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

"You can't beat death, but you can beat death in life, sometimes."

Reading Amy Rosenbaum Clark's fabulous article All in the Mind in April's Upper Midwest Trail Runners newsletter this morning, I was reminded of a quote I read in Travis Wildeboer's 2013 Barkley Marathons race report The 60-hour day that Andrew Thompson, the 8th finisher of the Barkley in 2009, said to Jonathan "Jonboy" Basham on their drive to the race in 2010 before Jonathan became the 9th finisher of the Barkley,

“You're entering a tunnel Jonboy,” said Thompson, “and there is no way out other than the other side.”

That's how you finish an ultra; you go into a tunnel and you don't come out until the finish. Come race day, after all the training is over and your kit is packed, it's all mental. During these events, that old mantra, "This isn't hard. This just is," constantly flows through my head. Though recently, that's morphed into everything: "It's raining. That's just how this is now." "My feet are wet. That's just how they are now." "My legs hurt. That's just how they feel now." Somehow, accepting my current conditions as they are with the mentality of, "So what? This is how it is now. Keep moving," really helps me keep going through that tunnel to the other side.

This mentality has seeped into every other aspect of my life. Life's hurdles and challenges that once seemed so daunting don't seem so big anymore. These events have taught me so much about life, about myself, about what's truly important.

I don't often remember my dreams, but thinking about that triggered memories of mine from last night. In my head, I was deep into loop 3 of the Barkley with a few faceless others, scaling a wall onto a thin ledge high above the valley, too extreme, too dangerous, even for the Barkley, watching the clock, knowing it was time to leave the others behind and keep going through that tunnel to the other side.

These things we do are fantastic. We're choosing to live life, to cheat death. How can we not laugh, smile, and giggle the entire time?

"your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you."

— Charles Bukowski

2013 barkley marathons

(in honor of laz, the completely sane and charming race director of the barkley mararthons, this post is absent capital letters)

buckle envy

"you do realize that the losers in the barkley lottery are the ones who get chosen, right?" -laz

i spent a large portion of my weekend glued to the twitter feed #bm100, a feeble attempt to feel "out there" from afar.

there's a record amount of media covering this year's barkley marathons, from ny times articles to a documentary to facebook pages to twitter feeds to functioning (gawk) real-life web pages! for good or bad, more details are available than ever before. i've read it all. the race has consumed me. i've written about this thing i desire here and here.

2013 did not disappoint, as laz, the idiot king, conjured up another doozy. rain. fog. mud. cold. carnage.

the conch blew at the respectable hour of 8:04am, and an hour later, at the lighting of a filtered camel, 35 brave souls ventured "out there."

21 made it out for loop 2, but only 5 survived to leave camp for loop 3. (in contrast, the 350-mile iditarod trail invitations in the brutal alaskan winter amazingly had 48 finishers out of 48 starters this year--different races entirely, but still)

the barkley bugle

the 5 that left for loop 3: travis wildeboer (unsupported superior and long trail fkts); nickademus hollon (22-year-old ultra boss, badwater finisher, arrowhead finisher, hurt competitor, 2-time barkley fun run alum); the abbs (bev and alan, tough mfers and multi-time barkley fun run vets); and one of last year's record 3 finishers, jared campbell (barkley alum, hardrock winner, and nolan's 14 buff).

earlier in the day, jared came in first from loop 1 like a boss in the ultimate direction sj ultra vest and euro-capris, more than an hour before travis and nick and 2 before the abbs, making it look easy.  

euro capris, barkley-style

but it's never easy. on lap 2, the barkley happened, and jared reportedly lost 7 hours off course and was the last of the 5 to leave camp for loop 3, just minutes before cutoff. 

laz and the infamous, now-secret results book in camp

nick hollon was the first to finish loop 3 for his third consectuive fun-run finish in 32:56:15 (seconds fellas? for the barkley? really?). travis wildeboer finished loop 3 just under an hour later, in 33:50 (thereabouts), and the two left together for loop 4 at 34 hours and change, less than 2 hours under cutoff for a loop 4 start. 

as the pace slows in the later hours of the barkley, the suspense grows with everyone eager for another runner to appear back at camp. the downtime is never quiet, though. this year, western states rd craig thornely (aka, lord_balls), crewing the abbs, kept laz busy, discussing race management, perhaps? to think what laz would do to western states is frightening. 

jared broke up talks of making western states more "barkley," coming into camp as 2013's third fun-run finisher at 35 hours, but the 7 hours lost on loop 2 had taken it's toll, and with one hour to leave camp for loop 4, he voluntarily tapped, refusing to continue (rtc). just like that, the alum were none.

the abbs were next into camp, finishing the fun run in 39:09, over the 36-hour limit to continue onto loop 4. they don't make them any tougher though, with alan's 4th fun-run finish in 4 tries and bev's second fun-run finish, making her quite possibly the toughest woman on the planet.

loop 3 page count

rumors filled the air that, on the top of rat jaw on loop 4, travis and nick were in good spirits, laughing and singing, seemingly taunting the course.

rat jaw at day

nick came in from loop 4 at 46:50 with travis just 5 minutes from his heels, but travis turned it around quicker in just 13:13, getting out of camp 5 at 47:09 and choosing a forward, final loop 5. nick left camp 5 minutes later for his backwards loop 5.

nick getting his loop 5 page from laz

travis prepping for loop 5

in the end, nick made it back to camp in 57:41, becoming the 13th finisher of the barkley marathons, the 14th barkley finish (brett maune has two finishes, 2011 and 2012).

nick flying into camp for his loop 5 finish

lap 5 page count

at camp, nick joked about going out for another loop, but when laz offered to let him hit the "easy" button, he refused, opting for "no" instead.

travis finished loop 5 an hour later at 58:41, becoming the 14th barkley finisher, adding to the barkley's rich history of thru-hiking/peak-bagging alum.

travis coming into camp for his loop 5 finish

the fifth and final touch of the yellow gate

lap 5 page count and a well-deserved smirk

really, the only non thru-hiker alum are jared campbell (even though he's done nolans 14) and nick hollon (i'm not sure about mark williams). it seems the right kind of crazy for the barkley is that which can manage a small amount of hurt for a large amount of time without completely losing your shit. the mental aspect of the task seems bigger than the physical, surprisingly, and it takes a special kind of nut not to crack.

epic indeed.

travis wildeboer and nickademus hollon, barkley alum

telling stories in front of the yellow gate, "no shit there i was"

brett maune, jared campbell, john fegyveresi, travis wildeboer, nick hollon, and laz

with "frozen ed" furtaw, the first official finisher of the 3-lap barkley marathons

someday i'll get there. until then...

unending unease
another year of comfort
still yearning to fail

*the pictures above were taken from others and are used here without permission. to those i borrowed from, thank you. to those that want their's down, no worries, just ask.

The Barkley

In my last post, the 2013 Race Schedule, I wrote,

"There's a monster of a race that I'm toying with the idea of signing up for, and looking at the remaining lotteries and open registration dates, August and September are still a bit in flux." 

That "monster" is the Barkley. I was being coy, ambiguous on purpose, trying to drop a hint without actually coming out with it, and I don't really know why. This came up with a non-running friend tonight, after telling him about the "race" that "only 13 runners out of about 900 have finished within the 60-hour cutoff," and it prompted me to really try and figure this out.

I think I'm embarrassed, maybe even scared, to admit that I'm applying to this "race." With only 35 entrants per year, who am I to think that I should be selected to run the Barkley?

I say it on this blog all the time, that "I'm still trying to become a runner," and I'm absolutely not kidding. In no way, shape, or form do I have this running thing down pat. All my times are pedestrian, complete middle-of-the-pack times, and I'm learning new things ALL. THE. TIME. For instance, I just recently realized that I hadn't been using my glutes enough in my running to actually get anywhere "quickly." (Watch this fantastic instructional video on natural running by Dr. Mark Cucuzzella, Director of the Natural Running Center.) It's insane how much I'm still probably doing wrong, but hey, I love learning about it.

So, why am I embarrassed about publicly admitting that I'm applying for the Barkley? Because the entrants to the Barkley are, for the most part, complete STUDS (or STUD'ettes), and I'm, well, me.

For example, past entrants of the Barkley include:

• Brett Maune, current John Muir Trail FKT (Fastest Known Time), current Mount Whitney FKT, current Barkley CR (Course Record) holder, only ever 2-time Barkley finisher
• Jared Campbell, 5th-ever finisher of Nolan's 14, 7-time Hardrock finisher (5 sub-30 hr finishes, first place 2010)
• John Fegyveresi, Appalachian Trail, Pacific Coast Trail, Badwater finisher
• Blake Wood, 17-time Hardrock finisher (first place 1999), 14:51 Rocky Racoon 100M, 2nd-ever Nolan's 14 finisher
• David Horton, former Appalacian Trail FKT, Transcontinental Crossing, former Long Trail FKT, former Pacific Coast Trail FKT, 4-time Hardrock finisher (first place 1992, 1993), 17-time JFK finisher (first place 1995)
• Cave Dog Ted Keizer, former Long Trail FKT, current Colorado 14ers speed record, numerous other Mountain speed records
• Mike Tilden, 3-time Hardrock finisher, Badwater finisher, 1st-ever Nolan's 14 finisher
• Jim Nelson, finished Nolan's 14 2:09 above 60-hr cutoff
• Flyin' Brian Robinson, Hardrock finisher, first to hike Appalachian, Continental Divide, and Pacific Crest Trails in same year
• Andrew Thompson, former Appalachian Trail FKT
• Johnathan Basham, former Colorado Trail FKT, Long Trail FKT, Hardrock finisher
• Eric Clifton, 20-time JFK finisher (4-time winner), Badwater winner, 13:16 Rocky Raccoon 100M

And this is just a few! There's more. It's just completely sick.

Now, I don't consider myself in the same universe of athlete as these amazing people. Why on earth should Laz (Barkley's RD) let me into the Barkley? The simple answer is that, based on my bio, he shouldn't. As stated above, I'm a middle-of-the-pack runner. I've never gotten into, let alone finished Western States, HURT, or Hardrock (though not for lack of trying). I've never through-hiked a single trail (though I have a strong desire to take out the Superior Hiking Trail SOON). But I want the Barkley. I want it... badly.

Thoughts of the Barkley haunt my dreams. It’s consumed me. It terrifies me, and because of that, I need to do it. There’s this saying,

"We stopped checking for monsters under our beds when we realized they were inside us." 

The only way to stop this unending unease is to look under the bed and make the nightmare my reality. I'm not afraid of the dark, of the nightmares, of what's hiding under the bed, but maybe I should be.

Bukowski said that,

"We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us."

Consider my applying for the Barkley as doing my best.

I guess I've realized that it's not my job to question whether or not I should be selected to run. My only job is to apply.

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.