{"id":20657,"date":"2013-07-31T14:33:52","date_gmt":"2013-07-31T18:33:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.nomeatathlete.com\/?p=20657"},"modified":"2020-04-13T15:52:56","modified_gmt":"2020-04-13T19:52:56","slug":"100-mile-ultramarathon-report","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.nomeatathlete.com\/100-mile-ultramarathon-report\/","title":{"rendered":"The Ins and Outs of My First 100-Mile Ultramarathon"},"content":{"rendered":"

My alarm went off at 3:30 a.m. This is it<\/em>, I thought.<\/p>\n

Even with all the advance planning I had done in an effort to make absolutely certain I got a full night’s sleep, a fitful four hours was all I had managed, tossing nervously and with a distinct feeling of guilt for three hours before actually drifting off.<\/p>\n

That’s right, guilt. A friend who has done many ultras had warned me that 70 or 80 miles into a 100-miler, a feeling of guilt for abusing your crew is not uncommon, one of the brain’s many tricks for convincing your body to quit. But the night before the race?<\/p>\n

It seemed my brain was getting a head start, trying to undermine the whole effort before it even got underway. I felt badly about how much time I had spent training since we had our daughter less than three months ago, how much of the workload my wife had shouldered to pick up my slack.<\/p>\n

I worried that something would go wrong in the race, that kidney failure or hyponatremia would result in a trip to the hospital (or worse) and cause my family a lot of hardship. But more than that, I worried that I would quit, and have to tell them that for all the work and sacrifice that had gone into training to complete a 100-miler, I hadn’t yet achieved what I had set out to.<\/p>\n

My parents had come along to crew, too, driving six or eight hours each to get to Cleveland. A friend whom I met through No Meat Athlete had driven four hours from Cincinnati to come pace me for the last 35 miles — it would be his first ultra, running through the night and putting up with whatever foul mood I would surely be in, and all of it without even a medal to commemorate his effort.<\/p>\n

All of these people were here for the sole purpose of helping me. I hadn’t realized how difficult accepting that would be until it was actually happening.<\/p>\n

But somehow I fell asleep, and suprisingly, woke up feeling fresh. Ninety minutes later, I was running through the dark by the light of my headlamp, knowing that I’d very likely still be out here at 5 a.m. the next morning.<\/p>\n

I was right. But never once in the next 28 hours and 40 minutes — spanning 101 miles total — did I reach a low that even approached what I had felt the night before.<\/p>\n

My Burning River 100 Recap<\/h3>\n

This long post is divided into two sections. The first is the play-by-play, which I’ll keep pretty brief as the vast majority of the miles were uneventful. There were some incredible (and incredibly painful) moments, so I’ll highlight those, but the second section will be more practical info about fueling and preparations and pacing so that you (yep, you!) will have a few more tools to help you understand how a pretty normal guy or girl can do something like this, should you ever want to try. And based on my experience, I’d recommend it if you’re into this sort of thing. \ud83d\ude42<\/p>\n

Here’s how it all went down. If you’d like more details, Doug and I recorded the next NMA podcast episode last night with many more of them; that should be published on Friday, so subscribe to that<\/a> if you’d like.<\/p>\n

The First Marathon: Ease<\/h3>\n

\"MattThe big story of the morning, at least in my mind, was the weather. Expecting the worst (and not given much choice in the summer), I had trained for 95-degree heat, so I was elated to find out the projected high was a mere\u00a069 degrees<\/i>.<\/p>\n

With that bit of good luck, the first 26.2 miles of the race were about ease — I stayed pretty close to a 13-minute per mile pace, which was pretty easy to do if I walked every hill and for 5 minutes after every 25 minutes of running. The point here was to cover as much ground as possible before feeling any fatigue at all, to “shorten” the race, in a way. These comfortable, relaxed miles flew by, especially after I ditched my headlamp and hat at mile 6.2 … and when I reached the crew access aid station at mile 26.2, I couldn’t believe I had been running for 5 hours and 45 minutes already.<\/p>\n

No iPod necessary, yet. I just enjoyed the trails and roads in the early morning, sticking as close as possible to my eating schedule (see the Food section below), and munching away on sunflower seeds in the shell — a boredom-killer I picked up riding the bench in high school baseball (look at me with high school sports mentions in two consecutive<\/a> posts!). The sunflower seeds provided a lot of salt, too, and figured that my best chance of avoiding hydration\/electrolyte issues was to go pretty heavy on the sodium and only drink to thirst (again, see the Food section for more details).<\/p>\n

The Second Marathon: Mud and Moisture<\/h3>\n

\"MattThe conditions of the morning were too good to last. The cold front had brought some rain with it, and though it helped to keep everybody cool, the steady precipitation eventually soaked my shoes and the trails. Otherwise things continued to go well — at mile 35, I thought to myself how incredibly easy this day would be if I were only running a 50 miler and had just 15 miles to go.<\/p>\n

But at the mile 41 aid station, when I took off my shoes to change socks, my feet were wrinkled from moisture and had a few hot spots, which I covered with athletic tape to prevent from turning into blisters. It was here that I made a simple mistake that would ultimately become my biggest of the race: I forgot to bring along an extra pair of socks for the next leg, when I knew I wouldn’t see my crew again for 23 miles.<\/p>\n

Leaving the aid station, with my stomach full from a bowl of rice with avocado and soy sauce, I felt great. In nine miles I’d hit the halfway point, and I was exactly on target to do so at 11 hours, so that I could hope for a 13-hour second half to finish in 24.<\/p>\n

Just five miles later, those hopes were dashed, when three miles (44-46, or so) took me an hour and 45 minutes <\/i>to cover. Why? Mud, mainly. The steady morning rain had soaked the trails, and 100 runners ahead of me had already been through this section, making the footing even worse. Hills were so slick that it took some creativity to even climb up them without slipping down, and the downhills were essentially muddy ski slopes which could be navigated only by sliding down and hoping to grab hold of a tree to stop. Somehow I messed up my elbow in this process, which didn’t slow me down but certainly added to mounting mental fatigue.<\/p>\n

Even the flat sections of the trail were hard to navigate. The single-track paths through the woods were pure mud, four inches deep in spots, and tall brush along the sides often made going straight through the mud the only choice. My feet got heavy as my shoes became caked with mud, my socks were saturated with moisture, and my heart rate soared as I had to quickly react to slips to avoid falling entirely (which of course, I still did, several times).<\/p>\n

Things were slipping out of control. Those three miles destroyed my 24-hour plans, but worse, the mud threatened to prevent me from finishing at all. What if the rest of the course is like this?<\/i> Even if I didn’t fatigue any more, I’d never be able to manage even 20-minute miles in mud like this. Worse, the difficulty of the past three miles had consumed all the mental focus I had, and I felt my head game starting to fall apart.<\/p>\n

My feet were beginning to hurt as the moisture led to blistering. Without dry socks to change into, and more than 15 miles to go until I’d see my crew again, I thought I was done for. Blisters don’t sound like enough to ruin a 100-miler, but when every step hurts in a race that will take a few hundred thousand of them, blisters matter.<\/p>\n

“The Moment”<\/h3>\n

My only hope was to take a break and care for my feet. I sat on a stump in the woods, depressed and annoyed at mosquitos that wouldn’t relent, and sloppily taped every single one of my toes. It hurt to jam my feet back into my shoes with all the added thickness of the tape, but I knew that I had 15 miles of running this way ahead of me, so I did my best to forget about my feet.<\/p>\n

It was here that I thought about quitting, for the only time in the entire race. And in doing so, I experienced a moment so valuable that it made the entire experience worthwhile.<\/p>\n

For just a few seconds, I debated dropping out. I could make my way slowly to the mile 50 aid station and tell everyone there how bad the last five miles had been, and they’d understand.<\/p>\n

That was about as far as that thought went. Immediately, I thought about what dropping would mean. For me, for my crew and pacer, for so many friends and family who were following my progress. And, just like that, it hit me:<\/p>\n

Absolutely nothing hurts more than quitting would. Barring an injury that physically prevents me from making forward progress, I’m not going to stop until I finish this race.<\/b><\/p>\n

That was all it took.<\/p>\n

Once I made this decision — or really, once I came to understand this, for it certainly didn’t feel like I had any say in the matter — there was never again a doubt in my mind. In that moment, with over 50 miles to go, I knew I would finish the race.<\/p>\n

The physical pain increased, but the urge to quit never did. The blisters got worse, and as I sit here writing this, I can find (and feel) one on no less than eight of my ten toes. But mentally and emotionally, I turned a corner at that point. In the race, sure, but I think maybe in a larger sense, too. It wasn’t just the decision, “I can keep going, for now.” It was, “I can keep going for now, and no matter what else happens or how much it hurts, I’ll keep going then, too.” I’ve never felt something like that, and honestly I didn’t know I had that in me. I’m still in awe of how it felt.<\/p>\n

The Second Half<\/h3>\n

\"MattThough I would run for another 16 hours after crossing the halfway point in around 12 hours, there’s not a whole lot to say. “The moment” at the end of the first half kinda sucked the thrill out of the rest of the race, but I suppose that’s not a bad thing.<\/p>\n

It was a struggle to reach mile 65, where a change of socks and a re-taping of my feet awaited. But even in that tough stretch, there were some high points where the pain in my feet let up and I ran at what felt like a good pace for two or three miles at a time.<\/p>\n

Finally, I hit the crew access station, where I had some soup, got my feet re-taped and shoes dried, and picked up Greg Watkins, my pacer. It had just gotten dark to the point of needing a headlamp or flashlight, and having someone with me as I headed back into the woods made a tremendous difference.<\/p>\n

Running with Greg was motivating in a way that’s beyond just a “keep you company” sort of way. Greg first reached out to me early this year, when he sent me a long letter about changes he had made in his life, losing over a hundred pounds from a high of 330, and this after a battle with addiction. He said that reading No Meat Athlete had helped him find the inspiration to run, and that he had completed a few marathons and was now considering an ultra. Seeing that Greg lived in Ohio, where this race was, I asked him if he’d consider pacing me for 30 or so miles of the second half of this race. That way, he’d have a partner to help him run his first ultra (unofficial as it may be), and I’d have his help in conquering a huge goal of my own.<\/p>\n

His help was absolutely essential; I can’t imagine how tough it would be to run through the night on your own in the second half of a 100. Being able to help each other out in that way was extremely rewarding for me, and I hope for Greg as well.<\/p>\n

There were some low points in the night, but nothing unexpected. A lot of the miles were on hilly trails, so there was a lot of hiking, which was a welcome break from running but painfully slow at times. Between miles 80 and 85 (after I had gotten some work done on my blisters by some Kent State podiatry students at an aid station), we hit a lot of mud on the steepest, hilliest portion of the course. That was a cranky point for me, mentally, as even the thought of 15 remaining miles was overwhelming. But we made our way through it, and thankfully, that was about all the mud there was on the second half of the course.<\/p>\n

\"\"As we left the mile 85 crew access aid station, the sun was beginning to rise. It was 6 a.m.; I’d been running for 25 hours, and it sure felt like it. Aid stops where I could see my wife, kids, and mom and dad were wonderful breaks, and truly the incentive to keep moving when things felt hopeless, and so I lingered at them, relishing the 10 or 15 minutes of food, love, and comfort. But when I left, the contrast of having to get back out there, combined with stiffness in my muscles and the painful shock as my blisters felt my weight once again, made these some of the toughest moments.<\/p>\n

But as day broke, and the course turned back to roads, hope was restored. Gradually, as we knocked off 15-minute miles or even the occasional 13-minute mile (it felt like we were really moving then!), I came to understand that the 30-hour cutoff time wouldn’t be a factor, so long as the wheels didn’t fall off.<\/p>\n

From there, the last 12 or 15 miles felt a bit like a ceremonial procession, a simple formality to complete the race. The hard work had been done — a brisk walk would get me across the finish line if that’s what it came to (and for the most part, it didn’t). The frequency of crew access stations increased, so I was able to run several miles without my backpack or even a handheld bottle, and getting to look forward to seeing my family every 3 or 5 miles.<\/p>\n

\"MattWe left the final aid station at mile 96, now in the town of Cuyahoga Falls where the finish line would be. With the exception of several flights of maybe 60 stairs at mile 98 (really!), the course at this point was flat and on gravel or paved roads, and the people walking or running by in town had lots of encouraging things to say.<\/p>\n

Finally, 28 hours and 35 minutes after I started running the previous day, a quarter-mile ahead I saw my wife carrying our daughter, along with my son and my mom, all of whom had come to walk\/run the last several hundred yards with us (my dad was at the finish taking pictures).<\/p>\n

We ran together, my son almost tripping me as he ran excitedly along in front, and the finish line came into focus. We crossed it, all at once, and we were done. I’d run 101 miles — why they made that the official length of the course is beyond me — and had earned a buckle to show for it. And finally, I could rest.<\/p>\n

And rest I did, falling asleep on the concrete sidewalk not 20 minutes later, at which point we decided it was time to go.<\/p>\n

My finish time of 28:40:33 was good for 122nd place, out of 263 starters. Less than 58 percent (152) of the starters finished the race — apparently the mud made it a tough day for everyone.<\/p>\n

\"Matt<\/p>\n

\"Matt<\/p>\n

\"Matt<\/p>\n

\"Matt<\/p>\n

\"Matt<\/p>\n

\"Bottom<\/p>\n

Final Thoughts<\/h3>\n

The biggest surprise for me was that running 100 miles (at least, running this<\/i> 100 miles) was easier than I expected it to be. I never hit a point of serious depression, despair, crying, guilt, or even an overwhelming urge to quit. In fact, judging by how I handled the stairs at mile 98, I think I could have kept running for many more miles if I had to (granted, with a lot of walking too), especially if not for the pain of the blisters.<\/p>\n

But speaking of blisters, I think in some small way they were a blessing. The pain they caused me prevented me from running my projected pace after mile 45. If not for the blisters, I’m pretty certain I’d have been able to keep up that 24-hour pace for a long time. The question is, though, would I have crashed bigtime as a result, long before the race was over? I had assumed my pace would slow to 15-minute miles in the second half, but had I kept up the 13-minute pace for 60 or more miles — which I think I may have if not for all the mud and the resulting blisters — the next 40 may have become unbearably difficult.<\/p>\n

My crew (and this includes Greg, my pacer) was unbelievably helpful. I’m floored by the amount of effort they put forth to make this race a success for me, and I’m in absolute awe of anyone who can complete a race of this distance by themselves, without support — logistical and emotional — from a crew. It was so nice to know, when I reached a crew access aid station, that my every need would be taken care of and every important question would be asked (more on the details of our preparations in the Crew section below). So to every member of my crew — Erin, Greg, Mom, Dad, and the kids — thank you, from the bottom of my heart. This would not<\/em> have happened without you there.<\/p>\n

The Technical Stuff (For Those Who Want to Run a 100 One Day)<\/h2>\n

What follows is a breakdown of most of the details that went into the planning and execution of my first 100-miler. I don’t expect most people to read this, but figured for a few people who have their sights set on a 100, it might be really useful to see how a very average ultrarunner (and above-average crew!) made it work.<\/p>\n

Food<\/h3>\n

Here’s a list of everything I ate during the race (some are estimates, but pretty close ones, I think). I’ll explain my general approach below.<\/p>\n