How Runners Talk

FeatureVol. 5, No. 5 (2001)September 200149 min readpp. 99-132

that you’ ve finally, finally found the determination to become a monster, to pull out nonstop everything inside you for one magnificent run?

Could be either, I suppose. Or both.

There are monsters everywhere in the race. The stream of runners, winding along the course, writhes at times like a brightly colored serpent. The runners together are a thundering herd, a force of destruction that tears up the landscape. The really determined runners are monstrous in their attack, methodically planning, picking the weaker ones off one by one.

The inspired runners might imagine themselves pursued by the fire breath of dragons—they pass me that fast. What monsters are in their heads? Do they still fear lions and bears under their beds?

Muslims say this about the Angel of Death, who just might be chasing the runners now, the lead runner is flying so. “When the Angel of Death approaches, he is terrible. When he reaches you, it is bliss.”

I’m a chute runner today. I run ahead of a group of girls who have just entered the chute, the organized exit path for runners who have crossed the finish line. Since runners cross the finish line just seconds apart, funneling runners through the chute brings an organized finish to the race, making it easier to get accurate times and placings. If the chutes back up, runners are delayed in crossing the finish line. Chute runners, volunteers like me, keep the exhausted runners moving until they leave the chute.

Number 222, the winner of the race, is the first girl into the chute. She slows down. I wave her ahead, tell her to follow me. She’s tall and thin. Her dark hair clings wildly to her damp ashen face. Her head cocks to one side,

Christine White HOW RUNNERS TALK ™ 109

and her arms grab the clothesline chute ropes for support. Her brain tells her the race is over, and her legs quit moving.

Runners fall against number 222 from behind. Everyone’s cramping up. The first girl’s knees are now buckling, but she keeps staggering toward me.

“Tf you’re cramping, raise your arms. Just keep moving!” someone yells. Runners are bending over, gagging and retching.

“Soup’s up today,” one official says under his breath.

Number 222 is almost sitting down.

“Get her out! Get her out!”

I grab her arms and push number 222 under the ropes and out of the chute before she becomes total dead weight, ripping her number from her singlet as I drop her to the ground. Then I take her place in the chute, running with her number, as I lead the girls through.

At the end of the chute, I turn in the winning girl’s number. She watches me from her spot on the grass next to the chute.

“Tm 222,” I tell the mother collecting numbers.

I’mdrawn to runners’ pained faces with their glazed eyes that see nothing but the course ahead. When questioned about the agonized look on his face while he raced, Emil Zatopek, the Czech runner who won three gold medals at the 1952 Helsinki Olympics, answered, “It is not gymnastics or ice skating, you know.”

I think it was Dostoevsky who said that suffering is the sole origin of consciousness. He probably would have made a good runner.

It’s the pain that gets you in a race even though pain, and working through it, is the key to being a faster runner. This is how my racing sons talk about pain:

“They hurt just as much as you hurt in the second mile! The kid who was 120th hurt just as much as you.” My older son was talking again to his brother. “What’s the difference? How you react.

“You know whatit feels like in the mile when your legs get heavy and there’s a burn in your thighs and the burn works up your legs. You have to figure out the third mile. You haven’t proved to yourself that you can do it. You’ve just got to run through it, man, and once you’ ve got through it, it will never bother you like that again.”

At races, I can’t stay away from the finish line. All kinds of people wait at the finish line. Once I saw a woman reading a book there. She was oblivious to the race and the cheering and the exhausted runners. She just kept reading her book.

This season there’s been a woman ina wheelchair at every race’s finish. She must have a son in the race. She slumps down in the wheelchair, but her eyes

follow the finish carefully. She doesn’t cheer, but I sense she knows exactly what the race is all about. She doesn’t read a book at the finish line.

I love the shirts with sayings on the back that runners wear: “If you’re not the lead dog, the scenery never changes.” “No limits.” “It’s rude to count the people you pass—out loud.” Some girls told me their favorite was “We work ours off so we can kick yours.”

I’ve wondered what my shirt would say if I was out there in the race. And then I saw this one: “yougottawanna.”

This would be my shirt: “yougottawannamomma.”

I tell my older son that I’m writing about running and about racing. He doesn’t understand that I’m really writing about my soul, so he’s skeptical, almost derisive in the way a 22-year-old can be. He thinks he knows all about the race just because he’s been there, winning over and over.

“You’ ve never runarace in your life,” he tells me. “What do you know about racing? You’re not an athlete.”

I say, “But that’s the point. That’s what I’m writing about. There are many races out there, many ways to run.”

He thinks about this for a few seconds.

“No,” he responds. “There is only the race.”

This is how runners talk.

The race is like truth serum. The race tests you to the core of your intent. That’s what racing legend Mark Allen believes, according to a 1998 interview in Triathlete magazine. Allen won the Hawaii Ironman triathlon six times, the last time in 1995, and speaks of the race and what it takes to win in almost spiritual terms. In his final Ironman, Allen prepared himself on every possible level, but at the crucial moment, pursued by the much younger Thomas Hellreigel, he almost gave up.

“But then I realized . .. I was holding back, just a little bit, because I wanted . .. essentially I wanted some billboard to come out of the lava and say, ‘If you give 100 percent, you will catch Hellreigel, and you will win.’

“Tt was like a safety valve. If I gave only 97 percent, I could say, ‘Well, if I don’t catch him, I probably could have done it.’ One thing was certain: If I didn’t give it 100 percent, I definitely wasn’t going to win. And I knew that I had to give 100 percent and that there was no guarantee. It might mean that I catch him, it might mean that he finishes five seconds in front of me, but that’s what I had to do.”

Every race is really a leap into the unknown, which makes the racer a very brave thing. When you stand on the line, you put it on the line. Literally. The race becomes a learning school. At least that’s one way to look at it. Otherwise, it all seems so silly. Lorraine told me this.

If the race is really a learning school for life, then a runner must surrender to the race and understand one fundamental thing:

“The race doesn’t really give a damn if you’re a lawyer or a bricklayer… or if you didn’t get enough sleep. The race doesn’t care,” says Allen. “The race is there to be finished.”

The race is always greater than the runner. The runner must believe in the race as a process. “You can do what you can do, but you also trust that the universe is conspiring to teach you what you need to know,” says Lorraine. The race requires runners to walk the line between fear and desire.

This is how runners talk.

“You can be a stud if you want to. People will forfeit to you at the starting line. You’ve got the capability of being a monster. A monster. You can be a monster. Just stop being a head case. At the end of the race, whose Pat head is on?” Pe

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Editor’s Note: Rich Limacher is nothing if not persistent. Herein he recounts his second attempt to complete the ultra-tough Hardrock 100. We aren’t in the habit of carrying stories that glo- , rifynot reaching one’s goal, butRich makes failing seem like so much fun that we let him charm us twice. For an account of his first attempt at Hardrock, see Volume 4, Issue 3 (May/June 2000). We’ve also posted Rich’s first article on the M&B Web site: www.marathonandbeyond.com. Click the link to “Other Editors’ Choices” at the bottom of our Editors’ Choice article on the homepage.

GS LYERTON , COLORADO, July 7-9, 2000—It was arguably the last running of the Hardrock 100-mile ultramarathon of the 20th century and, incidentally, the entire second millennium. And of course this story is just as significant. This essay might be the first of }©£————___ its kind for Marathon & Beyond, as__ Rich Limacher “flying” down the trail to it represents two “most unforget- Maggie’s Gulchin the 2000 Hardrock 100.

table” accounts by the same author of the same race—and the guy hasn’t even finished it yet.

But how can you have a “most unforgettable ultramarathon” twice, you ask? Can you, for example, partially forget some of a race so the second time the rest of the race is more memorable? Or can you remember a race unforgettably in one way one year and then come back a year later having forgotten most everything you thought you remembered to do better the next time—only then to discover your previous experience didn’t prepare you anyway because now you’re running the course backward?

Is that twice memorable, or what? In any case, it’s what happened to me.

The Hardrock 100-Mile Endurance Run, high atop the San Juan Range of the Rocky Mountains in southwestern Colorado, is like that. If you’re going to attemptit, you will be breaking new ground. And if you’re a magazine planning to publish one story once about the experience, you’d better think twice. Many, if not most, ultrarunners cannot finish Hardrock their first time, so how could any self-respecting ultrawriter cover his experience in a single article? Well, it can’t be done; besides, my first piece covered only half the course. So, read on for my searing, brain-branded memories of the second half.

EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS WRONG

Lasttime, if you’Il recall, I solemnly assured everyone hoping to finish Hardrock that hiking poles and crampons are absolutely necessary. (Crampons, for the uninitiated, are strap-on spikes.) Well, that’s what I thought then, but as it turns out, everything I thought I knew was wrong.

As example #1, when I showed up at Charlie Thorn’s house in Silverton to volunteer for his trail-marking “army,” everyone asked what I had in my backpack. They died laughing when I told them. “You won’t need crampons this year!” they roared. “There’s no snow!”

But, hold on. On the trail-marking expedition just before raceday, I was privileged to meet and befriend a wonderful gentleman and ultrarunner by the name of Hans-Dieter Weisshaar (who in 2000, by the way, broke Jose Wilkie’s record for the number of 100-milers finished in one year). Hans is from Germany, where he surely hikes the snow-covered Alps, so of course he knows about crampons. Indeed, when our little army finally arrived at the base of Virginius Pass, the steepest ice-wall climb of this race (and perhaps of any other race), I righteously took note when Hans sat down to strap on his crampons. But, just as I was about to point this out to all who had laughed, Hans said, “You really won’t need these for a little climb like this, Rich. I’m just putting these on because you brought yours.”

Didn’t I say he was a gentleman?

As example #2, I had thought I’d be doing this race with my Illinois coach and mentor, Chuck Bundy. Chuck—who, by the way, is a bona fide hero, as he was a frogman (now called a Navy Seal) and Korean War vet—and I had planned for a year that we would make this second assault on Hardrock together. (He too had DNF’d the first time.) But right before we were to leave, Chuck was hit with an emergency and could not make the trip.

In my moment of greatest need, Larry Ridgeway came to the rescue, fetching me at Denver’s airport and driving me to Silverton, where we camped in the RV park by the riverside. Larry, incidentally, is another hero, and not just for helping me. He’s a Vietnam vet who got his start rescuing people by piloting choppers for the Marine Corps. I told him he probably saved the life of one of my old high school buddies over there.

But even after I laid on the flattery, Larry still had the nerve to laugh at me and my crampons.

I tell you all this because, number one, you should ignore Hans and Larry and everyone else and go out and buy yourself some crampons. Number two, if you do show up for Hardrock, you should know the caliber of folks you’ re likely to meet. These people really are heroes.

I learned something else from Ginny LaForme that I had all wrong in my first article. I had theorized that all the red I saw in the butt-slide chute on Virginius Pass was blood scraped from the exposed skin of runners in front of me. But Ginny (who well deserves her nickname “Mom’) set me straight.

“Nah,” she said. “It’s red algae. It grows in the snow here.”

ONCE ATTENDED, TWICE BEFRIENDED

You cannot enter, prepare for, travel to, endure, and return from an epic event like the Hardrock Hundred without making a whole valley full of new friends. This is one reason why it’s getting tougher and tougher for newcomers to get in. Hardrock’s “clan” is the first to fill out the paperwork and lick their stamps. It’s not so much a race or a war or a test of survival as it is a family reunion.

If so, Carolyn Erdman must be the matriarch. She did, in fact, receive the 1999 “Mother Lode” award, which the race booklet tells you is the highest award the Hardrock gives. The booklet also says, “Carolyn has welcomed many a runner to the San Juans. Her enthusiasm and caring spirit epitomize what ultrarunning is all about.”

Of course, you wouldn’t expect the booklet to mention that she and her husband Eric have a home there, that he is one of the standout local theater actors, and that Carolyn was the first person Larry and I looked up when we got to town. The booklet also neglects to disclose that Carolyn promised mea great big hug at the finish line (if we both finished the race).

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Rich Limacher MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE ULTRAMARATHON ® 117

Anyway, I’ve highlighted enough of my own ignorance about this great event. Now it’s time for something I’m sure you didn’t know about the race. That is, it’s not a race!

That’s right. My two newest friends among race management, Charlie Thorn and John Cappis, insist that Hardrock be called a “run” and nota race. The idea is to discourage the kind of participation a lot of other events experience, where the sport’s leading racers show up and—after some of them start and discover they won’t win—drop out. This takes away starting slots (only 110 available) from runners who aren’t in it to win and who thus miss out on the event.

In other words, Hardrock’s founding fathers, John (who established the original course), and trail-marking army general Charlie, want more people like Carolyn and Larry and me in their event. All you fast people out there can just stay away!

If you’re reading this piece, then you probably want to learn something about the second half of the course, which I failed to tell you about last time (because I failed to get there). Let me now make amends.

Onan overcast, predawn morning outside the gym of Silverton High School (“Home of the Miners,” naturally) on 12th Street—or just before 6:00 a.m., MDT, July 7, 2000, to be exact—race director Dale Garland climbs on top of the hardrock, a big stone that public works hauls there for the occasion (I met the public worker who does this, Mike Luther, during trail marking), hollers out a few last-minute reminders (such as what to do if you drop, die, or survive), and then says, “Go!”

Immediately, but without much hurry, a scraggly-looking band of “crazies” begin running in their “underwear.” I am among them, along with Carolyn and Charlie and all my other newfound best friends. I know it’s the last time I’ll see Charlie for a while (because he’s such a strong finisher), so I wish him “good luck.” (Although I don’t yet know it) I am destined to see Carolyn and John later, and, still later again, and even more significantly, later than that.

As I mentioned, this year we’ re going in the opposite direction, running first through the streets of town that I never got to trudge through a year ago. We follow perfectly the path that Carolyn had first showed to Larry and me two weeks ago, and none of us misses any turnoffs. We’re now southeast of town, on the jeep road, undertaking our first major climb of the day: Dives-Little Giant. The prerun booklet tells you this is the first of a dozen climbs above 12,000 feet. (Actually, Little Giant Peak is 13,000 feet, but who’s counting when you’re among friends?)

(Left) Race director Dale Garland ready to signal the start while standing atop the hardrock. (Right) Rich Limacher on 12th Street before the start. Just behind him (L to R) are Charlie Thorn, Hans-Dieter Weisshaar, and his wife Susi.

Two weeks ago, Carolyn had pointed out what’s left of the Dives Mine, on one side of the peak, and now I notice that the whole thing is ruins. She had also pointed out what’s ahead, which I might hesitate to call Dives-Little Giant Bridge (because if it really were a bridge, there’d be guardrails). This is the place where the booklet casually informs you: “About a hundred yards below the trail, the steep grass slope disappears over cliffs that are several hundred feet high. A slip here could be fatal.”

Iask you, how many 10Ks have a line like that in their course descriptions?

What I see as I look toward the “bridge” are a bunch of runners that I used to be in front of, but I’ve stopped here to pull out my camera and record this image for all preposterousity. I can shoot the narrow structure we’ re supposed to traverse without seeing much on either side, but when I put the camera away and actually get there, there’s nothing on either side!

CIRCLE THE WAGONS AT CUNNINGHAM GULCH

What I failed to explain last time is the vast, circular shape of John Cappis’s incredibly concocted course. Think of it as a cosmic clock, ripped off the wall in frustration, thrown on the floor, and landing on its back. So when you look down, you see Silverton at 6 o’clock, Ouray at 12, Telluride at 9, and possibly Handies Peak at 3. Right now, coming down off Little Giant, I’m probably at 28 minutes past the hour, or exactly “2 minutes” into the race.

Except, of course, as I look at my watch, it’s actually three hours after we started, and the real fun hasn’t even begun. Remember, we’re going counterclockwise. This means I have 58 more “minutes” on the clock to cover yet.

Carolyn had earlier pointed out where Cunningham Gulch’s aid station is always located, which from high above looks like a little circle. That’s the empty roadway, and when we got down there two weeks ago, there was one lone camper to greet us. Today, I look down and see—a traffic jam! I mean, there are station wagons and people and (probably) Indians milling about, and a whole lotta hoopin’ an’ hollerin’ goin’ on. (Is this a concert?) Even the trail rocks.

Apparently, everybody hollers for every runner that arrives alive. Heidi Schutt (Larry’s wife) is cheering. She tells me her man and Carolyn are “only a few minutes ahead of you.” Even Dale Garland is here, wearing his big cowboy hat. He asks me what I think of this direction.

“Dale,” Imanage to mumble with my mouth full of sandwich, “I am so glad I don’t have to go up that mountain after running 90 miles!”

Stuffed with sandwich, saddled with refilled bottles, and armed with hiking poles, I continue on my way. (Quick note about the poles: Yes, they help because they encourage your upper body to take some of the effort off your legs—very good for the climbs. But you should not wait until Silverton to buy them because then you’re buying where they know they’ ve got you—bad for the budget.)

I’msuddenly running out of Cunningham on a flat gravel road. Unheard of! But it doesn’t last long, and next thing you know, I’m passing Jennifer Roach on a much steeper road up to Buffalo Boy Ridge, the next 13,000-footer on the agenda. Jennifer doesn’t know it yet, but she’s later going to send me an e-mail saying how strong I look going up this climb. Of course, what J don’t realize is that she’s destined to clean my clock!

Somewhere coming down into Maggie Gulch, the second aid station—just 6.9 miles (and 2 1/2 hours!) from the first—I happen to pass Susan Gardner on a switchback. I introduce myself as I trot by. Bad mistake.

“I know who you are,” she says, just as, I’m sure, in an earlier era, a similarly awesome young lady probably said those very same words on this very same

trail to Jessie James. Of course, the mistake was not in introducing myself to her but in passing her. She proceeds to clean my clock, too.

After Maggie’s “cantina,” Susan blows by me on our way to Pole Creek. The thing about this creek is you never get there, and when you do, it’s called something else. But this also happens to be one of the longest and flattest sections of the course. Here too I make another tactical mistake: I fail to pick up my pace. This is costly. I keep thinking, Hey, I’m doin’ okay. If I can only maintain, I’Il finish easy. Butas ve already noted, everything I know is wrong.

Now for my newest problem: my feet are starting to hurt. No doubt this is due to my new shoes I won in araffle and hurt like hell since the first time I wore them. So my thinking becomes: /’1l wear ’em for the first half only and change into my better shoes at Ouray. My reason for thinking this is: My feet will feel such relief that I’ll finally be able to finish this thing. But this is very poor reasoning.

Something of interest that shows up after the Pole Creek aid station is nothing less than the Continental Divide. You or I would never know, however, that once you get to this point, water on your left flows to the Pacific Ocean and water on your right flows to the Atlantic. Pretty soon, though, it starts flowing from the sky.

There is also an incredible amount of nasty, prickly vegetation up here. Anyway, while I’m stumbling along the Great Divide (thinking if / fall now, willI roll toward the Pacific or Atlantic?), a whole bunch of people pass me, including Carolyn Erdman. I have noidea how I ever got in front of her, but here she is! And there she goes!

The trail down to the Sherman aid station is one of the most beautiful on the course. It is heavily wooded,

One of many trailside waterfalls. This one is on the Bear Creek Trail leading down to the Sherman aid station.

RICH LIMACHER

Rich Limacher MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE ULTRAMARATHON @® 121

and you crisscross your way through mountain streams and upwards and behind you is an awesome view of waterfalls. Of course, what you don’t realize is that while you’re carefully wading through each stream, Mother Nature already has you above a waterfall. One slip here and you’re over Niagara!

And when you finally get to Sherman—splash!—there’s a raging river you have to cross. Fortunately, a tree trunk was stretched across the water. However, over the years, this nice trunk has gotten slick. I’m wet, it’s raining, and my shoes are (you guessed it) wrong for the task.

Some volunteers are cheering on the other side.

“Hey!” I holler. “Should I take the log or the river?”

“T think the river’s safer,” a man answers. “It’s drier.”

HANDIES: THE PIQUE THAT MAKES US PUNCHY

Once inside the tent, I stuff my face and guzzle Gatorade, and the helpful volunteers drop off my drop bag. This allows me to change clothes (mostly) and layer on warmer threads for the oncoming winter up Handies Peak—not to mention the oncoming fall of night. And isn’t this something? Here I am almost 11 hours into a “race,” and I’ve covered a grand total of 31.6 miles. And it’s about to go from summer to winter today.

I’ve designed this drop bag with wisdom and foresight. It’s actually a backpack. So when I leave the station, I take it with me. And inside my luggage, of course, are crampons.

What’s the first thing that happens as I hike the rising jeep road out of Sherman? I turn around to see Jennifer Roach hot on my tail. When we take the turnoff onto the steep trail going up Boulder Gulch, she passes me. Way to go, Jennifer! I struggle for the next couple of miles just to keep her in sight. Now, suddenly, with all these fine folks having passed, I’m starting to feel that old sinking feeling: I’m last.

But on the endless wide-open climb above timberline on my way up to Handies, I see that I’m wrong about this, too. I’m not last. I look behind and see “the man” himself, John Cappis. (And he’s not last either!) John comes up and starts quizzing me on how much I remember from trail-marking. All I really remember is a blizzard. But he straightens me out, and we rise higher together. We even pause to take each other’s picture—something to prove that I really did scale one of Colorado’s 54 peaks above 14,000 feet.

The climb is endless. And when you get near the top (actually a “false top”), you’re still not there. Now you have to rock climb. There’s this 5|0—maybe 100—foot section where, if you’re going to get to the “real” top, you’re going to be climbing with fingers, knees, and shins. This section is straight up.

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Rich Limacher MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE ULTRAMARATHON 123

The author smiles on his way up to Handies Peak.

John, of course, scales it like some kid climbing an easy tree. It takes me a little longer. (I was never a kid, you see, and there are no trees in Illinois, not even ones that Lincoln planted. We have museums.) Eventually, though, I inch my way to the top, only to see another top. I don’t see John anymore, but— jeepers!—here come even more people behind me.

By the time I make the real summit (no blizzard this time, by the way), it’s sunset, and I find that I’ve scaled the heights along with Jim Ballard and Larry Ranney, who is the superintendent of Silverton Public Schools.

Now, to prove you’ ve made it to this checkpoint, you must punch your bib. This means you need to locate the special paper punch, which General Charlie has set out beforehand, and use it to mark your race bib to prove you “did it.” There’ll be no Rosie Ruizes at Hardrock! And no subways, elevators, or escalators, either.

This is all cool except for one thing: Jim, Larry, and I search frantically all over that peak trying to find the paper punch, and it’s not there! What to do? We must punch our bibs or be accused of cheating.

Fortunately, I remember most of the fourteeners have what’s called a “register” at the summit, and here we find one atop Handies. The register is a small weatherproof tube fixed by a chain to the survey marker that indicates the elevation. You unscrew one of the end caps and find inside a sheet or two of

JOHN CAPPS

paper along with a pen or pencil. If you’re a seasoned mountaineer, you know all about this and therefore cheerfully sign and date the paper for all posterity. “Kilroy was here.”

Unfortunately, when Larry and Jim look inside, they find a pencil with a broken tip and register sheets that have been ripped to shreds. Who would do such a thing?

I am suddenly reminded of what I wrote last time about Joel Zucker’s memorial plaque affixed to the top of Grant-Swamp Pass. My description? “It’s vandal proof.” Well, now I’m not so sure.

“What do we do now?” the three of us holler in unison.

Fortunately, I remember my camera.

“Good!” they exclaim. “Take our picture to prove we were here.”

Unfortunately, weeks later, I discover that sunset atop Handies Peak is too dark for a cheap disposable to prove much of anything.

The bright side? None of us finished anyway, so no one ever cared what we could—or could not—prove.

GROUSING AT GROUSE

Fortunately, there’s still enough light to get down off the mountain. I can’t keep up with Jim and Larry though and promptly get lost in American Basin. (Or is this Grouse Gulch Saddle?)

I am so glad that, despite all this, I am still not dead last. Even though it’s now pitch dark and freezing and I am most certainly lost (7 was here planting trail flags; why can’t I remember?), | suddenly hear voices. Quickly, I yell and pick up my pace. I move in the general direction of the sounds and eventually join two runners who apparently know where they’re going. Thank goodness! This is when I stumble upon a body.

The body, however, moves and starts talking, explaining how he just wanted to take a little nap on the trail. He apparently counts on people stumbling over him so he can wake up and get going again. Still, this little surprise has been unsettling. It’s pitch black, we’re in the wilderness, and there’s probably mountain lions. Marmots for sure; and, although they’re tiny, I sure wouldn’t want to mess with one of them. They eat flags.

Eventually, we all poke and feel our way down the switchbacks to the big valley known as Grouse Gulch. I’m hoping Beth, my wife, has managed to find aride, because I think we’d like to see each other again before I die. Well, as it turns out, she did, we do, and I don’t.

Rich Limacher, food stuffed in mouth, coffee and sandwich in hands, sits inside the Grouse Gulch “Big Top” and contemplates applying for the job of Bozo the Clown.

Inside the big warm tent at the aid station, Beth helps me find drier clothes, feeds me grilled cheese sandwiches, and gives me sympathy when I complain about the shoes. She promises to meet me again in Ouray, where I can change them. But that will be hours ’ from now. Meanwhile she’s : 5 got time to go back to the hotel and grab a night’s sleep. It’s what? Almost midnight? Look at that cosmic clock on your imaginary floor. I’ve only made it past the 3.

COYOTES, MYOPIA, CLIFFS, AND SLIPPAGE

Thank goodness there’s this nice gradual gravel road climbing up out of Grouse. Thike it pleasantly. The night is young, the stars are bright, and—uh oh—there’s something yelping over by the roadside. I steel myself, resolving to be brave. This may be the Valley of the Shadow of Death, but I am the meanest son— huffa-Rich in the valley.

After a while, two more cheerful runners hike up behind me.

“Hey, did you hear the coyotes?” they ask.

“Oh, them!” I answer in my typical nonchalance. “Sure. I gave ’em all PowerBars and they left me alone.”

I watch these guys go by after I pause to wee. I assure myself that all I need to do is follow their flashlights and they’ ll lead me right up to Engineer Pass. Unfortunately, it’s a long wee, and when I’m done, they’re gone.

So I climb the next umpteen thousand feet on my own, all the way up to a fork in the road. Uh-oh. Which way? Is there a sign? There should be a sign! This is a road! Tourists come here!

Isee a sign so I squint and read. I see an arrow. It points to “Pass,” so I follow it. Cheerfully, I turn to the right and become enraptured again with the stars.

Isnap out of it just in time to see … nothing. The road dumps off to oblivion, and I’m standing at the edge of nowhere. Hmmm. Don’t remember this from trail-marking. Better go back and check that sign.

This costs me at least a precious half hour’s time. I trudge all the way back to the fork, walk right up to the sign, shine my light on it, and read: “Engineer Pass.” The arrow points exactly toward the direction I went. “Oh Point,” another arrow points, is the other way.

“Oh fudge!” I think. “What did John tell us not to forget here?”

Fortunately, while I’ ve been wasting all this time on my detour, a few more runners have come up the road and passed me. I can just make out their flashlights going off to the left—not toward Engineer Pass. I follow these lights.

The lights lead me once again to the edge of oblivion, but this time I recognize it. I’ve been here before, and now I have to go down. Where? Oh, point! Those are the aid station’s lights in front of me—straight down this very, very steep, grassy slope. It’s night and it’s freezing and the dew’s out. So guess what that does to the grass?

Right! As soon as I plant my first foot below the ridge, splunch! Down on my butt I go.

I get up, curse my first-prize raffle shoes, and splunch! Down again!

Now I’mstarting to get mad. But, upsie/ Down again. And, just once more, for good measure. Ouch!

At this “oh point” I’m furious! I pick myself up for the last time and fairly scream at the top of my lungs, cursing shoemakers, sign makers, optometrists, and the cosmos itself. No one hears me, so no one curses back.

HOORAY FOR OURAY

For 3 o’clock in the morning, the Engineer Pass aid station people are in surprisingly good humor, and I marvel how they got here. I ask to borrow their helicopter. They laugh. I eat. They throw me out.

The long way down to Ouray is fraught with danger. This is perhaps the most infamous “Bear Creek Trail” (there are three on the course) because for the most part it consists of a “shelf” winding down a cliff or canyon wall, which at some points is no wider than the mule train it was built for, and at most points overlooks a sheer drop-off on my left of, say, 2,000 feet. Absolutely spectacular!

In the daylight, that is. In the wee hours—because I know what’s down there—it’s a little bone chilling. A couple of times I slip here but not fatally.

Somewhere high above Ouray, the dawn breaks. When I say I can see by the dawn’s early light what so loudly has sailed o’ er the ramparts left leaning, I turn off my headlamp.

OO Rich Limacher MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE ULTRAMARATHON Ml 127

The author on the next morning, fresh from no sleep, no shave, and no Egg McMuffin, nevertheless changes his shirt and feels terrible.

When I finally arrive in oo town, it’s full daylight, the , ite | a temperature’s rising, and this : a al | year, by crackie, I don’t have to quit. ButI do need to change my shoes.

Armed with fresh clothes, Beth’s smooch, and another terrific sandwich, I now traipse off to retrace my steps of last year, when!’ dalso stopped in town— permanently. What a difference a year makes! I’m buoyed with confidence and smeared with peanut butter and jelly.

If I thought the change of shoes would feel so good as to assure me of finishing, I’m sorry, but once again I was wrong. My feet still hurt like crazy. The damage, I’m afraid, has already been done.

So be it. I’m on Camp Bird Road, going up ever upward in the direction of Camp Bird, which I (to this day) have never seen, and on ever onward toward Virginius Pass, which I have seen (twice). When I get here the third time—oh, yes, indeedy!—I put on my crampons.

Iliterally claw my way to the top. In each fist I have an “ice pick,” made by collapsing my hiking poles, and on each foot I have spikes. When I’m almost all the way up and they toss me that rope (the same one I slid down last year), I see the volunteers! They’re all cheering like crazy!

If you can believe this, at the very top of 13,100-foot Virginius Pass, a bunch of brave mountaineers operate an aid station. “Kroger’s Canteen” it’s called—not for the supermarket chain but for the first guy who volunteered to haul groceries up here. Having just arrived, I learn two more nonsurprises: #1 I’m the first runner they’ ve seen wearing crampons, and #2 I’ m the last runner there is. Now I know why they’ ve been cheering. They’re closing the station and want to go home.

BETH LACHER

CAN YOU TELL I’VE A RIDE AT TELLURIDE?

Freshly supplied from Kroger’s deli, I turn my attention to the checkout— which I don’t know at the time, of course, is destined to lurk in the express lane at Telluride (34 1/3 hours or less). I do know this, though: It is a long, long way down to Telluride.

Last year, coming up this very same endless climb, I decided for the first time in my life to drop out of arace. This year, going down, I resolve never again to do this coming up. Going down here is just fine, thank you very much. Last year everything hurt except my feet. This year, my feet are killing me.

When I plop down into town—and run on the sidewalk and wait for the traffic light—and finally do check out the aid station, who should I see working the counter but Geri Kilgariff and Linda Van Tilborg, the gorgeous co-directors of the Zane Grey Highline Trail 50-mile race in Arizona. They give me what can only be described as “a big welcome.” Then they take my sandwich order and make me promise to sign up for their race next spring.

The aid station’s captain’s first question to me is, “Are you going to go on?” And, after my first question to him, he replies, “You’ ve got an hour to make up your mind.” That’s all the lead I have left over the ultimate cutoff.

Unfortunately, this is only part of the picture. In fact, Hardrock’s closing miles aid station cutoffs are exceptionally generous. Even if you leave the Telluride, Chapman, KT, and Putnam aid stations before they officially close, you still have no guarantee you can finish before that final clock ticks 6 (ie., 48 hours, or 6:00 A.M.).

While mulling over all of this and schmoozing all of them, I just can’t believe who shows up next. It’s Carolyn Erdman and John Cappis.

Whoa! How did they end up behind me?

Wrong! They weren’t behind meat all. They were well ahead. (They passed mea long time ago, no?) What they’ ve just done is turn around on their way up to Oscar’s Pass. What they’re doing right now is dropping out.

“Not enough time,” John says.

“There are other things I want to do with my life,” says Carolyn.

“But Carolyn!” I protest. “You promised me a big hug at the finish. I mean, after we both finish!”

With tears welling up in her eyes, she hugs me now.

If she and John are dropping out because they don’t feel there’s enough time, who am I to continue? (Especially since each foot now feels like it is full of shrapnel.)

So I ask John if it’s mathematically possible to finish under 48 hours at this point, which is mile 73.7 and some 33 hours into the run. We’ re talking roughly

EE Rich Limacher MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE ULTRAMARATHON @® 129

15 hours to complete a marathon, and John Cappis is saying that’s not enough time!

He looks at me in all seriousness and asks, “Well, Rich, can you run as fast at night as you can during the day?”

In all seriousness, I assure him I can’t.

“That’s what it would take,” he says.

And that’s all it takes to convince everyone hanging around the aid station to call it a day. We all drop (there’s five of us), and the volunteers start right away to pack up and go home. All it takes to drop out is to extend your wrist with your weight and vital signs banded in plastic, and ask the aid station captain to cut it off. (The band, not your wrist.)

This we all do and suddenly, 180 pounds lighter, I’m a free man.

And these (as we all learned later) are the precise reasons why we all made the right decision:

¢ The weather that night went to hell—freezing rain, sleet, ice underfoot, horribly high winds, and fog.

¢ The last-place official finisher, who finished with just 10 minutes and 28 seconds to spare, had departed Telluride three hours ahead of us.

¢ The sweetest couple on Earth was there, Milton and Mary Zimmerman, and offered a ride back to Silverton to the two of us needing it most, Dr. Stanley Zychowski and yours truly.

¢ None of us five dropouts is dead now. Istill got my big hug from Carolyn.

ea eeee ae

ENDURANCE RUN

Sine > FREI

SHNPRION = FAKE CITY

GTART / FINISH

The finish! Which, of course, the author never saw until the race was over.

And What | Learned From It (The Second Edition)

TOP 20 LESSONS (The Latest Now Added to the First 10)

20. You are never so successful that you cannot ever fail.

19. Being coached is a lot different from being there.

18. The best people can be found in the worst situations.

17. Before you shoot yourself in despair, consult those people.

16. The Hardrock Hundred is not a running race.

15. You don’t have to kill yourself climbing on this course if you can make up time by skiing on your shoes.

14. Skiing on your shoes might be the only way some of us will ever beat the cutoff.

13. Wait till winter, lace up the trail shoes, go to the playground, climb up the ladder, and practice skiing down the slide.

12. Buy poles and crampons.

41. Don’t kill yourself before next July.

10. Failing once is no guarantee you’ll succeed the next time.

9. At Hardrock not being is not much different from not being successful (but sometimes this wisdom is hard to come by at a cutoff point).

8. The most heroic people can be found in the worst situations.

7. Before you decide to keep going, consult those people.

6. The Hardrock Hundred is not a race. It is a run.

5. In the counterclockwise direction (going up the snow and down the rocks), you have almost no chance to ski on your shoes.

4. | will most likely only be able to finish this incredible run (someday) by notskiing, by signing up during a counterclockwise year, and by waiting next until 2002.

3. Instead of practicing on frozen playgrounds, this winter of 2001, I’m running in Florida.

2. Don’t wait until you arrive in Silverton before buying your poles and crampons.

1. Unless, of course, some other runner from the “Land of Lincoln” beats me to the post office—or just beats me—I can still be Illinois’s first finisher!

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“I The Art of the

Cee Ultramarathoner

Runners Have Been Doing Ultras fon Centuries, and the Basics Never Change. A Classic Revived. Part 2 of 5

by Tom Osler

CHAPTER 3: TRAINING FOR ALL DISTANCES

Training for ultramarathons does not differ from training for the marathon or shorter road races. Runners who have completed the marathon several times have attained the physical condition necessary to cover fifty or more miles. However, while they possess the sheer power required most would fail if they tried. First, they would lack knowledge of how to mix walking and running. Second, they would not know how to take fluids so as to remain hydrated. And third, their psychological orientation likely will be too intense and they will squander valuable energy in the early miles. In this chapter we will review briefly the most popular forms of marathon training, as well as consider warming up, stretching, training in heat and cold, diet, and injury and illness. We will take a closer look at those areas of training of special interest to the ultramarathoner in the next chapter. These include walking, the selection of fluids to be used while running, psychological preparation, as well as a glance at the training techniques of the great pedestrians of the past.

Mileage and Speed

The first question today’s runner asks when he considers training is, “How many miles should I run each week?” As mentioned earlier, ultramarathoners generally run no farther in a week than well-trained marathoners or 10,000 meter specialists. The ultramarathoner of today is in the enviable position of being able to compete at a great variety of distances. Most are no strangers to five and ten mile road races, as well as the marathon, fifty miles, 100 kilos, 100 miles, and beyond. Those who consider themselves ultramarathon specialists will use the very shortest races as tune-ups for speed.

Just how many miles should you run each week? This varies with the individual runner’s basic strength and opportunity to train. Few will run less than sixty miles per week, and few will go more than 120; most will average seventy to eighty miles over seven days. A typical schedule will look something like this:

Day Mileage for Mileage for Mileage for 60 mile week 80 mile week 120 mile week Monday 5 miles 7 miles 10 miles Tuesday 10 miles 13 miles 20 miles Wednesday 5 miles 7 miles 10 miles Thursday 10 miles 13 miles 20 miles (including 3 mile (including 3 mile (including 3 mile time trial) time trial) time trial) Friday 5 miles 5 miles 10 miles Saturday 10 miles 15 miles 20 miles Sunday 15 miles 20 miles 30 miles

The essential feature of these schedules is the following:

1. There is an observable easy, hard, easy, hard pattern. Monday’s run is short, followed by Tuesday’s, which is long, and so on. Rest is as important as stress when training, and the shorter days provide insurance against overtraining.

2. There is a long run every week, or every two weeks. These serve to reacquaint the athlete with the difficulties involved in prolonged footwork.

3. There is a short time trial or race each week to help the runner develop the important ability to relax at a fast pace.

The speed attained in these workouts varies with the individual’s strength, level of fitness, and goals. In general, the pace should be easy and relaxed, with no difficulty maintaining a conversation. The runner should be moderately tired at the conclusion of the workout and should have sufficient reserves to repeat the workout immediately if necessary. Overtraining to the point of exhaustion will eventually cause illness or injury.

What pace is typical in these workouts? A 2:18 marathoner can probably relax at six minutes to the mile, a 2:30 marathoner at seven minutes per mile, a 2:45 marathoner at seven and a half minute speed, and a 3:00 marathoner at about eight minute speed. These times are only guides, and a particular athlete might find that his or her pace varies considerably from those mentioned. I can run a marathon in 2:50 at any time, yet I frequently run at nine minutes to the mile, especially in the early morning hours.

Sharpening Training

The training pattern described above is frequently referred to as base training. Base training differs from the present consideration, sharpening training, in that there is little emphasis on the development of speed that is so useful in short races. Even though the ultramarathoner will rarely have reason to run faster than six minutes per mile in races of fifty miles or more, sharpening techniques can assist substantially in running performances. In addition to teaching the runner to relax at a fast pace, proper sharpening training calls forth those precious endocrine supplies, such as adrenaline, that give the athlete an extra edge.

In sharpening training, repetitions of short distance, perhaps one-half mile, are run frequently at a fast pace with a short rest between them. During these fast bursts, the runner concentrates on relaxation at the quicker speed.

Experience shows that peaks in performance level, resulting from this type of training can rarely last for more than six weeks, due to additional strain placed on the body by a heavier running load. Such sharpening work should begin about six weeks prior to the runner’s first important race, and terminated six weeks after that race. Failure to terminate this form of training can result in the body being driven headlong into a deep racing slump with possible injury or illness developing.

I assume here that the reader is familiar with sharpening techniques as described in detail and used so successfully by the great New Zealand coach Arthur Lydiard. There is no space here for a detailed account of these methods which are of primary importance to those interested in shorter distances. Sharpening will assist the ultramarathoner, but many specialists in this area ignore it. For further details the reader should consult the many articles and books by Lydiard as well as the author’s The Conditioning of Distance Runners, 1967; and Serious Runner’s Handbook, 1978, (World Publications).

Warming Up, Cooling Down, and Stretching

Since the training pace of the ultramarathoner is rarely swift, warming up is not of great concern. I usually find that it is a bit harder to get started in the early morning hours than it is in the afternoon, because the motion of daily activity acts as a partial warm up.

I usually begin my workouts at a fifty yard walk, followed by a trot at the slowest speed for another fifty yards. I repeat this sequence of alternately running and walking fifty yards for a distance of one-half to one mile. By this time I am ready to run at a steady speed of seven to eight minutes per mile. If Iplan to do a time trial, I will run one or two easy miles followed by five sprints of fifty to one hundred yards at nearly full speed as a preliminary warm up.

For most workouts, the only cool-down that seems necessary can be obtained by simply slowing up in the last two miles. On very long runs, I like to end by walking segments of the last two miles.

In recent years artificial stretching exercises have become very popular in running circles. Many runners are being urged by their coaches to spend considerable time bending to touch the toes, both before and after running. I must confess that I never do these stretching exercises, and am not alone in this matter. Park Barner, America’s greatest ultramarathoner, termed stretching exercises a “waste of time” in a recent magazine article. Frank Bozanich, the American record holder at 100 kilometers, told me that he never does these exercises either.

The running public has been misled into believing that stretching exercises will prevent injury to runners. This is true only if the runner’s injury is due to an awkward fall in which the limbs are stretched beyond their normal range of motion. Such falls are common in sports like football and baseball, and thus stretching exercises are of great value in those sports. But virtually no running injuries are due to clumsy falls; overuse and fatigue are the primary culprits in running injuries.

Rather than preventing injury, many athletes have found that stretching can induce injury. Runners are often tired from all this unnatural footwork. If tired muscles and tendons are stretched daily, they sometimes become inflamed. Stretching will make you more flexible; if this is your goal, then stretch. But don’t be fooled into believing that stretching will prevent running injury. Only careful attention to the degree of fatigue generated in each workout to avoid overstress will prevent injury.

Runners, like any other people, vary considerably in the importance that they attach to diet. The two extremes are represented by the great runners Park Barner and Don Choi. Both these men broke the American record for the twenty-four hour run in 1978. Choi stayed overnight with a friend who reported that he arrived with a box full of vitamin and mineral supplements. Barner, on the other hand, gives little thought to diet and eats whatever is conveniently at hand. In spite of all the bad press received by the American diet, there remains no proof that it fails to be adequate for even the most strenuous athletic performance.

In the absence of conclusive proof on the subject, I will simply describe what has worked for me. I like to get plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables, and to eat them with as little preparation as is necessary. I am not a vegetarian, but Teat little meat. I try to avoid cakes, pies, ice cream and other food loaded with sugar; I always have difficulty keeping my weight low. I don’t use vitamin or

mineral supplements because I have little faith in manmade nutritional products.

A word should be said about salt. Some runners believe that extra salt is always necessary, particularly when training in hot weather. Others advocate alow-salt diet at all times and urge that the salt shaker be removed entirely from the table. Who is right? They both are!

The average American is addicted to salt. His diet has contained excessive salt since childhood, and now he is a “salt-junkie.” Like any addiction, when the source is removed, there are withdrawal symptoms. Thus, many runners, who develop a salt deficit due to excess sweating, will experience muscle cramps and nausea. They are urged to take salt supplements, which will relieve these withdrawal symptoms.

On the other hand, those who have become accustomed to a low salt diet do not have difficulty with salt depletion. They have broken the habit and need never concern themselves with the use of table salt. A low-salt diet is preferable for endurance athletes because it places less strain on the circulatory system. (Recall that doctors always place patients with circulatory problems on a low salt regimen.) If the reader chooses to discard the salt shaker, he or she should start in the cold winter months so that the adjustment will be easier. When the hot summer months arrive, the runner’s sweat will be less salty and the tolerance for punishing heat will be higher.

Weight

Every additional pound of fat carried on the runner’s frame results in reduced athletic performance. As a rough rule, runners find that they lose about two seconds per mile for each pound above optimum weight. Thus a runner overweight by only one pound will lose ten seconds in a five mile race and twenty seconds in a ten miler. A runner who is only five pounds overweight will lose ten seconds in a one mile race, fifty seconds at five miles and one minute forty seconds at ten miles. Excess weight is a serious concern to all competitive runners.

For some reason, runners who are drawn to the ultramarathons appear to have more weight problems than people who compete at shorter distances. I don’t know why “big” runners abound in this sport. The fact that it is necessary to eat and drink considerable quantities during the longest races might be a factor. Thus a runner with an efficient digestive system—the proverbial iron stomach—has an advantage over those who are less hearty eaters. Whatever the reason, excess weight is a serious handicap to the ultramarathoner as well as the marathoner.

How does the runner shed excess poundage? More mileage is often inefficient, since it takes about thirty-five miles of running to burn off one pound of

Tom Osler THE ART OF THE ULTRAMARATHONER 137

fat. The difficulty I have with this method stems from the fact that extra running increases my appetite. Thus, without exercising great self-control, the good done by extra mileage will be lost due to extra eating. Unfortunately, only a restriction in my food intake really helps me lose weight. The best reducing diet for runners consists in eating a wide variety of wholesome foods, but in very small quantities. One dimensional diets, such as the all-protein diet, or the grapefruit diet, are to be avoided because they can quickly lead to nutritional deficiency. Atall times, the dieting runner should drink large quantities of water or diluted fruit juices. Dehydration can cause very serious health problems while dieting.

Heat and Cold

With appropriate clothing, the runner can train in nearly any extreme of weather. I don’t like winter’s cold, but there is no danger associated with running in freezing temperatures. Cold rain is another matter. I have never found a sweat suit that would protect me sufficiently from cold rain, and in such weather I usually skip training to avoid getting sick or injured.

Hot weather is dangerous; most deaths while running occur in the heat. Here in New Jersey the summers bring high temperatures and humidity, a combination which is especially lethal. The dangers of running under the direct rays of the sun when the temperature is high are very real. Marathoners often remark that the sun is their worst enemy.

In conditions of extreme heat I recommended that training take place in the early morning or late afternoon when the sun is low. Some runners insist on training at midday in order to get “accustomed” to the heat. But in the hottest weather, running at noon isn’t training, it’s more like taking a beating. You can’t get accustomed to being hit with a stick; you just get reduced to a pulp. Likewise, the weakening effects of training under a direct noontime sun are simply more pronounced than the beneficial effects.

A light hat to protect the head from the sun, a visor, and sunscreen lotion to protect the skin are all of value to the sundrenched runner. Above all, the runner must take care not to dehydrate: drink frequently during the workout. If necessary, sew a small pocket into your shorts so that you can carry change to purchase soda at vending machines. Dehydration can not only make you sick, it can kill.

Injury and Illness

Injuries of the foot, leg, and hip are all too common amongst runners. When training and racing properly, most athletes should remain free from injury and illness. That this is not the case with many runners reveals that stress—brought

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on by too much running—is very widespread. We like to think that we can train 100 miles per week, but if our body will only endure seventy comfortably, then injury will eventually occur. I have been running for twenty-five years, but it took the first ten to learn my limitations. During that time I had every injury a runner can get. Arches, achilles tendons, shin splints, knees, hips all failed at one time or another. After learning to respect my body, and avoid abuse, I have sustained only three injuries during the past fifteen years and have had to stop running for only four weeks in that long period.

How is injury prevented? By staying FRESH. Don’t strain while training, and be protective of your well-being. If you’ re tired from a hard run orrace, take things easy for a few days or weeks; a short rest won’t significantly reduce your conditioning, but if it prevents an injury, you have gained considerably. When in doubt, err on the side of training too easily, rather than too hard. In this way you will actually do more running because you won’ t lose time nursing injuries.

Another frequent cause of injury is worn shoes. As a shoe wears, its shape changes, and your running stride is forced to change with it—an unnatural alteration that can culminate in an injury. A simple procedure for keeping shoes in good repair is to glue a small portion of rubber, perhaps from an old tire tube, over those parts of the sole of the shoe that wear quickly. With most runners this means gluing rubber to the outside area of the heels. As this rubber wears, simply glue additional rubber over it. Not only is the chance of injury reduced, but the life of the shoe can be doubled in the bargain.

At times the runner’s overall resistance will drop and a cold or fever will result. If the illness is very mild, a short slow run can actually help. In other cases, rest is preferable to medication. Once the symptoms of the illness vanish, the runner should be careful not to hurry back into full training too quickly— a rule that applies to the recovery from any injury or illness. The comeback should be gradual and spread out over a period of at least one week. If a runner was averaging fourteen miles per day in training prior to the illness, his return might start with two miles the first day, with two miles added each succeeding day until the fourteen mile distance is reached.

How Runners Talk

Running. In Your Inbox, Daily.

Running. In Your Inbox, Daily.

Running.
In Your Inbox, Daily.

Running.
In Your Inbox, Daily.