faster pains me more!

And so to the finish. Finishing is anticlimactic, as you just stop. 
There's a feeling, isn't there something left for me to do, isn't there 
a way I can improve on what I've just done, is it over, can I have it 
back?

The soulless clock says 12:35, and I am gratified. On this day, I gave 
my best to the Withlacoochee, and it returned the favor. The next day 
on the plane back to Boston, a stewardess passes me a small bag of 
pretzels.  I open it and eat them without a thought. Gratifying taste, 
pretzels. Now as I write this it's been 40 hours and I can even walk 
down the stairs without having to hold onto the banister like I did in 
the airport. Memory is short, isn't it?

Mike Bouscaren               February 18, 2002

e-mail: mbouscaren@msn.com