(And What | Learned From It)

KIAH, CALIFORNIA, October 7, 1978—It occurred to me on B Hill (“B” for “Bastard”) that maybe I was overdoing it a bit this year. As Phil “Bagpipes” Lenahan and I pulled ourselves up the crumbling sides of the dirt slope, grabbing exposed roots and dragging our tired asses up toward the ridgeline of Cow Mountain, I thought seriously about turning back in order to bring 1978 toa merciful end. A bit prematurely, yes. But prematurely according to whose schedule? Just how long could you keep it up, anyway? But there was the darned lure of the Studrunner Award. Sixteen months ago, I had weighed 207 pounds and had been woefully out of shape. I had run crosscountry in college but had then taken a newspaper job where we were salaried and therefore able to work 70- to 80-hour weeks. After four and one-half years, I had moved on to the editorship of Stock Car Racing magazine, where for four and one-half more years I had worked 70- to 80-hour weeks.

» Phil “Bagpipes” Lenahan (foreground) and Rich Benyo cruise along the top of Cow Mountain.

Courtesy of Richard Benyo

But I had determined about then to mend my ways.

Hal Higdon, who had been writing auto racing stories for me at Stock Car Racing while also writing for Runner’s World, learned of an opening at the running magazine for a managing editor. Knowing my marginal running background, he had talked RW’s owner, Bob Anderson, into interviewing me. I was offered the job in the spring of 1977, which involved a move from Alexandria, Virginia, to Mountain View, California. But I was determined to get back into running before I left the East Coast on the last day of July.

Thad started by cutting out lunch. Instead of driving downtown to have a roast beef sandwich and all the trimmings at Roy Rogers, I ate an apple and walked for a half hour. I couldn’t bear the thought of returning to running until I brought my weight below 200 pounds.

On June 13, 1977, I dropped to 199 and the next day began my return. I ran twice around the block at our apartment complex in the Rose Hill section of Alexandria out beyond the beltway. It was hot and muggy; I spent the rest of the day in the apartment complex pool licking my wounds.

PATIENT PROGRESS

But little by little, I progressed so that by the time I left for California on July 31, I was up to five miles.

Once safely ensconced in my 80- to 90-hour workweek at Runner’s World, 1 continued to increase my mileage. I raced in the fun runs every Sunday morning, gradually working my way past guys who had thoroughly trounced me weeks before.

I had progressed to the point that Doug Latimer, who had the office next to mine and who had become obsessed with a longer run called the Western States 100 Trail Run, never missed a day of trying to persuade me to join him on training for the “ultimate running experience.” The race was begun by a wilderness nut named Gordy Ainsleigh. After his horse came up lame and couldn’t compete in the annual 100-mile Tevis Cup endurance horse race through the Sierra Nevada, he had run it on foot. Doug was soon joined by another wacko in our office named Phil “Bagpipes” Lenahan, who was also a Western Stater and an ultra crazy. (Bagpipes annually rented a nightclub on California Avenue in Palo Alto on St. Patrick’s Day and invited everyone he knew to celebrate, especially if you had a musical instrument, which half of the folks did, thereby forming the once-a-year amalgamation known as the Los Trancas Marching Band, named after a local road.)

To complement those two there was Dave “The Amazing One” Prokop, a Canadian who had the office across the hall from me and who specialized in the-longer-the-better runs.

» Bagpipes Lenahan, who started the trouble.

Ihadn’t evenruna marathon, yet they were on my case to join them running ultramarathons.

Iwas, however, building for my first marathon, the May 7, 1978, Avenue of the Giants Marathon, in far Northern California.

Unfortunately, while our Runner’s World staff was back at the Boston Marathon putting on our annual open house—this was before there were expos—my running buddy Larry Tunis, who had run three marathons, persuaded me to jog through Boston with him as a bandit at the back of the pack. I resisted but was double-teamed when old buddy Hal Higdon joined Larry in convincing me it would be a good workout toward my maiden marathon a few

weeks hence.

So, on April 17, Larry and I lined up at the back of the field at Boston and I ran my “first” marathon. In one of those twists of fate, I left Larry at Cleveland Circle and caught Hal around the Citgo sign—he was suffering from a leg injury—from whence we jogged in together. My time from starting line to finish was 3:29.

At Avenue of the Giants a few weeks later, I ran 3:26:48, sporting blisters on my arches the size of dinner rolls.

A MARATHON A MONTH

In June, I ran Avenue of the Flowers in Lompoc in 3:24:08. Then in July, Larry and I paced our friend Bill Howard through his first marathon (San Francisco) in 3:51.

Still pushed by Latimer and Lenahan to run ultras with them, I signed up for the AAU 50-Mile Championships in Southern California. But I was not confident about going the distance, so on August 12 Larry Tunis and I got up at 3:00 a.m. and went to the Foothills College track. At 4:00 a.M., we began to run, and we ran 30 miles in less than five hours to see what it was like. We would have gone farther, but at 9:00 we were thrown off the track by the Chinese Little Olympics. Our conclusion: running around a track in the dark by ourselves was, well, abnormal.

The 50-miler the weekend of the September 9 was a disaster. I had a drive of 400 miles in front of me but could not leave Mountain View until after the 4:00 P.M. press conference announcing the results of the annual running shoe tests around which RW’s October issue was structured. I didn’t get to my hotel in Los Angeles until 3:30 the following morning.

Unfortunately, the motel I had picked was the Roman Inn on Pico. Better it should have been called the Roman baths. It was a swinging singles hangout, and the frenzy in the Jacuzzi outside my window didn’t abate until 4:00 a.M., only to fire up again when the sun came up as the pheromone-induced revelers got their second wind.

Atthe race, I made the mistake of going out after Frank Bozanich. Bad, bad, bad move. I was nowhere in Frank’s league. Not even Frank was in Frank’s league that day, as he eventually faded and lost. I faded a lot sooner, though. After a first mile of 7:10, a third mile of 7:24, and a fifth mile of 7:12, by mile 16 I began to suffer stomach cramps, and by 22 miles I was crumpled on the side of the track.

This was all in the wake of the previous weekend, Labor Day weekend, when Thad gone to Nevada to run in the Silver State Marathon, which is held around Washoe Lake between Reno and Carson City. Being from the East Coast where, when you are surrounded by mountains, you’re in a low valley, I figured great, we’re running in a valley surrounded by mountains. I had no appreciation of the fact that this was the Wild West and the lake itself lay at 5,000 feet. I struggled around the lake, short of breath and mystified as to why I couldn’t breathe, and finished in 3:33, my worst solo marathon to date; my feet blistered so much that I took my shoes off and carried them for the final two miles, running in stocking feet.

Obviously, all of this craziness had more than prepared me for Cow Mountain, yet another wacko Gordy Ainsleigh production. The fact that Gordy was involved should have set off some warning bells, but I was too busy at work to stop and think of the consequences of my actions.

THE BRAIN KICKS IN—FINALLY

Rational thoughts would come later. On Bastard Hill. Where I contemplated pushing Bagpipes Lenahan down B Hill and burying his body under some rocks.

How did I get myself into this situation anyway? In some ways this weekend was not dissimilar to the disastrous LA AAU 50-Mile Championships weekend. Everything leading up to it had gone badly, but unlike Los Angeles, here there was the allure of that Studrunner Award.

Thad let Lenahan talk me into running this, the First Annual Planet Earth 50 Mile X-C Championships, a commingling of endurance horse riding and running. Gordy Ainsleigh apparently thought that if mixing horses and runners worked once in the Sierra, it ought to work again in Mendocino County.

I had hoped to ride north along 101 with Bagpipes, but he left early in the morning and I had a staff member whose birthday was that day, so I took some of the staff out for pizza at noon. As soon as I could drop them off at the office, I would be out of there. I had picked up the case of Body Punch that Bagpipes was supposed to take with him. (Body Punch was Runner’s World’s answer to Gatorade.) But as I rolled up to the RW office, the tailpipe in my ’64 Rambler Classic 770 began to spew brown gunk. I nursed the car over to my mechanic; he diagnosed the problem as automatic transmission fluid leaking into the engine coolant. Not good.

I rented a Pinto station wagon, and instead of leaving at 1:00 left at 3:30, just in time for rush hour. Three hours later I stopped in Cloverdale and grabbed something to eat, which was a good move. It took me a while to find the campsite where we were supposed to meet along the shores of Lake Mendocino, where the other runners were cooking pasta in a big pot over a campfire. They hadn’t added olive oil to head off the spaghetti sticking together, so it was a rather starchy special served up on cheap paper plates that immediately absorbed the pasta sauce.

Gordy Ainsleigh came by to give us last-minute instructions. As he spoke, he pulled out plain white T-shirts, spread them on the picnic table, and drew the cow-head logo and the words “Planet Earth 50 Mile X-C Championships” for people who hadn’t signed up in advance but wanted a T-shirt.

I dropped the case of Body Punch on the table so he could transfer it to his bargelike Cadillac, which for the rest of the weekend would somehow miraculously turn up at impossible spots along the rugged course as though it were a four-wheel-drive SUV.

GORDY’S RULES AND REGS

Gordy ran down the rules. We would begin our run at 6:00 A.M. in the dark—with flashlights, which Gordy would pick up along the course once the sun rose. The horses would start 45 minutes after us. The horses would have seven vet stops along the 50 miles; the runners would have none. The course was configured so it ran from the lake up the northwestern side of the mountain, which was shaped like the dorsal fin of a trout; once to the top, we would run along the ridgeline heading south, where we would come down a winding path through the manzanita forest so that by the time we reached Talmage Road (the turnaround), we would have covered 27 miles, roughly a marathon, for those who wanted to go only one way. The ultrarunners would then turn around and climb back up the mountain, and 23 miles later we would be finished.

Will there be water? someone asked.

Yes there will, Gordy answered. And there will be Body Punch, courtesy of Rich here and Runner’s World. What he didn’t tell us was that he was going to toss Body Punch into every other horse trough whenever he came upon them,

leaving the alternating troughs with just plain warm dirty water with horse whiskers floating on top.

What were the cutoff times?

Twelve hours for the runners.

What about the Studrunner Award? I asked.

Gordy got up and went to the snot-green Cadillac parked nearby. One of Gordy’s several occupations was pottery maker. He returned with a varicolored ceramic dildo attached to a wooden plaque; the dildo was the size of a bull’s penis. Wow, we breathed. Some of “we” were women. It was the most magnificent trophy any of us had ever seen. Naturally, we all wanted one, so much so that several of the runners who had signed up for the marathon actually contemplated moving up to the 50. The Studrunner Award would be given to any runner who broke 10 hours.

Gordy did his slightly maniac chuckle and put the Studrunner Award away. Maybe out of sight, but certainly not out of mind.

The questions petered out, and one by one we drifted off to bed. I crawled into the sleeping bag in the back of the Pinto station wagon.

I was up at 5:00 a.M., blundering about, bumping into trees until I found my flashlight. Phil got up at 5:10. He had agreed to be the alarm clock for the rest of the camp.

When Gordy started us at 6:00, some of the runners went off in a rush. Five of us left together, following our flashlight beams: Phil, Pat Smythe, myself, Jim Carr (also from Runner’s World, the new editor of The Marathoner), and another guy. Jim and the other guy were doing the 27-mile marathon and soon pulled away from us.

Pat was having a terrible time of it on the uphills. She was sweating profusely and kept falling behind.

AH! WATER. SORT OF

When it became light, Gordy arrived in his Cadillac along a rugged jeep road, collected our flashlights, wished us luck, and we continued, coming upon our first aid station: a horse trough filled with vaguely orange water. The temperature was getting a little warm by then, and Phil cautioned us to drink frequently. We carefully moved some of the horse whiskers across the surface of the water so we could dip in our bottles. This was before today’s fancy water bottles, and our vessels varied from recycled plastic honey-bear bottles to whatever Tupperware goodies might apply.

The water was warm, but it was wet and the slightly vile taste of the Body Punch covered some of the taste of the horse-drool-impregnated water.

At eight and one-half miles we arrived at Bastard Hill. They had referred to it as ““B Hill” so as not to offend the ladies, but the ladies were the ones who called

it exactly what it was. Bastard Hill was two and one-half miles long and went nearly straight up. It took you from the valley floor to the top of the mountain in that two and one-half miles. Pat was really struggling, and when we reached the vet check at 11 miles, on top of the mountain, she dropped well behind and we lost contact with her.

The lead horses caught us as we crawled up B Hill, and some of the horses were struggling just as badly as we were. The riders had dismounted and were guiding the horses from behind while they held onto the horses’ tails to be pulled up.

Not much later we hit The Slide, a three-quarter-mile drop consisting of loose tock. (Which, Phil was happy to observe, we would have to crawl up on the way back.) We slid down on our butts and continued on to the water tower at 15 miles, occasionally stopped for more Body Punch-—laced horsey water. At one trough we had to wait until a horse finished up; the horse seemed to enjoy the orange Body Punch more than we did.

Phil and I got in some decent miles as we rolled across the ridge top. Why not? We had B Hill behind us, we were probably absorbing all sorts of horse genes from the water, and on top of the ridge the sun wasn’t all that hot. And besides, when the female riders went past us—and they were mostly female riders—they were quick to compliment us on our manly legs and our shapely rumps. We were too out of breath to thank them, so we merely waved.

A Horses and runners shared the same water.

LOST IN THE MAZE

When we hit the 20-mile mark, the path began to drop and loop in a most bewildering way. We were run through a long maze of manzanita taller than we were in order to add the extra miles to make it a marathon.

I had arranged for my old running buddy Larry Tunis—you remember, the one who lured me into running the Boston Marathon as a bandit back in April as a last long run before my “first” marathon—to meet me at the turnaround at Talmage Road. He and a half-dozen folks from our office were waiting there with everything I had asked for, including a can of Nutriment (forerunner to Ensure) and a beer, which I quaffed gratefully after the hours of drinking horse water. The gang from the office had never been to an ultra before and were curious as to just how nutty the Runner’s World middle management really was.

I had reached the turnaround (27 miles) in 4:40 and felt terrific.

Larry and Phil and I started walking up the side of the mountain down which Thad just come, but now the ascent wasn’t along switchbacks but rather fairly directly uphill.

When we reached the ridgeline and began running again, Phil began picking up the pace. Phil was a consistent sub-3:00 marathoner, so Larry and I decided not to attempt to keep up.

As we rolled along the ridgeline, we were passed and re-passed by rider number 70 who offered us rather extravagant and exotic pleasures if we completed the race. Naturally, it spurred us on; naturally, when we reached the finish line, she was nowhere to be found.

My right foot began to bother me. It felt as though I had dropped a rock on it, which was very odd in that I had several times in the first half of the race twisted my left ankle but hadn’t injured my right foot at all. We walked from 35 miles to 42 miles in an attempt to preserve my foot. Phil had left his waist pack with Larry, and when we dug through it looking for something to help, we found a bottle of aspirins. The combination of several aspirins and a bottle of horse water did the trick, and we began running again.

Gordy was at the vet check at 43 miles, and he observed that he didn’t think Thad a chance of making it under 10 hours. Larry and I did some quick calculations as we rolled along, thinking that we still had a chance if we kept moving at a brisk pace. Which we did.

Larry decided that it was time he became my coach, so he began coaching by telling me what to do in a constant lecture. I had been running continuously, up hills and down hills, was nearing exhaustion, and good old Larry was getting on my nerves. I was becoming so exhausted that I began to not care about breaking 10 hours, and I attempted to devise ways to talk Larry into running behind me so that I would be motivated by his nonstop talking to run away from him instead of following him.

MYSTERY TRAIL

We began to hit a trail that I didn’t recognize. I realized that was because when I had come out that way, it was dark, which to my befuddled mind meant that I was nearing the finish line.

Idearly wanted that damned Studrunner Award—and good buddy Larry wanted me to have it, even though he had not even seen the magnificence of it as the rest of us had the previous night.

I pushed against exhaustion. Larry pushed against my tendency to muddle along instead of running at a vigorous clip. We worked as an effective if very dysfunctional team. We came upon our office friends, who were a mere one-eighth of a mile from the finish line. Larry and I picked up the pace, came around a corner, and there it was: the finish line.

I stopped my watch.

“Did we make it?” Larry asked eagerly.

I looked at the watch: 9:58:30.

Thad become the last studrunner of the day, by a mere 90 seconds!

Gordy walked over and embraced my sweaty self. Within the last miles of the race, I had pulled my shirt off my body and worn it like a necklace. “You did it!” he said. “I didn’t think you’d make it, you studrunner, you!”

Larry and I walked back toward the parking lot, wanting to cool down gradually and to get a couple of beers. If it was possible, Larry talked even more nonstop than he had when he had decided that if we were going to make it, he would have to assume the role of coach Larry. He was so excited that he just couldn’t shut up. I clapped him on the back, thanked him for his help, and tossed him a beer, hoping it would mellow his enthusiasm.

As we walked around the parking lot drinking beer and cooling down, Larry encouraged me to look for horse rider number 70. “Here,” he said, gesturing expansively around the big dirt

® Rich (right) with his second-half pacer, Larry Tunis.

lot, where a crew was laying down big sheets of cardboard while others strewed hay about, while others took care of their horses, while others set up band instruments on a big hay wagon, while others fired up a huge grill built over cinder blocks. “She’s got to be here somewhere.”

Larry’s girlfriend had come up with him, as had my secretary and a gaggle of other friends; they were now standing in the shade of an oak while Larry and I circled. I had begun to limp now that we had stopped running, my right foot acting up again.

POSTRACE GAB

Eventually we found an empty picnic table and sat down, and everyone talked at the same time while I tried to lay my head down on the table to take a nap. Larry kept slapping me on the back, calling me studrunner. “I can’t wait to hold it in my hands,” he kept saying. He was so agitated that he went to find Gordy to inquire after my award. He came back crestfallen. “He doesn’t have your damned Studrunner Award here,” Larry reported. “He said he didn’t know how many runners would become studrunners so he only made the one. He’ll make the rest of them, and he’ll deliver them to you. Crap. I really wanted to hold it for you.” (Indeed, true to his word, on the following Friday, Gordy would drive from the Auburn area to Mountain View and arrive at my office with a half-dozen Studrunner Awards that he lined up on the top of his Cadillac so I could pick the one I wanted.)

The late afternoon wound itself into early evening. The charcoals were fired up, the band fired up, and the riders and the runners mixed together, sharing experiences, telling stories, drinking beers. When dinnertime arrived, volunteers made rounds of the picnic area delivering steaks the size of Frisbees to everyone who had any association with the race in even the most oblique way. All of our friends from the office were served steaks; the runners and riders were served steaks; the band was served steaks. The volunteers had set up brand new aluminum horse troughs, which they filled with beer and soft drinks and ice. I kept to my own beers, never wanting to see another horse trough as long as I lived.

Just before dark, my friends from the office all left to go back. I had decided to stay a bit longer with my new ultra friends and with the horse people, although I continued to give the troughs a wide berth.

The band fired up again, and stiff-legged runners danced with female horse riders to country music. More than one horsewoman hooked up with a weary but enthusiastic runner.

By the time I left around 10 o’clock, my right foot was killing me, but the horse people were still dancing the night away.

larrived home at 1:00 a.., limped into bed, and slept until 10:00 a.m. Sunday morning.