2014 Arrowhead 135 Race Report, Part 2: Time Slips Away

“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.” - T.S. Eliot

I started Part 1 of this report alone, in the dark, out in the cold, at 3am on the second night of Arrowhead, losing the battle to stay awake.

"I’d come to, standing on the trail, staring into the woods, shivering, not knowing how long I was out or which way I should be going. It was frustrating; standing still was dangerous in that cold, and I was in a race! A quick look at my sled and the tracks in the snow would point me in the right direction and I’d start moving again, with purpose, trying to warm up, chiding myself for slipping mentally. Then, out of nowhere, I’d come to again, staring into the woods, shivering, colder than before, not knowing how long I was out or which way I should be going. It took a few times to realize that I always turned to the right. In hindsight, I should have bivied, hopped into my bag and slept for an hour, but I hadn't had food or water for hours, I was cold, and the Skipulk checkpoint at mile 110 should have been just around the corner.

I’d seen Divesh at the shelter at mile 98. He took off a few minutes before I did, but was nowhere to be found. I took my mitts off long enough to look at my watch; 3am. I should have been to the checkpoint by now. Was I on the right trail? Had I ventured off somewhere in one of my dazes? I looked for tracks—I saw a couple, but wished there were more. Were they on the right trail, or were they as lost as I was? Who was I following alone into the darkness?

The shapes in the woods were driving me mad. Every time I looked up, I’d see a person bivied next to the trail, a shelter, an LP tank, a garage, or a mailbox. I kept worrying that the imaginary figures next to the trail needed help, but every time I got closer, the figure was just a mound of snow, the shelter was just a branch, the mailbox just a tree. After a while, I gave up looking; I couldn't trust my eyes, I couldn't trust my brain. I’d spent over 40 hours pulling that sled without sleep and was too cold to stop, so I just pointed my headlamp at my feet and kept moving.

Then I'd come to again, even colder than before."

It took me a while to realize, after the race, that those imaginary figures I hallucinated, bivied next to the trail, those people I was worried about, that was me. I was worried about me. That floored me; it put a whole new perspective on the experience.

Part of me knew that I should have been bivied next to that trail, that I should have been sleeping, that I should have been warming up in my bag. I don't know if it was the exhaustion, the sleep deprivation, or something else that kept pushing me along that trail. I knew I wasn't safe, but I didn't think I was in danger. Could I take another step? Yes. So I pointed my headlamp at my feet and kept going.

But the hallucinations.

When people hear that we hallucinate during these events, I imagine they picture "Alice in Wonderland" or "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas"-type hallucinations. In reality, though, the best way I can describe it is that, at a certain point, it’s easier for your brain to insert something familiar, something convenient, something close, than it is to process what’s actually there.

First, you start noticing things that really shouldn't be there, like a house cat along the trail, or spectators off in the distance where no spectators should be, but when you look a second time, they’re gone—just a wild flower, a bloom in a tree, a rock, or a shadow. They start so mundane, you really have no idea how many things you thought you saw before that weren't really there. Your brain needs glucose to function. When it gets low, it starts shutting down higher-order processes, like comprehension, computation, etc. At a certain point, you start having trouble figuring out simple things like pace and time.

Then, if you keep pushing, things get really weird. At Superior in 2011, Ben Bruce and I got so bad that we started sharing hallucinations. Ben knew that a bridge marked the end of the trail, and we kept worrying that we were lost. I’d ask Ben, “Is that a bridge over there?” He’d reply, “Yeah! I see it!” We’d get a little closer, and it’d just be a downed tree or a ridge. We saw hundreds of bridges. I was losing it. I needed that bridge that marked the end of the trail to be there, so I saw it, over and over. Alicia was pacing us in. She was trying to talk to me, ask me how it was going. I could hear every word she said, but I couldn't put the sentences together—it was too hard. I could feel myself slipping away.

Melgeorge's to Skipulk

I left the carnage of Melgeorge's, roughly 70 miles in and 26 hours removed from International Falls, on the morning of the second day. It was still well below -30ºF, but it was light out and I was awake. I'd eaten and I'd seen my people, Alicia and Tucker, albeit, outside in the cold.

Alicia snapped this pic on the short section of road between the cabin and the trail. The name of the game was steady as she goes. For the most part, that second day was a blur. It went by so fast. The sun was out and the forest was beautiful. Every few hours I'd see a snowmobile. A quick wave was what most wanted--just enough to ensure I wasn't in need of help. Sometimes they'd stop for a few seconds. I imagined how strange it must have been talking to some random, crazy stranger out walking around in the middle of the woods at -30ºF when you couldn't even see an inch of their face.

Chris Scotch passed me somewhere in there, then Helen, then Divesh. Before I knew it, it was dark again, and, like the day before, I really hadn't eaten anything. My hands were brutally cold. Using the poles led to numbness, then pain, so I'd stow them and bunch my hands up in the main part of the mitten. When that wasn't enough, they'd go, mitten and all, into the down-lined pockets of the Nilas jacket. When that wasn't enough, they'd go down the front of my pants, by my groin and my femoral arteries, which made for even slower hiking.

A while after nightfall, I'm not sure what time, I saw Divesh for a minute at a shelter around mile 100. I was tired, starting to doze on the trail, and wanted to eat. I tried, but it was so cold, even in the shelter, that I couldn't bare to use my hands for anything but a few chocolate-covered espresso beans. I had water in my pack, but getting the hose to my mouth required taking off my mitts and unzipping my jacket and top layer to get to, so I'd grab a huge drink only when I had to take the mitts off for something else.

Back on the trail, the hills were surprisingly steep. I had no energy to pull hard on the climbs, but at least they warmed me up a bit. I tried to keep a nice, quick cadence with little steps, but when I slowed too much, I started falling asleep. I'd wake up shivering, standing in place on the hill. It was infuriating! Getting angry helped, though. I'd get a few moments of haste before settling back down and losing it again. For a while, the crest of every climb just led to an immediate, steep downhill, which led into yet another steep climb where I'd lose it all again. I'd come to, just standing there, shivering. Over and over.

Then the hallucinations picked up.

I started seeing mail boxes, LP tanks, sheds, driveways.. at one point I was on a road. I honestly don't know if any of it was real or not. I know it all couldn't have been, but maybe some of it? I didn't know what the checkpoint would look like, but I desperately needed it. Was I on the right path? I should have been there by now. Everywhere I looked, I'd see things that shouldn't be there, so I just looked down at my feet. I looked for footprints, bike tracks, anything that'd confirm I was going the right way, anywhere to stop seeing the things I knew weren't real. But looking down aimed my breath into my coat. Before I realized it was happening, my coat was frozen shut. I fumbled with it for a second, but it wouldn't budge, and my hands were too cold to fix it. Just like that, I couldn't eat or drink again--even if I'd wanted to. And then I'd come to, shivering, staring into the woods, staring at imaginary people bivied in their bags.

After a while, the lone remaining skier, Ben Shillington, caught up. That was nice. It snapped me out of that vicious cycle for a while. We chatted for a spell, even see-sawed for a short stretch before it flattened out and I lost him. When he was out of sight, the cycle started again. I don't know how far we were from the Skipulk checkpoint, it couldn't have been more than a handful of miles, but he made it there an hour and a half before I did.

It was a vicious cycle. I needed that checkpoint.

Skipulk

I figured I'd hear the generators and see the lights a ways out from Skipulk, but I didn't even know I was close until I was standing right next to it. It was the strangest thing--but damn, I was happy to be there.

I told them my number and said that I needed to warm up and get some sleep. There were two ice-fishing shacks with heaters. The volunteers told me that the second one was crowded, 3 or 4 people inside, and the first one had two bikers that had been there a while. I had him open the door to the first one. The shack had one cot and one chair, each occupied by a biker, and they had their gear strewn everywhere. No matter. I grabbed a corner of the cot and started to knock the ice off my gear, but before I even got my coat off, I heard Alicia's voice outside, talking to the volunteer.

Man I love seeing my people.

I asked where she was parked, because I hadn't seen her on my way in, and she told me the parking lot was just up the hill. I asked how far, and the volunteer said just a few yards away. I told him I was going to warm up there, and he said that was fine. He gave me directions and even helped me put my harness back on. Nice guy. I pulled my sled to the truck and hopped in. Tucker was adorably excited to see me. I got all my frozen stuff off, wrapped up in my sleeping bag, and finally ate the pocket full of food I'd been carrying around all day. It was fantastic! I told Alicia I needed an hour of sleep. She set an alarm. I was out before my eyelids closed.

"BANG! BANG! BANG!"

I was startled awake by someone pounding on our window. My heart rate tripled in three beats! Was I late?! Had I overslept?! What time was it?!

Alicia cracked the window.

"Is there a racer in there?" The man asked.

"Yes. #51. Sandor. He's in the back." Alicia replied.

"He can't be in a vehicle. It's against the rules. He's going to be penalized."

Shit.

I asked Alicia what time it was; I'd gotten 45 minutes of sleep. Better than nothing.

I started putting my gear back on, grabbed another bag of food out of my pack and started shoveling cookies, Kit Kats, Fritos, anything I could find into my mouth. It took me a minute to get everything on and packed up. I pulled my sled over to the fire.

I didn't know the race official that woke me up, but I tried to tell him that I didn't intentionally break any rules. The volunteer told me how far away my truck was, held the door for me, helped me put my harness back on, and pointed me towards my truck. The volunteer knew I where I was going and what I was going to do, and not once did it occur to him that I was going to break a rule. The rules clearly state that you cannot accept outside aid, but it's not clear that means you cannot get into a vehicle at a checkpoint just to sit when the warming houses the race provides are full. At the last checkpoint, I could have rented a cabin, taken a hot bath, made a pot of coffee and soup, and watched a movie under a down comforter in bed, but here I couldn't even get into my Suburban?!

The official told me that I'd probably get penalized an hour or two, that it wasn't a big deal, and that I had plenty of time, but still...

With nothing to do about it but get going, I sighed, said "Thanks," and went on my way.

Skipulk to Fortune Bay

For the first few hours, I was doing alright. I left Skipulk at about 6am. It was dark, and my headlamp was essentially dead, but it was going to be light soon, and I didn't want to take my hands out of my mitts to try and change the batteries. Not too far up the trail there was a huge hill with a shelter at the top. I looked for bivied racers, but it was empty. Company would have been nice, but there was barely anyone left. Before I knew it, it was light, and the day was just scooting away.

I took out my maps when I came to a T in the trail. The signage and tracks were pretty obvious, but being this far in the race, I wanted to make sure. Peeking ahead at the map, from here, the trail went east for a long ways before turning south just a bit before the finish. From that point on, I was gunning for a right turn.

Big mistake.

The trail is really straight as an arrow for miles at a time towards the end. Every time I'd get to a turn, I'd hope for that hard turn south, but it never came. Over and over, there'd be minor corrections, just to head east again.

Then the miles caught up with my a tendon in the front of my right leg, and I was hobbling.

The one saving grace of that last, flat section to the end was that the temperature finally warmed up a bit--above zero even! So much, in fact, that I took my Nilas jacket off for the last few miles to the finish--the first time since Gateway.

The finish area was perfect, with Tammy, Alicia, and Tucker waiting for me. I got to the banner and promptly laid down in the snow. I'd finished. I could stop now. What a trip.

Fortune Bay

A wonderful finish-line volunteer congratulated me on the run and guided me upstairs to the hospitality room where a handful of other racers/finishers were hanging out. I stopped to take my shoes off for the first time in 56 hours--and they were perfectly fine. One pair of Drymax Cold Weather Running Socks and a pair of Montrail Mountain Masochists Outdry (their Gore-Tex-like material)--the same combination Geoff Roes wore for his ITI350 win--had worked wonderfully.

I got my picture taken in front of the banner with my trophy.

Then Jackie Krueger pulled me aside to discuss my penalty. What I gathered from our conversation was that Arrowhead would rather not have spouses/families follow the race, not at checkpoints or using Spot devices. I accepted my 1-hour penalty, but pressed that it wasn't clear that sleeping in a vehicle at a checkpoint was against the rules. It was clear as day that getting a ride in a vehicle was against the rules, but not simply getting into a vehicle, especially at a checkpoint that offers heated shelters.

My takeaway is this:

In every ultramarathon I've participated in, aid stations are places for loved ones to welcome their runners a brief reprieve from the rigors of the trail. Arrowhead is not this place. The organizers want a remote, solitary challenge between you, the other participants, and the trail. It's their race, and I respect their decision to have it be however they want it to be, just don't make my mistake and go in expecting it to be something it's not.

The best part of my race, of every race, is seeing Alicia and Tucker. I was alone for a vast majority of the 56 hours of this race. The moments I got to spend with my loved ones was more than worth any penalty they could have given me (while still allowing me to finish). I don't want to break the spirit of the rules, but I want to see my people. I can see them without penalty outside at checkpoints, which, in the future, is exactly what I'll do. Oh--and I'll be very tempted to rent a cabin at Melgeorge's for my hot bath, down comforter, movie, and bag of popcorn mid-race. If anyone want's to split a dog-friendly cabin, let me know.

Will I do this race again? Yes.

Why? Because I want to get good at it before I take a shot at the ITI350 in Alaska.

Why do I want to try the ITI350? Because it seems just outside my reach, and I'm not sure I can.

2014 Arrowhead 135 Race Report, Part 1: Into the Cold

I’d come to, standing on the trail, staring into the woods, shivering, not knowing how long I was out or which way I should be going. It was frustrating; standing still was dangerous in that cold, and I was in a race! A quick look at my sled and the tracks in the snow would point me in the right direction and I’d start moving again, with purpose, trying to warm up, chiding myself for slipping mentally. Then, out of nowhere, I’d come to again, staring into the woods, shivering, colder than before, not knowing how long I was out or which way I should be going. It took a few times to realize that I always turned to the right. In hindsight, I should have bivied, hopped into my bag and slept for an hour, but I hadn’t had food or water for hours, I was cold, and the Skipulk checkpoint at mile 110 should have been just around the corner.

I’d seen Divesh at the shelter at mile 98. He took off a few minutes before I did, but was nowhere to be found. I took my mitts off long enough to look at my watch; 3am. I should have been to the checkpoint by now. Was I on the right trail? Had I ventured off somewhere in one of my dazes? I looked for tracks—I saw a couple, but wished there were more. Were they on the right trail, or were they as lost as I was? Who was I following alone into the darkness?

The shapes in the woods were driving me mad. Every time I looked up, I’d see a person bivied next to the trail, a shelter, an LP tank, a garage, or a mailbox. I kept worrying that the imaginary figures next to the trail needed help, but every time I got closer, the figure was just a mound of snow, the shelter was just a branch, the mailbox just a tree. After a while, I gave up looking; I couldn’t trust my eyes, I couldn’t trust my brain. I’d spent over 40 hours pulling that sled without sleep and was too cold to stop, so I just pointed my headlamp at my feet and kept moving.

Then I'd come to again, even colder than before.

Why?

My first ultra was the Zumbro 100 in 2011. When the race started and we headed out of camp onto that first glorified deer trail, I thought, “Oh boy.” I had no idea what I’d bitten off.

Not knowing if I was ready for a hundred started my obsession into the blogs reading about what people did to prepare for these races. The race director at Zumbro was a young guy named John Storkamp. He’d set the course record at Zumbro before becoming race director. The guy was very fast at 50-miles; annually one of the top runners at Voyageur and Door County, and a top-twenty placing at JFK. There was this other race on his resume, though, that he’d won a handful of times: Arrowhead 135.

Looking at that race, I’d never seen anything so silly. The race had 60-hour cutoff! The organizers made you carry survival gear, including a -20ºF sleeping bag, but warned that you were silly not to carry a -40ºF bag! One year there was only one finisher on foot! The more I looked into it, the less appealing it seemed. People lost fingers and toes! I hadn’t even finished a hundred yet. Arrowhead seemed so far out of my comfort zone that I had zero interest in even considering it.

Then I finished some races, and as I got to know the people that do these things a little better, I started to get a little more curious. In 2012, Geoff Roes ran ITI 350, and I was hooked. I combed over every item on his gear list and read everything I could find about his training before the race. When the race started, for a solid week, you couldn’t pull me away from Twitter or Facebook. I inhaled everything ITI. The feat seemed inhuman. The following season, John Storkamp ran Tuscobia 150, Arrowhead 135, and ITI 350 in a 6-week span, Tim Hewitt went unsupported in the 1000-mile version of ITI, Jason Husveth finished Arrowhead, and Joe Grant started blogging about his 2013 ITI 350. The fire was stoked. I was getting dangerously close to thinking about trying this type of race.

The tipping point was Zumbro, 2013. We had a hard spring with a late melt. Mid April felt like early March. Two weeks before the race, the course was a flooded, icy mess with knee deep water everywhere. The water went down a touch before the race, but it snowed the night before, and we started the race with several inches of snow over a wet course, turning to mud, then ice, then melting again. I was laughing, 15 hours in, when I asked, “Is there anyone still in this race?!” The course was merciless. There was a 33% finisher rate. At 28 hours and change, I finished 4^th—not because I was fast, but because everyone in front of me dropped out. At the finish line, John Storkamp—who’d just finished the insane trio of Tuscobia, Arrowhead, and ITI—said, “Now you’re ready for Arrowhead.” I didn’t know if I could do it or not, but I knew I was ready to try.

I started buying gear in June.

The Race

Alicia, Tucker, and I left for International Falls through a snowstorm early Sunday morning, made it through gear check by noon, and headed to Coffee Landing with wunderkind Logan Polfuss for lunch. At the pre-race briefing, the race director joked that more people were going to win swag in the pre-race drawing than finish the race. There was nervous laughter, but for good reason.

We woke race morning in the dark to a brisk wind and a temp of -27ºF. The reported windchill was -50ºF as we headed to the start. I knew the bikes started at 7:00am, skis at 7:02am, and sleds at 7:04am, and thought I was fine on time, but when I pulled my sled through the parking lot and over to the trail, I was greeted with to a herd of blinking red lights in the darkness a quarter-mile up the trail. I knew I’d never be first, but I didn’t want to be last! No matter. A few minutes in a 60-hour race aren’t such a big deal, but I was still surprised to see everyone gone. That first mistake, showing up late, was a small one; the second came 10 minutes later, and wasn’t so small.

Getting dressed that morning, I’d decided on 4 layers up top: Nike dri-fit base; Patagonia Piton 100-weight half-zip fleece; Mountain Hardwear Monkey Man Grid 200-weight full-zip fleece; and Mountain Hardwear Effusion full-zip hooded shell. The race was cold enough that I never wanted to take off the Patagonia fleece, so I put my Salomon S-Lab 5 hydration pack on top of it, under the top two layers, figuring I had enough over it to keep from freezing, which I probably did, at the time.

International Falls to Gateway

Leaving the start line a few minutes behind everyone, I was on the chase. 10 minutes in, I started getting warm. There were a handful of options: slow down; open my coat; take off my hood; etc. I decided to stop and take off my outer second fleece—my second mistake. Taking off the layers, I cooled down fast. As I packed the fleece into my sled and put my shell back on, a handful of familiar faces strolled past, including John Storkamp and Chris and Helen Scotch. That settled my nerves about starting late a bit. I got everything situated and started behind them.

Thirty minutes later, I went to take a sip of water from my hydration pack and the neoprene-covered hose had already frozen where it leaves the bladder on my back. I was essentially wearing a 5-lb weighted vest. I still had 2 liters of water in my insulated Nalgenes in the sled, but I never expected them to stay thawed until Gateway in that cold. When I went to take a drink of water from the Nalgenes, they were already starting to ice up.

Going into the race, I planned on eating 1000 calories every 3 hours. At 3 hours and change, I took off my Black Diamond Absolute mitts and fumbled with my first 1000-calorie zip-lock baggie of food in my pocket, leaving my fingers in just my RAB fleece liners. To eat, I had to pull my mask off my face, but it was stuck, frozen both to the buff around my neck and to my beard. I tugged the mask off my face, pulling out a bunch of beard hair, but it wouldn’t come free of the buff. It was a challenge getting anything into my mouth. By the time I got a few mouthfuls of food in, I couldn’t feel my fingers. I gave up my 1000-calorie goal and focused on getting feeling back in my fingers. They wouldn’t warm up in the mitts. It took a long stretch of hiking with my hands down the front of my pants to get feeling back in my fingers. That scared me enough to give up on eating on the trail. I figured that people go weeks without eating; at a 20-minute pace, it’d only be 12 hours to the first checkpoint. No big deal. I’d just eat there.

After I got feeling back in my hands, I tried to take another drink of water, but both Nalgenes were frozen solid. I laughed at the thought of how worried I was about the weight of my gear, yet, at that moment, I was probably carrying 10 pounds of ice. Oh well. People go days without water. I could go another 8 hours. I’d just fuel up at Gateway. In fact, doing the math quick, I figured, worst case scenario, I could do all of my eating and drinking at the checkpoints.

I pulled into Gateway (35 miles) 10:21 into the race just before nightfall.

One thing these events have taught me is that the most important things in my life are the people that choose to share these experiences with me and support me on my crazy endeavors. At mile 80 of a 100-mile race, my job, my house, my clothes, my bank account, none of it matters; I’m just thinking about making it to that next aid station, and if I’m lucky, seeing my people. It was fantastic seeing Alicia and Tucker in the parking lot of Gateway when I pulled in.

Gateway was fabulous; Kit-Kats, Snickers, vegetarian chili, Gatorade, Doritos, hot chocolate, and mac & cheese galore! The employees and volunteers were wonderful! I tucked into the restroom and re-body glided, unfroze my pack and my Nalgenes, refilled everything, and even laid down to relax for a minute before bundling back up. This time, I put my thawed hydration pack under my second layer, over just the Nike base layer, and, on top of the Effusion shell, I pulled on my totally awesome 850-fill down Mountain Hardwear Nilas jacket. I planned on only keeping the Nilas jacket on until I warmed up a bit, but that jacket didn’t come off for another 40+ hours. I loaded a pocket full of chocolate covered espresso beans smuggled in from Costa Rica (thank you, Dan LaPlante), kissed Alicia and Tucker goodbye, and headed out for the night. I’d spent 1:05 at the checkpoint. At 6:26pm, it was already dark.

Gateway to Melgeorge's

My pace was slow leaving Gateway, but with a belly full of food and liquids, I was fine with that. Matt Long passed me pretty quick into this section. It was fun to chat with him for a second, but I had no hope of keeping up with him—that man can hike. For 99% of this race, I was alone, and this section was no exception.

Whenever I started dozing too much, I ate a mouthful of espresso beans. I made it a point to take a sip from my pack every so often. Even though it was getting colder, dipping down below -30ºF, my water was staying water; it was even warm, which was actually nice. By 3am, I was dozing pretty badly, and Michael Nichols and two others caught up to me. I walked with them for a bit and chatted a touch, which started to wake me up, and I pulled ahead again. Mike came with me for a while, but when he stopped to eat, I put a gap on him. He caught up again a bit after daybreak on the trek across Elephant Lake to the second checkpoint at Melgeorge's. That was the coldest moment of the race; daybreak, -34ºF, into a 20mph headwind—the windchill must have been at least -65ºF.

Mike’s wife Kamie met us on the shore of Elephant Lake and walked the last few hundred yards to the checkpoint cabin at Melgeorge's, where Alicia was parked outside. It took me 14:42 to travel the 35 miles to Melgeorge's (mile 70) from Gateway (mile 35), and I pulled in a bit after 9am. I was freezing, starving, and needed to get inside to thaw out, so I asked Alicia to come into the cabin with me so I could see her.

That didn’t go so well. The checkpoint was chaos, but maybe not for the reason you’d think. As soon as Alicia walked in, they kicked her out. Sure, there were some racers in the cabin, but coming from outside, who cares! We’d just spent the entire night walking alone in the darkness. It had just gotten light outside, and we’re finally able to come in out of the cold. I wouldn't care if I have to sit on a floor, I just want food, warmth, and the happy, smiling faces of my people! Worse than kicking out our crew, though, was the fact that there were hypothermic, frost-bitten racers, shaking and in pain, getting no attention from the understaffed, tired aid station workers! I was trying to get warm calories, but it was difficult. My request for a second grilled cheese was met with disdain; apparently they thought I’d already had two, but who cares if I had! I’d spent 26 hours on the trail! Who cares how many sandwiches I’ve had! I grabbed chips and nuts off the table, filled my bottles, and got out.

I spent less time at Melgeorge's than every other racer on foot, not because I felt good or was full, warm, or rested, but because I wanted to see my wife and puppy, and to do that, I had to go back out in the cold. But out in the cold with my people was better than that cabin, by far, so I bundled back up and went on my way.

Part 2: Time Slips Away

2012 Superior 100 Race Report

Yes, it's late, but this is a big one, folks.  Sorry, it’s Superior.    

I know this race.  I catch fleeting glimpses of the course in my mind, like a repeating dream you find yourself having over and over.  I tried to play the whole thing back in my head before the race, recall each aid station, every climb, each descent, but I couldn’t quite piece it together.  When we lined up on race morning, though, it all came flooding back.  The trail déjà vu was strong.  Last year I went into this race having never set foot on the Superior Hiking Trail.  I had no idea what to expect besides epic difficulty.  Each step was new.  This year, I found myself remembering the next climb, the descent following the next ridge, the next runnable section, everything, and this year, I ran. 

Race weekend started Thursday morning with a crazy bunch for Alicia’s blueberry pancakes at our place before having the pleasure of catching a ride north to Two Harbors with hundo-rookie Scott Huston for the pre-race briefing.     

Quite the crew crashed at my friend’s beautiful cabin on Lake Superior just 10-minutes north of the race start, including me, Scott Huston, Jason LaPlant, Misty Schmidt (*all finishers of the race!), and Jason's crew-woman extraordinaire, Amy Scherbring.

Race morning—whoa boy.  I was excited, nervous, and scared, but most of all, I was prepared and ready.  This season had brought me a few successes, but also some pretty gnarly failures (I always take more away from the failures).  I came into this race rested (sleep is bar-none the most important thing leading up to a race), healthy, and tapered.  All that was left was that little battle between me, my expectations, and the trail. 

At the start, Ben Bruce and I ran comfortably, leaving Goosberry Falls with the 80-mile rule in full implementation: "If you’re not going to run it at mile 80, you don’t run it now."  It flows well with my “run the runnable” and “don’t fight the trail” mantras, all of which come down to the notion that you want to move quickly over the easy stuff, the flats and downs, the whole race, and to do that, you need to walk the hills at mile 5 so you can still run the "runnable" at mile 80+.  A few miles into the first section, Christy Nowak and Chris Hanson came up on us and ran through Ben.  By the time they passed me, Ben had fallen off the back, which was sad.  I spent all 103.3 miles last year with Ben and wanted to spend some good miles with him this year, but we each have to run our race (be careful—trying to save someone else’s race can quickly and easily derail your own—know when to cut people loose, which is not always easily done).  The next few bends brought Aaron Buffington, Tony Pierce, and another runner into view, so I made a quick push to grab the tail-end of that group and settled into the train.

As the course started getting a little more technical, Aaron started pulling away, so I made another push to join, with Tony coming along.  The miles brought stories, and we found out that this was Tony's first hundo.  Aaron has a fantastic way of grabbing everyone's life story out on the trail and sharing a lot of his own, a skill possibly only rivaled by his tree-traversing abilities (April Cole get's this joke).    

Down the spur trail into Split Rock (aid #1), we ran into Matt Aro and Joe Boler coming up the hill, running fantastically conservative races, not getting sucked into the fast pace at the front.  Donny was at the turn, directing traffic.  John Maas was there welcoming people in.  Jordan Langen was snapping pictures.  Vicky Bagelle helped me refill my pack, remarking that I hadn’t drank much that first section—which I thought a bit odd.  No matter.  I felt good, grabbing a few cookies and a banana before hiking back up the spur trail.

Up the trail, though, that water comment really started to bug me. The next section was the longest on the course, and last year I’d run dry about halfway through, nearly crippling my race with early dehydration.  This year was a lot cooler, but still, I thought I’d been drinking pretty well, but there was no arguing that the water level in the open bladder was only a few inches below the top.  I finally figured out—a few miles up the trail—that I’d stuffed the back of the Salomon pack so full that when I opened the bladder to refill, the tension in the pack squeezed the bladder, reducing the capacity from the already-lean 50 ounces to something much less.  For the second year in a row, I had to conserve water on the longest section on the course.  Still, Aaron, Tony, and I moved well, and I took the last sip out of the pack about a mile before Beaver Bay (aid #2).       

This time, I took the bladder out of the pack before filling it.  The good news: I got the full 50-ounces in the bladder.  The bad news: it took forever to get the bladder back into the pack.  I had to have a spectator help, and that wiped out the few minutes I put on Aaron and Tony down the hill into Beaver Bay.  No matter.  We left together, running along the river.  At this point, I was still climbing (hands on knees, Euro-style) a little faster than Tony and Aaron, so I pulled ahead a little and into Silver Bay (aid #3) at mile 25, my first drop bag, ahead of schedule and feeling fine. 

Before the race, I made a pace chart for people to have some idea where I’d be at what times and to help me plan my drop bags (gel, salt, lights, etc.), which was actually rather necessary for this one because I didn’t have a crew until the Cramer Road aid station at mile 77.9.  In the early miles of these things, we tend to run at a somewhat “normal” pace before settling down into the 100-mile slog (“start slow, then taper”), so guessing times isn’t easy, and I couldn’t just use last year’s paces because, frankly, I was going to run more than last year, and faster.  I had been talking some made smack to my buddy Jordan Hanlon leading up to the race that I was going to crush yet another one of his 100-mile times.  Last year, he finished a fantastic race at Superior just a smidge over 30-hours, putting 4+ hours on me after County Road 6, mile 43.5.  Given that, my pace chart had 3 times on it: my “GOAL” pace at 17:30/mi for a 30:07 finish; my “UGH” pace at 20:00/mi, settling at last year’s 34+ hour finish; and a “GODLIKE” pace of 15:00/mi for a 25:49 finish.  Trust me, the “GODLIKE” pace was just for people trying to find me at the beginning.  I figured my best case scenario was an initial “GODLIKE” first few sections that tapered off to “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLL” later in the race.  Though, through Silver Bay at mile 25, I was running comfortably, eating a ton, and holding fast to the 80-mile rule, a slick 45-minutes ahead of my “GODLIKE” pace, though I didn't know it at the time.  Still.. spiffy. 

I knew I was moving well, but I had absolutely no idea what that meant pace-wise.  I’d been running with the Suunto Ambit recently (love it--most of the time) and threw it in the 50-hour mode for the first time during this race—to complete and utter disappointment.  At the first aid station, 9.7 miles in, the watch read a paltry 8 miles, so I couldn’t trust the thing for anything more than time splits—tis-tis Suunto.  Vicky Bagelle was at the aid again (busy woman!), and to my surprise told me that Jeremy Lindquist had come through an hour-and-a-half before me (which, if true, would have been a sub-10:00/mi pace through the first 25 miles of the Superior 100!) and was in 4^th place!  I was a little surprised, not because Jeremy CAN’T run that fast, but because he was running that fast during THIS race.  I was hoping he could pull it out, but thought that I might see him later—at the time, I was betting by Sugarloaf.     

I re-upped my gel and salt, grabbed a headlamp, and was off again for the next long section to Tettagouche.   Leaving the aid, Aaron and I lost Tony but picked up Steve Clinton for a spell.  Aaron, true to form, grabbed Steve's life story, which was really a pleasure to take in.  Steve is just another wonderful person out trying to find himself.  He happened to run one hell of a race along the way, too.  We stopped to take Steve’s picture at Bean and Bear Lakes, where Steve’s bud Ben Sorenson came up on the group.  Steve dropped us to run with Ben, and those two sped off putting a little time on Aaron and me into Tettagouche, where we were greeted with the following nightmare.  

Although it was pointed out that with that grip, and left-handed, we shouldn’t have too much to worry about, I still feel comfortable in my initial concerns.  

Tettagouche came and went quick, with Steve Quick remarking that I looked “way too fresh.”  I took that as a good thing, and pushed ahead. 

The section from Tettagouche to County Road 6 takes forever.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s gorgeous, fantastically so, even.  The vistas of Lake Superior and the forest were stunning, but this 8.6 miles is a bear.  Last year, Ben, Jordan, and I witnessed carnage on this section, passing a few people that would never leave the next aid station.  This year, Aaron and I took it easy.  He’d get ahead of me for a spell, then I’d catch up and take a little lead.  Once, I found him perched at the top of a vista—seemed like a good place for a rest.  Wise man.  We sat, letting a few people go by, just enjoying the view before running across Eric Forseth on the hill above Country Road 6 on our way into the aid station. 

Finally, some of my peeps.  My dad, Krista Dierkhising, and Naomi Huston were at the aid station, whooping and hollering on my way in.  Last year, I had to turn on the headlamp a mile or two from the aid station.  This year, I got to the aid station with hours of daylight left, and best of all, I felt fantastic!  I grabbed my drop bag and was changing things out when my dad told me that Jeremy had just left the aid station 10 or so minutes ago.  I was shocked!  He was slowing down a ton, and that lit a little fire under my ass.  I thought that maybe I could catch him before Finland at 51.2, and I was off.

I was hiking the ups at a nice, quick tempo, and running the downs and flats.  After a few miles, the sun dipped below the trees, but I pushed on, trying to get to Finland without grabbing a light out of my pack, moving as fast as I could, faster than the last few sections.  There were a few times that I thought I heard someone coming up behind me, which I thought odd.  I was moving faster than I had been all afternoon.  I shouldn't be getting passed!  But sure enough, about a mile before the aid station, when I finally gave in and and grabbed a light out of my pack, Becky George came running up a hill behind me.  I hitched on, followed, and chatted until she stopped and grab her light and I was able to put some distance on her.  Honestly, I was ecstatic to still be ahead of her at the halfway point.  She's such a strong runner, winning the Zumbro 50 outright in the spring and putting up a 19-hour time at Kettle 100 earlier this year.  Around the next bend, I passed one older runner without a light, then came up on Jeremy, who started to run when he heard me coming, but was moving slow.  I told him to keep it up, snuck by, and hauled it into the aid station where Alicia was waiting.

The stop at Finland was quick.  I was still moving really well and wanted to keep that up as long as I could.  I refilled the pack, grabbed some Oreos, kissed Alicia goodbye, and took off towards Sonju.  Jeremy was coming in as I was on my way out, and I quickly caught up to Ben Sorenson and his pacer and chatted a bit  before sneaking by.  Becky George caught me quickly after that and I tried to hang with her through the roots to Sonju, but it was nearly impossible.  Her cadence is so quick, she just moves effortlessly through everything with seemingly zero impact--it's pretty amazing to watch, which I tried to do as long as possible.  She left me behind rather quickly, though, as I started to descend into my first real tough point of the night.

Pulling into Sonju was pretty fantastic.  I found a chair, pulled out some Advil, tightened the laces on my shoes, and grabbed a warm cup of soup with Jason Buffington.  It was getting chilly, so I grabbed my jacket and loaded everything back up before deciding that the jacket was too warm.  As I was fiddling with everything, Aaron Buffington and April Cole rolled in to the aid station.  It was fun watching the Buffington-brother interaction (Jason is quite the endurance athlete himself, usually more of a cyclist, but setting the course record at Arrowhead 135 last year on foot).  April was confused seeing me at the aid station, not thinking I was ahead of her (I don't blame her--that girl can motor).  I gladly followed those two out of Sonju en route to Crosby, taking in the conversation.

The next two sections, Sonju to Crosby and Crosby to Sugarloaf, were a hilarious delight!  It was fantastic chatting with Aaron and April--they really made the toughest miles on the course fly by, especially Aaron and me chasing April the last few miles into Sugarloaf.  It was nearly impossible to keep up with her--or at least for slow folk like Buffington and me.

Aaron took off really quick out of Sugarloaf, though, followed shortly by April, as I was finishing up my second cup of soup.  I really wasn't able to take in any sugar at that point, and all I had with me, food-wise, were gels and whatnot, so the aid stations were the only places I was really taking in calories.  The second cup of soup here was necessary, but still not enough.  Just as I was setting foot back on the trail, Alicia and Naomi happened by.  I only had time for a quick hello, telling them that I was getting really tired and had to keep moving.  My stomach was gone.  The bonk was in full effect.

That next section to Cramer Road was a doozy.  The trail wasn't bad, I was just losing it.  It took me a few minutes to catch up to April, but no matter how fast we went, we couldn't seem to get Aaron back in sight.  Then the sleepies started to hit, and I had to let April go.  The rest of the way into Cramer Road I was fighting sleep--even stopping and sitting down on logs or rocks on the side of the trail to catch a few minutes of shut-eye, but nothing seemed to help.  Not music.  Not singing.  Not speeding up.  Not walking.  Nothing.   This is where Ben Sorenson and Steve Clinton flew by me--I wish I could have hooked on, but I had no shot.

Eventually, I made it to Alicia at Cramer Road and she got me a 5-hour energy, a cup of coffee, a cup of soup, a grilled cheese, and a baggy of chips and pretzels to carry with me.  Same as before, though, as soon as I set out from the aid station, I started dozing off while moving again.  I was stumbling over everything, and was just looking for a place to grab a few minutes of rest.

Finally, at sunrise, I started coming around again and was able to make up some time into Temperance.  My only calories in the last section had come from half of a king sized Salted Nut Roll, but still, I was moving well.  I saw Eric Forseth, Alicia, and Alicia Hudelson at the aid station, stopped for a minute for some calories, but took off as soon as I could towards Carlton Peak.

The climb up Carlton was lonely, but quick.  The trip down was a blast.  I even beat Alicia to Sawbill where I got stung by a poor honey bee trying to steal my Salted Nut Roll.  At Sawbill, they told me that I was only 10 minutes back from Ben Sorenson, so I took off as quick as I could.  I could run the flats and downs, but I had nothing on the ups.  Still, about a mile out of Oberg, I caught Ben.  This is where the first marathoners started by, too.

I pulled into Oberg just before the sky opened up and left in a full downpour.  The last section took forever, but I was in such a great mood, it really didn't matter.  I knew I had it in the bag after Temperance--nothing could have stopped me from the finish line at that point.  And unlike last year, there were no massive hallucinations during that last section.  I didn't have to convince myself that I didn't have feet just to keep going.  In that respect, it was calm, quiet.  I didn't have a pacer.  I didn't have anyone to run with.  I was moving as fast as I could through the rain.  Every now and then a marathoner would stroll through, but I didn't have a shot at staying with any of those people.  I just tried to stay patient and positive until Lutsen.

Crossing the finish line was great.  There are no easy sections at this race, just hard and harder.  It's amazingly technical and relentless, beautiful and challenging.  I finished in 22nd place overall in 29:05:46, a time that would have put me in 8th place last year, and much, much faster than my 34:35 suffer-fest in 2011. It was a great run, and I couldn't have been happier.

Looking back, this one was a bit different for me, the closest to self-supported I've done with my crew-person extraordinaire and lovely wife Alicia volunteering at the Finland aid station (mile 51.2) all night.  I saw her there on my way through right after sundown, but not again until a 5-second greeting at Sugarloaf (mile 72.3) as I was heading out.  She saved my bacon later in the race at Sawbill (mile 90.7), finding lunchables at a gas station after my stomach went south and I couldn't stomach anything sweet--the "turkey" and "cheese" (if that's what you call it) were just what I needed.  Aside from that, though, I finished the race with just my drop bags, learning the important lesson to throw in some emergency "real food" in the future, just in case.

I went without a pacer for this race, but I did have the unexpected pleasure of chasing Aaron Buffington for a large majority of the race and hitting the hardest sections of the course (Crosby to Sugarloaf) at night with Aaron and April Cole.

Gear-wise, I was in a tank and shorts for 90% of the race, donning a jacket as I was falling asleep for the Sugarloaf and Cramer Road sections, then again after the sky opened up at Oberg.  My Montrail Mountain Masochists were perfect, as usual, with a pair of Drymax socks.  I didn't take off my shoes even once the entire race, only tightening/adjusting the laces twice, and had no blister or feet issues during the race.  (I've still never lost a toenail and am convinced those that do just wear shoes too small--size up people!)  The Salomon S-Lab 5 pack was spot on, per usual.  For light, I used a Petzl Tikka XP 2 at night, stacked with a Petzle Myo RXP when I was alone for more light.  

Everything epic, indeed.

"So that's what the trail looks like": 2012 Spring Superior 50k

Kettle Moraine 100 is coming in a few short days, so it's time to memorialize what was my 2012 Spring Superior 50k "race" before being on the hook for yet another race report.

The Superior Hiking Trail is majestic.  It's beautiful, it's technical, and unless your name is Chris Lundstrom, it will figuratively and literally bring you to your knees (or face, palms, back, or whatever other body part you decide to sacrifice to the trail gods).  In my case, I barrel-rolled off the trail at the top of Moose Mountain after catching my foot on a root before deciding to slow down for the day.

Spring Superior 50k starts where Sawtooth ends, in Lutsen at Caribou Highlands, and goes out-and-back along the last two sections of Sawtooth to Oberg and Briton Peak before capping out at Carlton Peak.  Although I'd been on nearly all of this course at Sawtooth (the exception being the last quarter mile up to the summit of Carlton Peak), I had practically zero recollection of the trail outside of some working knowledge of the aid stations, which isn't all that shocking given the first trip was at hour 30+ of Sawtooth with the hallucinations in full effect.  

Alicia, Andy, and I set up camp at Temperance River State Park and ran to packet-pickup at Caribou Highlands with the rest of the crew before settling in for the night.

Like all of my races, I didn't have much of a strategy going in, and as the race started, I got excited and found myself following Jeremy pretty quick off the bat up Mystery Mountain.  We were hauling.

A bit of elevation at Superior

Right before the race, I'd taken a gel.  On the way up Mystery, I learned that I apparently forgot to cinch up the front pocket on my Salomon pack, and my baggie of gels had fallen out.  I started to worry and imagine what an early calorie deficit would make me feel like towards the end of the race, so, I pushed a little harder to catch up to Jeremy, who was pulling away from me, and stole a gel from his pack.

A line formed on the trip down Mystery, and Jeremy zoomed by off the side of the trail.  I was content to just stay in line, and did, until the way up Moose, where people started passing.  At the top of Moose I took my spill, rolling off the trail and somehow not hurting myself.  Lying on the ground, looking up at the sky, I decided that, with a 100 mile race in just two short weeks, it might be a good idea to slow down.

And just like that, my mood switched, and I was done racing.  From here on, this was a fantastic, beautifully gorgeous training run for Kettle.

I was so happy to get into Oberg and grab some gels.  The weather was slowly heating up, but it wasn't too warm yet, so I didn't need to refill the pack.  I snagged a few cups of water, an s-cap, 2 gels, and moseyed out towards Carlton with a new pal, BJ Knight, in tow.  

I knew of BJ from facebook, but we'd never met.  It was his first ultra, and he chatted about going out too fast.  I told him I knew the feeling.  All through this next section he hung on to my heels, walking when I walked, running when I ran.  I was holding him back a bit, but that might have been a good thing at the moment.

Before I made it to Briton, the leaders, Sam Jurek (no relation to Scott) and Chris Lundstrom flew by on their way back.  At the time, Sam had a minute or so lead on Chris.  Sam hit a bit of a rough patch later in the race, but at this point was flying.  It was pretty amazing to see the pace the leaders were holding, and I cheered on as many people by names as I could on our way into Briton, where I re-filled my pack about half-way and grabbed a gel before BJ and I jetted out towards Carlton.

The climb up Carlton was fantastic.  The weather was heating up, but the trail was mostly shaded and gorgeously technical, and were were running into most of the people I was running with earlier.  I got to see the women's leaders, Becky George and Christi Nowak, both just flying down from Carlton, and then Jeremy close on their heels.

Todd Rowe was stationed at the old turn-around and was snapping pics of people on the way up the added section to the summit of Carlton.  In prior years, the course had ended prior to the summit of Carlton, but John Storkamp is never quite happy with just the advertised distance.  In all seriousness, the trip up to the top of Carlton was more than worth the extra distance, and I summited just shy of 2:45 and began the trip back.  

The way back down from Carlton to Briton was fun, and I was running into everyone, from Alisha Mayer, to Amy Carolan, Jason Husveth, and on and on and on; everyone just a few short minutes behind me.

Pulling into Briton, I made a quick stop at the facilities.  Antsy to get back on the trail, I made another huge mistake leaving Briton, forgetting (or rather neglecting) to refill my pack before BJ and I headed out towards Oberg.  It wasn't but 5 minutes into that section where I sucked the last drops of water out of my pack.  The day just kept getting hotter, and I didn't have any water for the next  5+ miles.  No worries, I knew just what to do; slow down.    

The 5.5 miles between Briton and Oberg ended up taking forever without water.  It wasn't so much that I needed water that was bugging me, but more that I just didn't have it, if that makes any sense.  With temps now in the mid-80s and sunny, I was warming up, so I didn't feel bad letting BJ go as Erica Lensink passed by.

The Oberg aid station was a welcome sight, and I stayed for a minute, having a few glasses of water, some salt, and a gel before hiking out.  A few more people caught up to me here before the downhill to Rollins Creek, including Amy Carolan.  What a doll!  She's always just so darn pleasant, and she looked really strong as she pulled away.

Most everyone I came across, be it a 25k or 50k runner, was having a great time and enjoying the day.  Don't get me wrong, they weren't having an easy time--the trail was hard, and it was warm--but it was gorgeous, and most had a mindset similar to mine and were loving every second of it.  Crossing Rollins Creek, though, there was a 25k runner down by the water.  I stopped to retie my shoe just a bit up the trail, and he came walking up, just complaining about everything.  "The trails in Minneapolis aren't anything like this."  "I can't believe how hard this is."  This guy was definitely stomping all the fun out of the race, and I got away from him as fast as I could.

A bit later, Jason Husveth came motoring by.  I thought about latching on, but was content with the 100-mile pace I had moving along.  The trail really was gorgeous, and, with a full pack of water and a few gels stashed in my pack, I had not a care in the world, and didn't feel like pushing.  I guess that was my Zen moment, there in the woods, moving at that relaxed pace, smiling, taking it all in.  What a fantastic place to be, to just exist.

It wasn't much further up the trail that I ran back into Jason, who was taking a breather and trying to cool down.  "I'm cooking my kidneys," he said, so I offered to douse him with some water--I had plenty to share.  We chatted a bit about how great it was to be out on a day like this, and I wished him luck before taking off.

Then, a few minutes later, I ran back into Eric Forseth, who was still out, armed with his camera, capturing the day.  I ran up to him, then we walked for a bit, chatting about his day and the people he'd seen.  He told me about Alicia's stumble on the trail as he was snapping pictures of her and Andy.  He said she was still smiling afterwards, though, so she must have been ok.

Eric has such a great attitude!  Even though he didn't get to run the race due to an injury, he was having a blast and enjoying every second of his day.  My kind of folk.  But hey, there was a race going on, and I had to get on my way.

On the climb up Mystery, as I was taking a hands on the knees breather, I heard someone yelling behind me, "Quit slacking, Edward!"  I replied, "Quit telling me what to do, Joy!"  "Can you really tell it's me without looking?" she asked.  "I can feel your presence, Joy."

At trail races, Joy Parker is my doppelganger.  She beat me by one spot at Voyageur last year and we seesawed at Sawtooth and Wild Duluth.  At the latter, she finished one spot behind me.  Here, she was on the hammer and easily ran away from me atop Mystery.  There's going to be a "Parker v. Sandor" cooler of beer at the finish of Voyageur.  Hopefully she saves me one ;)

The run down Mystery was a blast!  I kept it nice and relaxed and popped out on the road at an easy clip, content to bring it home, until I heard someone coming up behind me.  I looked, and sure enough, there was Allison, headphones in and on a mission.  I said, "Damnit Allison, you're going to make me run!"  She told me she was on a 20+ minute negative split on the way back, and she looked determined, so I picked up the pace and tried to pull her along to the finish.    

We crossed the finish in 6:14.  The official time has Allison crossing a second in front of me, which is just fine by me.  The finish and the time means a lot more to her, and I'm happy for her.  She ran a great race.

Afterwards, we hung out at the finish, cheered people in, relaxed, and told stories of the day before heading back to camp and cleaning up for a cookout at the Storkamp/Husveth/Pierce cabin and then drinks at the Laplant/Carolan cabin.  This really is a great community of people that run these things.

Even after going out on the trail that morning, it was amazing how little I recognized from Sawtooth on the trip back to Lutsen.  That kind of makes me need to run Sawtooth that much more this fall.  I know the Zumbro course like the back of my hand, but the Sawtooth course is still a stranger to me.

But first I've got Kettle, Black Hills, and Voyageur to tackle.  One step at a time.

"None of us really know what we're doing": My 2012 Zumbro 100 Race Report

Goeff Roes, one of the best of the best, published a great article on IRunFar a few weeks back, 100 Mile Intrigue: Embracing the Unknown, where he wrote:

"And herein lies the appeal of the 100-mile distance: none of us really know what we’re doing when it comes to 100 miles, and the aspiring 100 mile runner who has yet to race her first step, has a better chance of figuring out what works best for her than anyone else does."

That's ridiculously encouraging.

I follow a lot of running blogs.  I mean a LOT of running blogs.  I find my self constantly poking and prodding reading as much as I can about what other people, friends and pros, are doing to train for the kind of races that I want to run.  I think that, initially, I was reading so much because I wanted to make sure that I was doing enough to succeed at this type of event, but eventually that evolved into my talking with people and keeping track of them because they became part of my community.  I care about these people.  Some I've met.  Others I haven't (yet).  But the fact remains: these people are part of my life.

A few weeks back, one of my fellow local community members, Matt Lutz, pointed out in his post, (Semi-) Thought Experiment: how much could you run?, that Tony Krupicka put in 1000 miles in the 5 weeks leading up to the 2007 Leadville 100.  That's insane.  Apparently, Tony was coming off an injury, finally got healthy, and had nothing else to do that summer but make a run at Matt Carpenter's seemingly untouchable Leadville CR (15:42 in 2005).  Tony's since come out and said that kind of mileage is unsustainable, and I believe him.  Nonetheless, that relatively short training period helped him put up a 16:14 finish, the second fastest Leadville finish all-time.  (I'm not going to rub salt in Tony's 2009 and 2010 Leadville DNFs chasing Matt's ghost.)

On the other end of the spectrum, there's me.  And herein lies the story of my 2012 Zumbro 100.

2012 Zumbro 100 Race Report

In the 5 weeks leading up to the 2012 Zumbro 100, I ran 184 miles.  Yup, for the record, that's 1 more mile TOTAL throughout my entire 5 weeks leading up to the race than Tony's lowest single week in that same 5 week span.

You may be thinking, "Yeah, so you had a big taper.  I'm sure you ran a lot before that."  Nope.  Didn't do that either.

In the 5 weeks prior, I ran a combined 240 miles.  It only gets worse people.  After the JFK 50 last November, I did very little running through the Goofy Challenge at Disney the first week in January, and I left there with an injury, so then I ran even less.  After the 40-mile weekend at Disney, my weeks went 0, 6, and 17 miles to close out January.  In February, I finally got healthy enough to run again, and went 65, 29, 68, 39, 39, 49, 45, 44, 35, and 11 miles respectively in the 10 weeks leading into Zumbro.  Needless to say, I was a little worried about my base going into the race.   

I did have a few things going for me:  I raced a lot last year, and I think I'm starting to dial in my in-race nutrition, hydration, and gear.  I got one great 40 mile run in on the trails at Afton 8 weeks before the race.  Most of my miles were on trails, and I got a lot of running in on the Zumbro course itself.  Perhaps most importantly, though, the low mileage and huge taper prior to the race let me go into it feeling 100% perfectly healthy, with no aches or pains, and just dying to run.

Last year I showed up the morning of the race, just in time to grab my number, lace up my shoes, and go.  That was a huge mistake I remedied this year.  This go round, we made a party of the whole thing.  I had family and friends from Denver to New Jersey in for the event, not to mention that my Dad, Brother, and Cousin all decided to make Zumbro 2012 their first 100-mile attempts!  We had a campus there, and it was awesome!  The pre-race bbq was great, and we relaxed, hung out, and slowly got ready for the upcoming day.

"This is God.  You have a 100-mile race to start in one hour.  Wake up." bellowed RD extraordinaire John Storkamp over the loudspeakers shortly before 7am on race morning.  The campground was abuzz with runners and crew, taking pictures, catching up, and gathering for the start of lap 1 of the 6 lap course.

From L to R: my cousin Jim Sandor, Jeremy Lindquist, my dad Ed Sandor, me, my
brother Andrew Sandor, and Jason LaPlant, with my cousin TJ, Jim's son, in the front 

Lap 1

The race starts with a couple hundred yards of gravel to a first, short single-track section leading into the courses first gnarly climb.  If you've ever seen the start of a smaller hundo, it's pretty comical.  Everyone typically groups up pre-start for the final instructions from the RD, then, at "Go!" everyone slowly moseys away from the start and up the trail.

Heading out of camp at the start

This year, only one guy, Mike Poland, "raced" away from the start, putting quite a bit of time on everyone right out of the bat, only to drop midway through the race.  Asides from Mike, I ran with the lead group of runners for the first 10 miles.

Lead group with Jason LaPlant behind me, Matt Aro in white, Matt Lutz in green behind
Aro, Joe Boler in black, and Bob Gerenz behind Joe

This was a great group of guys to start the race with.  I spend a large percentage of my weekends with Jason, have run with Joe a bunch of times, met Matt at the course last year, and had chatted with Matt Lutz and read his blog prior to the race.  I was a bit worried because I knew how fast Matt Aro and Joe Boler are, but the pace was relaxed and I was having a good time.  Of this group, Matt Aro had the most experience and the biggest resume, finishing second here last year, third at Sawtooth last fall, and countless other high finishes in this type of race.  Matt Lutz, Jason, and I each had our first hundred mile finishes at Sawtooth last fall.  Joe was still looking for his first hundo finish, but was training like a madman with the likes of John Storkamp, a madman in his own right.  After chatting with Bob, I learned he was out for his first hundred.  (Spoiler alert--those are the first (Bob), second (Aro), and third place (Boler) finishers behind me in the picture above.)

Still feeling good, early on lap 1

We continued as a group into Aid #2 at a little over 7 miles, where a few guys blew right through and headed up this big, long, gradual, sandy uphill, ending with a steep climb up to Picnic Rock.  Everyone in the group climbed faster than I did, so I had no issues stepping aside and letting everyone go.  I really didn't want to push the heart rate up too high.  I caught everyone again on the "Pederson's Plunge," a wicked new downhill section of trail named after the previous RD, Larry Pederson.

We all came in relatively together into Aid #3, where Jason and I stopped for a second at the aid station while everyone else again blew right through.

A second later though, and we were gone.

Up the next climb to the scenic overlook was the last time I saw Bob, Matt Aro, and Joe until Matt and Joe lapped me on my lap 5.  Bob must have come and gone while I was in an aid station or at the start finish, because he never went by me on the trail.  I'm just not strong enough to climb fast without getting wrecked, and keeping from getting wrecked early in a hundred mile race is key.  Jason got ahead of me up that climb to scenic overlook, and I was alone for a bit before catching up to him before Ant hill.  We stayed together until Aid #4, but I took off before he did and finished lap 1 with enough time to grab a minute in the facilities at the campground before leaving for lap 2 with Jason.

Laps 2 and 3

"We're on a sub-19 hour pace!  We need to slow down,"  I told Jason as we left for lap 2.  We'd both gone out a little quick.  I felt great, but was nervous about the time.  My goal was to run the runnable, not get the heart rate up too high at any point, and not trash the quads on the downhills.  I lost Jason on the climb out of the start of lap 2 and was alone for the next long while, from about mile 18 until mile 42, where 16 year old Logan Polfuss passed me on a steep little climb up to Coulee Trail before Aid #2 on lap 3.  I'd left for lap 2 with my hiking poles, but ditched them at Aid #2 on lap 2 because they were just more of a hindrance than a help moving as fast as I was on those trails.  If I were moving a little slower, I'd have kept them out.  The rest of Laps 2 and 3 were pretty uneventful, aside from a new little switchback they added on Pederson's Plunge between my laps 2 and 3.  My aid station plan was to keep it quick, grab some gels, and go, and that was working well, but the monotony of the loops was really starting to get to me.  I got in and finished lap 3 just as the sun was going down.  50 miles down in a little less than 12 hours.

Lap 4

Finally, a pacer.  I got into camp and both Jordan Hanlon and Ben Bruce were there ready to pace me!  I didn't think Jeremy had a pacer, so asked Jordan to wait and go with Jeremy when he came around.  I later found out that Jeremy had not one, but several pacers lined up.  My cousin Jim, however, had none, and Jordan went out with him for lap 4.

Ben and I left camp just as a few people were coming in.  I'm not sure exactly who they were, but I imagine it was one or both of Jason or Jeremy, which lit a mini-fire under my ass.  I was focused to keep moving as quick as I could, and I set Ben in front of me and told him to keep running.  The darkness was actually a welcome relief.  I'd been on those trails so many times that day and the weeks leading up to the race, that not being able to see where I was actually helped me along.  I got to stare at Ben's feet and let him pull me along, running a bit slower, but more than the previous laps.  It was actually kind of neat, a little eye-opening, when the realization came that I was walking some parts of the trail during the day because they looked like a hill, when in all actuality, they weren't that bad to run.  I really think that if you take it easy and shorten the stride, running up moderate hills can actually be easier than power-hiking them.

Running with Ben was great.  We hadn't really seen too much of each other since our 34-hour Sawtooth adventure last fall.  On the trail is really the only place I know the guy, so we got to talk about all things running and life related.  It was really great having him to chat with.  Also, having Ben there allowed me to change my aid station strategy.  I didn't even have to go into the aids anymore!  I just told Ben to grab me 2-3 gels, depending on the length of the leg, and blew right past nearly every one.  It was fantastic!

Coming down Pederson's Plunge before Aid #3, the lightening was getting pretty bad.  A strong storm was coming, and I was praying that it didn't hit us.  Finally, about a half mile out from Aid #3, the rain started coming, and we ran hard trying to make it to the cover of the aid station before getting completely soaked.  Finally under the cover of the tarp, the hail started.  The rain and hail was coming down hard.  While we were waiting, Joe Boler came through to Aid #2 on his lap 5!  He was a machine!  In from the rain, grabbed a gel, then back out.  Joe and I were running different races.  He was fighting for a win.  I was hoping for a good finish.  All-told, Ben and I probably spent 20 minutes at that aid station waiting for the rain to let up a bit, making this my slowest lap of the race.

After the hill leaving Aid #4, a pair of runners caught up to us.  I was surprised to see Matt Lutz and his pacer, and mistakenly thought that Matt was on lap 5 and in first place, but when I asked, he told me that he was on the same lap I was.  I honestly didn't think I was in front of him, as I hadn't seen him since the scenic overlook on lap 1.  Ben and I let Matt and his pacer go up a small hill, but passed him again for good down the next decline, and headed in to camp, where my lovely wife Alicia was sleeping in a chair and a sleeping bag, waiting to help out if we needed anything.  Yep, she's pretty wonderful.  I changed socks, contemplated a change in clothes, refilled the pack, and headed back out for lap 5.

Lap 5

Ben and I got lapped by Matt Aro at the top of the first overlook leaving the campground.  He looked fantastic.  At the time, I thought he was in first place.  Only later did I find out that Bob Gerenz had somehow gotten by me before that, probably while I was changing socks.  Still, I thought Ben and I were only in camp for 5 minutes or so, and I don't remember anyone going by.

This loop was pretty uneventful until the downhill into Aid #2.  Holy hell had the rain and the 50-mile runners made that a massive slip-n-slide.  There was literally nothing to do but grab trees on your controlled fall down the hill.  It was here that I was uber glad to have cycling gloves on.  The mud and footing were awful, but we survived and kept on keeping on.

At Aid #3, I came across Andy, and he was not looking too hot.  I was afraid to even talk to him.  At least he had Allison with him, which was good.  I stayed only long enough to empty my shoe and hit the trail.  At the top of the scenic overlook, Joe Boler came flying by on a mission.  I told him where Matt had passed me, which seemed like hours ago (probably because it was).

The most surprising part, though, was that I was still moving really well.  We zipped down Ant Hill, and my gravity-aided prance down Paddy's let me reel in 16-year-old Logan Polfuss (albiet, only for a few miles).  We hit the gravel road hard into Aid #4, where I skipped the aid station, again sending Ben in for gels.  As I was moving up the hill, I heard my dad yell out!  He was moving, and seemed in good spirits, but I told him I was sorry, that I couldn't stop or slow down and had to keep pressing.  I felt bad, but I had a race to finish.

Midway through this lap, Ben's calf/achilles started acting up--probably from the combination of the gnarly footing and slow pace.  Ben was in the middle of a marathon training session (which he crushed on the way to a 7-minute 2:48 PR at Lake Wobegon in May!), and I didn't want to injure him for his race.  As we came into the campground from loop 5, the sun was coming up, and I told him to stay.  Alicia took care of me at camp, emptying garbage and kicking me out, and I was on my way out for lap 6, alone.

Lap 6

I left for lap 6 with the sun coming up and my spirits high.  I was still running, and that was fantastic.  A few miles into the lap, though, the wheels started falling off.  I was still running, but I couldn't stay awake!  Any hiking brought with it near unconsciousness.  I finally got to aid #1 and grabbed some coffee, doing anything I could to wake up.

After burning my mouth on some fantastic Matthew Patten coffee, I saw Krista at the aid station, and then Jeremy, who looked like death, sitting next to the TCRC RV.  He was at his aid #4 of lap 5, and I immediately felt horrible for him.  Just like my brother, I avoided talking to him like the plague.  I think my avoidance of them was more for my gain than theirs.  I just needed to keep a positive outlook heading back to the trail, and I didn't want even the thought of anyone suffering entering my mind.  I had enough demons of my own to fight out there without worrying about anyone elses, especially after 22 hours on the trail.  So I said goodbye to Jeremy and Krista and headed back out.

Almost immediately, I hit that sleepy stage again.  The only way to stay awake was to run, so I ran.  I was actually moving pretty quick until the big uphill on Walnut Coulee before aid #2.  I had to take a couple hands on the knees breaks to get the heart rate to come down up that thing, when Becky George came hiking up the hill behind me in first place of the 50.  She looked fantastic, and we chatted for a minute up the rest of the hill before she took off down the hill into aid #2.  I was in awe of the way she pranced down the trail, wondering if I ever had that energy, even at the beginning.  The good news, though, was that I was awake and heading into aid #2.

As fast as the energy comes, it goes.  I made it up to Picnic Rock, down Pederson's Plunge, and was dying in the sand before aid #3 when, again, I heard someone behind me.  I looked back to see Kevin Martin running up the trail in sweat pants and a jacket, which was a bit odd until he told me that Logan Polfuss was right behind him.  Sure enough, Logan came running around the corner.  The kid that looked like death a mere few miles back down Paddy's had got his second wind and was moving very, very well.  I wish I could have hung on with him, but I had no shot.  It was challenging enough to stay awake, let alone hitch on and go with him.  I stepped to the side, told him he looked great, and watched him run off around the bend.

Alone again and hiking, I was drifting off and just trying to make it to aid #3 when all of a sudden Jordan comes running up the trail at a sub-6 clip!  My cousin had dropped after his 4th lap, and Alicia asked Jordan to come find me.  What a lifesaver!  Jordan finally let me know what time it was, and I finally became aware of how well I was actually doing!  Just having him with me snapped me back into consciousness.  Calculating splits, I made the decision to hike most of the closing 7 miles in, with Joseph Altendahl and Pam Nielsen in 2nd and 3rd in the 50, respectively, passing by at some point that lap.  I think I gave up on running because it didn't really matter, especially after I let Logan go.  If I had any time goal coming into the race, it was 30 hours, so an 11 minute average or a 17 minute average wasn't going to make any difference at that point.  Either way it was 26 hours and change, so Jordan and I chatted and hiked all the way in.

26:49:06, 7th place!

The feeling of accomplishment and finally being able
to stop after finishing a hundo is like nothing else

Finally Finished

My 59-year-old dad made it 80 miles before catching a ride back to the start in his first 100-mile race, and my brother made it 84 miles, a full 5 laps, before being timed-out.  Both of those guys made it so much farther than I did last year, but they really took a beating.  Looking back, it makes me feel that much sillier for dropping when and where I did.  I was in relatively decent shape when I called it after 3 20-mile laps last year, but oh well.  You live, you learn.

There's no secret formula for these races, folks.  I trained less than I had for any prior race, yet ran my best race because I came in healthy, with a score to settle, and confident that I could do the distance.  The most important thing is knowing in your head that you can do it and managing the little things that can derail your race like nutrition and gear.  The long and short of it is that you should do whatever makes you confident that you can finish, because you can.

Karl Meltzer has a saying that "100 miles is not that far."  I don't think he means the distance so much as he's focusing on the attitude that he can do that distance.  With the right mental outlook, and enough base (that's a shout out to Wes), anyone who can finish a marathon can finish a hundred mile race, you just have to believe in yourself, because you are better than you think you are.

Overall, the race was fantastic.  At the finish, I heard tales of the sprint finish between Bob and Matt.  Over 100 miles, they were separated by only 2 seconds, which is amazing!  And the legend of Joe Boler thundering towards the finish in 3rd place a mere 12 minutes later is really inspiring.  What a way to finish your first hundred mile race!  All three of those guys came in under the previous course record, and the course was tougher than last year!  Jason LaPlant finished his second hundred in as many tries, and Jeremy Lindquist made it into the hundred mile club on his first attempt, finishing right after Jason.  The most inspiring thing, though, was seeing Anjanette Arnold sprinting across the campground and finishing within 10 seconds of cutoff before breaking down in tears of joy.  That was ridiculously inspiring.

My trail running community is a great group of folks.  I stayed up at the finish as long as I could before having to grab a few hours of sleep before cracking the kegs and celebrating my 30th birthday at camp that night.  There's too many people to thank and mention, but you all know who you are.  Zumbro is a great race put on by a great RD with fantastic volunteers and a great group of runners.  Everyone is so laid back and care free, it's almost like the group motto is "don't sweat the small stuff."  Maybe that's what these races really teach you.  They really put the rest of life into perspective.  So much of what we do and the things we worry about during our normal day-to-day ultimately don't matter, and nothing teaches you that better than reflecting on your priorities at mile 80 of a hundred mile race.  Looking around, at that campground out in the middle of nowhere, everything that is truly important to me in life was there: my beautiful wife, my dogs, my family, and my good friends.

I really do love these things.