(And what | learned from it.) BY DAN HORVATH

ROLOGUE, June 16, 2001—The 5:00 a.m. start came early. There was light

Pp rain and fog as we began running through the campground and onto the

dark gravel-and-dirt roads. After only a few miles, about six of us realized

that we were already off course. Coming to our senses, we nearly sprinted the

half mile back to catch up with the rest of the field. The course was actually well

marked, but the rain had erased part of a chalk mark, making it appear that we

were supposed to turn. The occasion was the Mohican Trail 100-Mile Run. And the fun was just beginning.

Those road miles were at an easy pace. The folks I was with walked up the hills and ran the rest. These hills were substantial, but we hadn’t seen anything yet. After nine or 10 miles, we started on the trails. The rain had stopped, but now we would have to deal with its aftereffect: the mud and muck of Mohican. It didn’t take long at all for me to take a tumble. The combination of mud, slippery rocks, extreme downward steepness, and my dumb storytelling to those around was all it took. I broke my fall with my hands, arm, and leg, all of which wound up with cuts, scratches, and gashes mixed with mud and blood.

It didn’t help that my wife, Debbie, was there to see me at the next aid station. She had agreed to be my crew throughout the day until it was time to meet my pacing companion at mile 69. And she had gone into the event quite worried about me. A nervous wreck the night before, she made me promise to never again attempt such a stupid thing as running 100 miles. In a moment of weakness, I agreed. I want to state for the record that Debbie is as supportive of my running as any spouse can be. She was just very worried in this instance.

Expectations were not extremely high. Although I had been running for 25 years, I was fairly light on ultra experience. My resume included a poor showing at a 24-hour run, a 50K, and two six-hour runs. I had decided to do this only

three weeks before. After talking about it with some running friends at a Memorial Day race, I determined that if I could do a 40-mile training run the very next day, I would register. I could and I did. Because of all this, I went into the race hoping only to finish.

Experienced ultrarunners had told me to get plenty of food and liquids (“eat like a horse, drink like a fish, run like a turtle”), yet not to linger at aid stations longer than necessary (“beware of the chair”). I did eat and drink a lot, but I also spent a lot of time at the aid stations. The folks there were fantastic. They provided the usual ultra foods such as bananas, soup, PB&J sandwiches, and pizza. But several went out of their way to provide something special, like those cherry-cheese French toast sandwiches. The volunteers helped me clean my wounds and even helped change my wet, muddy shoes and socks about halfway through. I was terrified to look at my feet and couldn’t imagine how anyone else would be able to. The nice lady simply said, “Don’t look at them yourself, and don’t worry about me. I’ve seen them all.” Of course, the clean shoes and socks didn’t stay that way for long.

The middle 60- to 70-mile trail portion of the course consisted of several loops designated by color code. They formed a cloverleaf, with the Mohican Covered Bridge in the center. Each section had its own personality, and all were quite beautiful. I didn’t know Ohio could get this hilly or this pretty. At one point, we encountered a wall of rocks and tree roots that we had to climb up hand over hand. But the reward was a view of a nice little waterfall. Later we had to climb down

A Debbie Horvath at the Mohican Covered Bridge the day before the 2001 race.

a similar wall of rocks and then got to run behind another waterfall. There were some really great runs along rivers, several stream crossings, and one actual river crossing. I was already beat when I hit the 50-mile mark in 11 hours.

For some unfathomable reason, I got a second wind at about mile 55. It may have been that there were actually a few level miles, or seeing a wild turkey in the woods, or the beautiful scenery along the river, or knowing that I would have someone to run with very soon.

My friend Dave Kanners met me at mile 69 to run with me to mile 88. I sure needed that! Knowing that he would be there had kept me going to that point, and then actually having company for most of the rest of the way helped even more. We mostly walked, but there was a bit of jogging and shuffling mixed in. Dave politely put up with my bad jokes and bathroom stops. It was a moonless night, and the stars were fantastic.

The final miles were the toughest. It was getting light, and I could appreciate the scenery once again. But I was in pain. All of my muscles were screaming at me to stop! It was surprising that my feet had held out this long, but now the blisters were making themselves known. Dry socks helped. At the final aid station, 3.2 miles from the finish, I tried to get some bandages on the blisters, but they kept sliding off as I put my socks back on.

It took me an hour and 12 minutes to complete that final section. That is only 2.6 miles per hour! Three people passed me—one of them at a full sprint a quarter mile from the finish. As I turned into the campground, there were a few enthusiastic folks to give applause. I said out loud, “I guess I ought to try to run to earn your applause,” so I did actually shuffle in. My time was 26 hours, 31 minutes, 26 seconds. That was about 30th place and not quite last of the Mohicans. I was trying to figure out how in the world to clean myself and call Debbie, when she showed up—only a couple of minutes after my glorious finish.

And my solemn promise? I recovered surprisingly well, and Debbie needn’t have worried, but I had absolutely no desire to try anything like this ever again. The run will forever rank as one of the highlights of my running career. But it wasn’t quite my most unforgettable ultramarathon.

MADISON, WISCONSIN, April 9, 2011—I was about to break one of the cardinal tules of running. You know the one: Thou shalt not try for a SOK PR en route in a 100K run. After one of the loops that make up the Mad City 100K, I did some quick math in my already-rattled head. It went something like this:

Fifty-two minutes for that lap. If I can just do four more 53-minute laps, I’ll beat my 50K PR of 4:25. Hey, maybe I can do 4:25 for the second half as well! If not, I can just revert back to the original plan and still wind up with a fast time.

That original plan had, I thought, been a good one. Since my previous three 100Ks were all in the range of 10 to 11 hours, anything under 10 hours on this

day would be a great and wonderful thing. Since the Mad City 100K consisted of 10 10Ks, something I could actually get my head around, the math was easy: Just do each one in under an hour. Note my overuse of the word “just.”

My 50K PR had been set only a month earlier. In the 10 years since that first serious ultra at Mohican, I had managed to become a more-improved ultrarunner. As my marathon times had begun to slow, my ultramarathon times (all under 100 miles) had gotten better. My attitude had changed as well: I was now racing ultras (at least in my mind) and not merely running them. Mad City serves as the USATF 100K National Championship; some of the best ultrarunners in the country were present. The weather was cloudy with temperatures in the 40s and 50s. Perfect.

We left Vilas Park and ran on bike trails and roads, through neighborhoods, past playgrounds, into an arboretum, and through other small parks including wetlands and woods, all the while keeping Lake Wingra on our left. There were a few rolling hills. All in all, it was a nice course to be traversing 10 times. The hills did increase in size each time through, however.

Sure enough, I was able to complete the next three circuits in around 53 minutes each, and I was on my way. Lap five proved more difficult. I was maintaining the same pace but working harder to do it. Thatis when began to wonder about paying the piper.

A Bob Pokorny (left) and Dan Horvath (right) finish the Mad City 100K in April 2011.

I barely got my 50K PR and then almost collapsed. Well, it wasn’t quite that bad, but as I started the sixth lap, I knew that I was in trouble. Everything started to hurt. The piper was already taking his payment. This one took me about 59 minutes, just right according to the original plan. But would I be able to do four more? Yes and no. Yes, I was able to do four more. No, I couldn’t keep them under 60 minutes. In fact, they were all just over an hour.

Near the end of lap 10, I encountered two other runners. One came from behind, and although I tried to hold him off, he passed me with a quarter mile to go. I recognized the other by his shirt and running style. It was Bob Pokorny, whom I had driven up with but hadn’t seen since the start. After the other guy passed Bob, I pulled even with him, and we finished together in 15th and 16th places with a time of 9:31.

Note to self: Next time, stick with the plan. It may not get me there that much faster, but it would definitely get me there with less pain.

It was in the aftermath of this successful effort that the thought of trying another 100-miler began to creep back into my head. I had friends who were registered for one or both of the two local 100-mile races, Burning River and Mohican. Naturally, they read my thoughts and cranked up the peer pressure.

ENGLEWOOD, OHIO, June 5, 2011—‘Just run real fast so that you’re done before it gets too hot.” This was my half-joking advice to anyone concerned about the anticipated heat for the day. We had been hearing that the temperature would reach the mid-90s and that the humidity would also be high. The occasion was Another Dam SOK, and it was the second dam year that I did it. In the two months since Mad City, I had:

¢ run the Toledo Marathon fairly slowly, although that was only a week after Mad City;

¢ run the Cleveland Marathon fairly well, finishing with a time that was better than expected;

¢ done gobs of training miles, including some solid long runs; and ¢ had one long training run of 36 miles on the Burning River course that went terribly wrong on a hot day.

“Dan, do you remember the trails being this tough?” asked training partner Ladd Clifford between huffs and puffs. My answer was, “Now I do!” It was just beginning to get hot. The first (of four) laps went fine, although the trails were indeed tougher than I remembered. One good thing: They were less muddy than last year. Ladd stayed back with a friend as I ventured on ahead; other friends were out there as well. I saw some of them coming and going from time to time. That’s what makes ADSOK so much fun.

A Dan Horvath en route to a better-than-expected finish at the Rite Aid Cleveland Marathon

Yes, the trails were less muddy—except for the second lap, that is. A brief, heavy downpour occurred as I started that circuit. The cool rain felt wonderful, and I was enjoying every minute of it. Then three things happened in succession: (1) the rain stopped; (2) the trails became muddy; and (3) the heat returned, this time accompanied by oppressive humidity. The mud was especially thick and heavy. All this made the second loop, which had started out so nice and cool, a tough (and slow) one. The third loop, on the other hand, went surprisingly well. The mud had dried up as fast as it had appeared. The heat was still increasing, but for some reason that didn’t bother me during that lap. Roughly two miles of the 7.9-mile course are exposed to the sun. This includes the dam itself. The rest of the trails are nicely shaded. Lap three turned out to be my fastest, and it’s where I felt the best.

So now, 3 hours and 30 minutes into the run, I had another hour and 10 minutes to finish in 4:40. Why is that important, you ask? Because it’s the course record for the men’s grand masters division. Never mind that at 58, I was near the high end, agewise, of this group. Beating this time would put me in the record book and also net me a $75 gift certificate to a local running store. I was already thinking about how to spend it.

© Heidi Finniff

© Tim McDaniel

<@ Dan Horvath runs along the top of the dam during the Another Dam 50K race in June 2011.

The new time goal wasn’t unreasonable except, that is, when you consider the heat. It was 11:30 a.M., and the temperatures were really getting up there. The heat was taking its toll, but I was going for it anyway. I eventually began to slow down. I never gave up the effort, but I just couldn’t make it in the time I wanted.

The result was 4:43. Although not a record, it was still good enough to place me eighth overall and first among the geezers. It took almost forever to cool down and clean up. Running relatively fast actually did get me out of the heat that much sooner. My not-entirely-serious advice had proved correct for a change.

This run sealed the deal for me. Evidently I could run trails (although Mohican’s and Burning River’s were tougher than these). I could run in heat. And I could run for long distances. What else is there?

Debbie agreed to let me out of my no-more-hundred-miler promise, although I’m not sure exactly why. She did mumble something about making sure the life insurance was paid up. Now the only question was: Mohican or Burning River?

Burning River’s trails would be, contrary to the remarks of some of my trail-dog friends, more doable (read: less difficult) for me. It is also very well organized. I know this, because I’ve volunteered there in past years. Mohican, scheduled in June, may be less hot than Burning River, which takes place at the end of July.

Mohican was also only two weeks away, but I didn’t think that recovery from ADSOK would be a problem. My post marathon and ultramarathon recovery periods had been mercifully short of late. In fact, that close-by event date was actually the clincher. I would have the thing over with. It would be out of my system. I would be able to move on to other, (perhaps) faster things. I could only hope.

LOUDONVILLE, OHIO, June 18, 201 1—After three hours of running, Ladd announced that we had gone 13 miles according to his GPS. Surely we had come farther than that! I wondered, not for the first time, about the accuracy of those things. But it actually made sense in comparison to where I thought we were on the course. And this was truly the perfect speed for us to run a hundred-miler; we

were right on pace. I had only one very small problem at this point: everything hurt.

It was now 10 years and one day since my first attempt at this distance. The race was now called the North Face Mohican 100 Trail Run. The course incorporated some of the same trails, along with other new ones. To run 100 miles, runners would do two 27-mile loops followed by two 23-milers. The start/finish was at a (different) campground that was adjacent to the rest of the park. Most important, the road sections were almost entirely eliminated; it was virtually all trail now. The trails were as tough as ever, but there would be more of them. This was considered by my trail-dog friends to be a good thing. I can only shake my head and wonder about these folks.

When I say everything hurt, Ido mean everything: every bone, muscle, tendon, and brain cell. Every stride, every footfall, was painful. I had felt general pain during runs before, but never with 87 miles yet to go. And that is the part that was hurting those brain cells. One of my painful body parts was my left heel. I had had plantar fasciitis off and on for the past six months, but I had been fortunate that it had never become bad enough to slow me down very much. At the time, I didn’t believe that it was much of a problem here either; it was just one pain among many.

Everything about this run became a love-hate thing for me. I loved driving down to Mohican the night before with friends Ladd, Marsha (Ladd’s wife and our crew), and Frank Dwyer. We three guys had planned to stay together as much as possible for the first half of the race. I loved seeing old and new friends at the check-in, dinner, and meeting Friday night. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: ultrarunners are some of the best people I know. I hated not being able to sleep more than two hours in our tiny cabin due to the campfire smoke that was like being two feet away from a chain smoker. Less humid air and a small breeze would have helped.

The 5:00 a.m. start had come early. It was warm and extremely humid due to rain the night before and earlier in the morning. After a half mile, we reached the single-track trail. I had anticipated that there might be a slowdown as we 300 runners (about half were 50-milers; the rest of us were centurions) entered the trail. What occurred, however, was a total traffic jam. Who wants to totally stop running when there are 99.5 miles to go? Eventually, we started walking single file up the switchbacks. It was still dark, and the long line of headlamps traversing the winding trails was surreal.

After some walking, we began shuffling on some of the straightaways. There were some extremely muddy areas, and without trail shoes, I did some slipping and sliding. As unique an experience as this single-file trekking in the dark was, T hated it. I had absolutely no control over whether I could run or walk; I had to do what the group was doing. Even when I could run, it was hard to do so—it was that tough out there already.

Even several miles into the run, I was still with groups of runners going single file. The larger group had broken into smaller ones, but it was still impossible to get around them. And I was still at their mercy in regard to walking or running. Naturally, the steep sections were for the walking, but there seemed to be way too few flatter areas. I even asked Ladd at one point: “Do you think there will be anyplace where we can run for more than just a few steps?”

Ladd, Frank, and I were never far from one another. After a couple of hours, we could stay together and better avoid the groups. It was probably about 7:00 A.M. when I started to notice the scenery. The forest was truly beautiful, and now away from the crowds, I thought about how much I loved this. I thought about why I run at all: to see sights and experience nature in ways that are impossible any other way.

The epiphany didn’t last long. Things were beginning to hurt. Now at 13 miles, we were only halfway through the first loop. I tried to adjust my thoughts: Just make it to the next aid station, then the next, then to the finish of the first loop.

I forgot about the pain for a while as we crossed a stream several times and then climbed up and over a small, muddy cliff. This half-mile or so section probably took a half hour or more. It was fun but also frustrating. The rest of the

Running downhill at Mohican
during the June
2011 race. Author
Dan Horvath leads
the way.

oO Oo

terrain was also terrible, but this part was the worst. And I had been here before, 10 years ago.

Eventually, I found that I couldn’t stay with Ladd any more. He was moving at a slow, steady pace, but I couldn’t hold even that. My overall pain was still increasing, and the humidity made it difficult to breathe. In addition, I was tired. I’m not sure I understood the fatigue; perhaps it was only from fighting the overall pain. In fact, I was actually winded for much of the time. I made a couple of remarks about all this to Frank, but he didn’t answer. I think he was having difficulty as well. By the time we got to the final aid station of the first loop (mile 22 or so), I was totally spent. Ladd and Frank were still there, and I said that I didn’t know whether I would be able to complete the circuit, much less start the next one. I don’t think Ladd believed me. I hardly believed it myself. In all my years of running and racing, I had had only one DNF, in a marathon where I very well could have gone on. Until this moment, the thought of a DNF here hadn’t crossed my mind at all. In fact, I had had no contingency plan whatsoever; I was going to finish no matter what. I was aware that this race had a very low (often well under 50 percent) finish rate, but DNFs were for other people. If I had difficulty, I would just run through it; it was simply a matter of perseverance.

I’ve been running long enough to know that bad patches can come and go. You have a great deal of time to get over something during an ultramarathon (in this case, the cutoff was 32 hours). But it only got worse. More runners began passing me. I knew several of them, and they tried to encourage me. It didn’t work. Once when I did try to run, I tripped and fell. This was on top of a few other minor falls earlier in the race. By now, I hated every minute. Eventually I saw it: a shortcut! This would eliminate the extremely vertical final two-mile section of the course. Since I was going to be dropping, I had no qualms about taking this