. One Step Beyond

SEE STRESSES SRD ALESIS

CELEB TE TERNAL GES TA AO ETE

When It Comes to Running Really Long, Be Careful What You Wish For…

By TIMOTHY MARTIN

JACK HOPKINS.

Author Tim Martin trained like a madman to prepare for his first ultra.

[x THE small hours of Sunday morning, while the residents of Arcata, California, dozed, a select group of runners pointed themselves northerly and quietly slipped from town. At first their movements were pained and slow. They shuffled along the fog-shrouded streets, caricatures of rest home patients plagued by arthritis, bursitis, and other ailments too numerous to mention.

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By the time they reached the outskirts of town, past the flakeboard mill with its ever-present haze of acrid, sweetish smoke, and past the final row of houses with their windows reflecting the pale light of dawn, the pace had grown more respectable.

A smoothness of motion had crept into the pack. Each runner functioned with greater efficiency. The conversation, which to that point had resounded with rumbling curses and the occasional shrill cry of physical shame, likewise smoothed out. Talk began to center on the distance of the day’s run.

As the subject was bandied about and as confidence began to build, so too did the miles. The stakes increased at an alarming rate: 10, 20, 30 miles. The bidding grudgingly halted at an incredible 40 miles!

As the fledgling member of the group, I was torn between two profound instincts: On one hand was basic survival, on the other, saving face. I followed along, skating on the verge of panic. I blurted out, “T’ll keep up with you people for as long as possible, but… .”

Stern looks from several runners suggested that excessive honking over mileage was forbidden. There is nothing more depressing to a pack of hardened athletes than the specter of a companion whining. Here, on my first day as an ultramarathoner, I was packing the traditional baggage: bunches of fear and hesitation. I buttoned my lip and readied myself for a long day of vapid, trudging toil.

JACK HOPKINS

MAU members and their guest quietly slip out of town for the day’s 40-mile run.

THE FATEFUL INVITATION

My initiation into the sport of ultramarathoning started, oddly enough, with a simple request. The esteemed members of the local Marathons And Up (MAU) group asked that I accompany them on a training run. I was flattered. Not just anyone is invited to match strides with this tight-knit group. MAU members are very selective about the company they keep.

The invitation was a high honor. But since I was nursing a sore hamstring and living intimately with an ice bag, I had to decline. I told them as much, but I might as well have been talking in Esperanto or igpay atinlay. They insisted.

Still, [politely refused. Not just because of my injury, either. Ultramarathoners are, well… different. There is something alarmingly nonchalant about the way they discuss subjects like pain and fatigue. It’s frightening how they make a 50mile run sound mundane. And it’s downright scary how they refuse to miss a single workout.

A short time later another invitation arrived from MAU. I stayed resolutely indecisive about joining them, so determinedly uncommitted that I made wind chimes sound opinionated. Then the threats began—something about burning my house, canceling my running magazine subscriptions, and chicken noises. That sort of thing. I finally caved in.

But there was still a problem. I knew nothing about ultramarathoning, and Texpected that I was about as capable of matching strides with a MAU member as I was of putting a bit in my mouth and running to victory at the Kentucky Derby. I had to find out as much as I could about the sport—and pronto. I began by quizzing other runners. What I got back wasn’t encouraging.

One runner said, “Oh sure, it would be great to run with MAU. It would be great to run in the Olympics, too.” Another declared, “I went on a training run with them once. It was the most pain-riddled, epic journey I’ve ever had the satisfaction of hating.”

Still, the idea of ultramarathoning was alluring. Like most mid-pack runners, I harbored that dream of untapped potential, the impression that somewhere deep inside me lurked another Bill Rodgers, a Frank Shorter—a winner! And this might be the perfect chance to tap into whatever potential dwelled deep within my scrawny body.

As I started out the door that morning, I had the queasy sensation of heading into a den of tigers with nothing for protection but a squirt gun. —Tim Martin

In preparation for this vaulted initiation, I began to train so hard my friends thought I had taken temporary leave of my senses. I spent mornings in the gym

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attempting to build strength. Evenings were devoted to the track, as I attempted to build up stamina. I ran wind sprints until my legs turned to Silly Putty.

I was determined to be ready for my first run with MAU. But even with this background behind me, as I started out the door that morning, I had the queasy sensation of heading into a den of tigers with nothing for protection but a squirt gun.

THE EARLY MILES

The body of an ultramarathoner, it appeared, comes on-line slowly, like a boiler on a heavily-laden cargo ship. Several miles had elapsed before everyone had shaken off the stiffness.

During those early miles, talk centered on Mignonne Bivin, a female MAU member who had recently won the Mad River 50K. The whole group was praising her fine performance. And when anyone is praised by the members of MAU, the person grows wings, a halo, is wrapped in a toga, and carries a torch.

Bivin, 41, smiling, loped along.

The casual conversation, along with the easy pace, filled me with false courage. A small adrenaline rush surged through my system. In a sudden unaccountable fit of glee, I decided I could run 50—no, /00—miles at this snail’s pace. “Hey, this isn’t so bad,” I shouted, wrestling with an urge to dash off and leave the others in my dust.

Silence all around. Reassuring smiles, the kind one might save for an invalid planning to train for the pole vault. And the look in their eyes: ancient tomcats who have seen a thousand mice turned inside out. A message had been conveyed: Passing blind on this curve is begging for early retirement.

JACK HOPKINS

During the early miles, the casual conversation and easy pace fills Martin with false courage.

They were right. At 10 miles, my euphoria had burned off like surplus ether. Already I was beginning to fade. At 15 miles, my legs had taken on a special numbness. By the time our group had traveled 20 miles, it seemed like 120. I felt like the fourth quarter, the fifth set, the last lap, and the 12th round all rolled up into one.

But the big change was the one that had befallen the rest of the group. Everyone else suddenly looked appallingly fit and eager for action. They had morphed legs of gazelles and rib cages of slightly underfed young panthers.

To take my mind off the mounting pain, I sidled up to Gerald Hoopes, a tall, perfectly vertical runner whose form approximates a toy soldier’s, and whose passion for ultrarunning transcends the normal boundaries of lust.

“Ultrarunning is not masochistic. Suffering is not a prerequisite. It’s more like pleasure seeking.” —Gerald Hoopes

Hoopes, at age 53, sports aresume that most ultrarunners only dream of. He has competed in dozens of ultras, including a 50-mile championship in Grants Pass, Oregon. I was eager to understand why he chose to invest so much time and energy in a sport that was heralded by most as an aberration somewhere in the league of flagpole sitting.

MASOCHISTS NEED NOT APPLY

“Ultrarunning is not masochistic,” said Hoopes. “Suffering is not a prerequisite. It’s more like pleasure seeking.” He laughed at the perfection of the description.

“That’s exactly what it is—pleasure seeking. There is no pain involved if you do it right. On my PR 50-miler, I was zonked, but it felt wonderful. I ran 6:19:34. It was intoxicating.”

Iwas curious to know how Hoopes felt about running shorter distances. Had he ever competed in a 10K? Hoopes looked at me as though I’d just spoken in Sanskrit or Basque. “A 10… K?” He dragged out the term. “Running 10 kilometers is about as exciting to an ultramarathoner as reading copy in the National Plumbers Wholesale Catalog. Ultrarunners don’t even wake up until after they’ve gone 20 miles,” he said. Dutiful laughter from the others greeted this sally. Such a wit, such a wit.

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“Other runners are always going on about how great the short races are,” Hoopes continued, now well into his monologue. “But as far as I’m concerned, nothing in the world measures up to an ultra. The crack of a starter’s pistol at a50-mile race does for me what Henry V’s oratory did for his troops at Harfleur and Agincourt. ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!’”

Quietly, I steered away from Hoopes. My mind was beginning to develop stretch marks.

A NON-DETOXABLE RUNAHOLIC

By the time I caught up with Bill Spenceley, my body resembled Beirut on a bad day. I was hammered, bonked, wiped out. Spenceley, on the other hand, was running so smoothly he seemed driven by electricity, not mortal biochemistry.

Spenceley, 46, apparently divides his time between ultramarathoning and talking about ultramarathoning—a non-detoxable runaholic. He has competed in the Western States 100, Leadville Trail 100, and the Old Dominion 100. He described the shin-splitting, tendon-ripping effects of one particular event— the Wasatch Front Endurance Run 100—with all the love of someone recounting a delicious seven-course meal.

“Tt was the most difficult ultra I’ve ever run,” said Spenceley, smiling. “There were so many mental ups and downs. Night was the toughest. I would feel real low, then I would go through a checkpoint and start to feel better. At one point, 26 hours into the race, I was walking along a ridge, asleep on my feet.

“With most people, running is peripheral to life. … It should be the other way around. All life should hang on running—especially on ultrarunning.” —Bill Spenceley

“T eventually finished in 34 hours and 40 minutes,” added Spenceley. “To have gone through all that and finished, it was almost surreal. I got a lot of satisfaction from completing the Wasatch 100. It taught me that if I focus my strength and will power, there’s nothing I can’t do.”

Spenceley is a tough competitor, no doubt about it. And he is unique in another way. Whereas many of today’s ultrarunners train using megamileage, Spenceley seldom puts in more than 90 miles a week.

“If you’re Joe Mountain Runner, or going to be in the top 10, you run 150 miles a week or more,” said Spenceley. “But if your goal is simply to finish, you don’t need to run that kind of mileage.”

Altogether, Spenceley has competed in over 50 ultra events. I grilled him about why he felt a need to keep running them. “Well, with most people, running is peripheral to life,” he said flatly. I waited for the leap of logic, but it never came.

“And—?”

“Don’t you see?” he asked.

“Mmmmm. .. n-n-no. . .” I replied.

“It should be the other way around. All life should hang on running— especially on ultrarunning.” He said this without smiling, as if it were the most serious advice he had ever offered free of charge. My conversation with Spenceley left me believing that the road traveled by ultramarathoners is a long, hideous avenue littered with ibuprofen, moleskin, Icy-Hot, and Spenco heel lifts.

LEARNING FROM A MASTER

We were 25 miles into the run and I was sweating like a malaria victim. Bill Daniel pulled beside me, looking as fresh as a newly-scrubbed carrot. Daniel, 55, is strong, STRONG. He has the kind of muscles that come from running 20 miles a day, week after week, year after year.

And when Daniel is not training, he’s racing. Among his outstanding performances is a time of 4:35 in the local Arcata-to-Willow Creek Run (40 miles of mountain roads). He has also posted a time of 6:20 for a 50-mile run.

Daniel has a certain avuncular way about him, especially when dispensing the wisdom he’s accumulated during his many years as an ultramarathoner. In a sport where anxiety leads to trust—and you implicitly believe anyone who offers even an off-the-cuff opinion—it’s comforting to have someone like Daniel around.

“A lot of talk goes down on arun,” said Daniel. “It’s the background noise that keeps things from being conducted in grunts, squeals, and total silence. Just remember, don’t get embroiled in discussions that take over a few minutes. It can kind of make folks hate you.”

Daniel has an ultramarathoner’s sense of humor—that is to say, one that most people might consider darkly hilarious and Kafkaesque. “I like the camaraderie of ultrarunning, although there’s not much of it during races,” said Daniel. “In the heat of competition things can get pretty tough.”

Suddenly, the group geared down into low, grinding up a grotesquely steep hill. Further conversation on my part was unnecessary—and impossible. Daniel shot ahead like a blow dart through the Amazon foliage.

30 DOWN AND 10 TO GO

At 30 miles I was doing my best not to kvetch incessantly. The dimensions of my fatigue had begun to hog the mental terrain. My mind felt the way a latesummer grassfire looks at dusk, all rose-red and smoke gray. Just as I was about to slip from the grasp of coherence, Forrest Williams dropped back to assist me. It was evident I was in need.

“Only 10 miles to go,” Williams said, orally slapping me back to consciousness. “It looks like you might survive your first ultra. This will be a day you’ ll remember forever.” If this is Memory Lane, I thought, I prefer the LA freeway at rush hour. .

Williams, 56, may smile warmly when he talks about ultramarathoning, but his eyes don’t change. They flash with a competitive fire. He has been running for a long time, shouldering automobiles off the road for over two decades. It’s not unusual for Williams to log at least 150 miles a week, and he spreads the gospel of ultrarunning with all the zeal of a Baptist minister.

Williams likes to begin slowly, but toward the end of a race, he will ghost through the other runners as though they were flotsam in a tidal rip. His first ultra competition was the Arcata-to-Willow Creek Run. In preparation for the event, Williams did secret training sessions—searing workouts of “quality volume, minimum rest”—and, on race day, blew away a surprised field of runners. I asked him what he enjoyed most about ultrarunning.

“Ninety percent of ultramarathoning is training. Once you put it in, you know you can go the distance.” —Forrest Williams

“There’s a lot of satisfaction in doing something you thought you could never do,” said Williams. “Training for it makes you feel good, too. Ninety percent of ultramarathoning is training. Once you put it in, you know you can go the distance. How fast becomes the question.

“Another thing I like about the sport is that you can feel comfortable all the time. It’s not as painful as the shorter races. You can even have conversations. But they’re usually not long conversations.”

BARELY HANGING ON

The group had traveled 35 miles. Miraculously, I had hung on, barely. I ran along ina state of misery, craving rest with every atom of my being. Meanwhile,

the others were gearing up for the final assault back into Arcata. I pulled up beside George Crandell and struggled to find cruise control. I was eager to speak with him before he charged off in a fit of ungovernable speed.

Veteran ultrarun- : ner Crandell, 56, has — the kind of confidence everyone wants. He’s run 100 miles on the Humboldt State University track (400 laps) in a world-class 15:49, anda blistering 4:57 in the Arcata-toWillow Creek Run. Crandell has been running ultra events for years. Does he ever stop? Occasionally. y Regretfully. Has he a+ 39 miles, Martin does his best not to kvetch ever dropped out of a jncessa ntly. race and hooked a ride in? Absolutely not. He regards the internal combustion engine with fear and loathing.

Crandell, a retired oceanography professor from nearby Humboldt State, is smart beyond schoolwork smart—he’s bird-dog-cunning smart. He knows all too well that as one’s speed begins to wane with age, one must use wisdom and trickery to one’s advantage.

Crandell has been known to employ such tactics as taking on extra water early in a run and bluffing others into thinking he will make the customary water stop down the road. As they pull into the pits, he will change course at the last minute and dash for home, psychologically demolishing the competition.

Crandell knows that to win with consistency (even on a training run), one must bluff with aplomb. But, as a man given to moving forward for long periods of time, he is uncommonly fair-minded in his practices, an equal opportunity runner: He swindles everybody, regardless of race, color, creed, or running ability. He also requires very little in the way of nutrition to keep him moving.

Unlike Spenceley, who snacks on fruit leathers and PowerBars during his ultras, Crandell avoids solid food. “I mainly drink Mountain Dew,” said Crandell. “I’m convinced that up to a distance of 50 miles you can get what you need out of liquid and sugar. Beyond that, you need solid food.”

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I probed Crandell for an answer to the ultramarathon mystery. I wanted to get at least a step or two closer to the true spirit of the sport, to find what motivation was behind it.

“The challenge of going beyond is what I love.” —George Crandell

“The challenge of going beyond is what I love,” Crandell explained. “I’ve always wanted to test my endurance limits. When I was 15, I wanted to swim the English Channel, climb Mount Everest, or sail a 15-foot boat across the ocean—something like that. I wanted to go beyond, to cover long distance in different ways. Ultrarunning has become my way of accomplishing that.”

Our talk was cut short by the proximity of the unofficial finish. Without warning, Crandell reopened the gas cocks, inflating his stride until the needle was back up in the red zone. The others followed.

HARDER IS BETTER

Luckily, one runner remained behind. It was Sandra Healy. I knew that if anyone could put me in touch with the true spirit of ultramarathoning, it would be she. Healy, 45, is the essential long-distance runner. For her, ultramarathoning is not about the accumulation of facts and figures. Nor is it about speed or pace. It’s about legs and lungs working in unison, going places both geographical and mental. It’s about being alone with yourself for hours on end—and liking it.

When Healy runs, it’s not to slay dragons, but to reach a pure, uncluttered, and highly efficient state of mind. “I’ve always liked to do endurance things,” said Healy, “mostly mountaineering and hiking. Ultramarathoning is similar— my mental attitude is similar. I don’t feel hurried. I’m not a competitor in that sense. I’m not into speed.”

Yet Healy is a serious runner. She’s competed in more than 60 ultra events, including the Run Around Mount Hood (in Oregon), the Timberline Trail Run, the Silver State 50K (high altitude and hot), the Ice Age Trail 50 (in Wisconsin), the Wild Oaks 50 (in Virginia—very rough trail, water freezes in water bottles), and the granddaddy of them all: the Western States 100.

“The harder they are, the better I do,” said Healy, who specializes in mountain racing. “In road racing you can always quit. Not in mountain running. It requires a different mind set. It always holds a sort of survival motivation. Ilike

the more obscure races—minimal aid and limited access. The ones that don’t draw spectators. Not a lot of fancy awards. Minimal hoopla.”

Healy’s toughest race, like Spenceley’s, was the Wasatch 100. “The course was hot and long, and it had difficult footing,” said Healy. “There was a lot of altitude gain and loss, and long stretches of the race were at 9,000 feet.”

According to Healy, the first 30 miles of the Wasatch was not even trail, just steep ridges with names like Chin-Scraper and Knee-Knocker that required the use of hands to hang on. To make matters worse, there was a water station missing. “I got dehydrated from the heat,” recounted Healy. “Temperatures were in the 90s, and I had no water. I got weak, light-headed, and nauseous. By the time it got dark and started to cool down (30 miles), I had finally taken on water. That’s when I started passing people.”

“T’ ve learned to savor the last miles, feeling joy in the miles I’ve run, thinking back over the terrain covered, the beauty along the

way… —Sandra Healy

Running with a flashlight and the aid of her support crew, Healy continued on through the night. Eventually, and through no small effort on her part, she completed the race in a respectable 32:54 (40th of 97 starters, 56 finishers, and Ath of 8 female starters, 6 finishers).

“When I run on the trails, there is no past, no future,” Healy said. “I jump over arock and have always been as the leaping deer, airborne, and will always be. When I land, my knees sink as my muscles take in the shock, and I have always been as a cougar, feeling the strength in my legs, and will always.”

The first time Healy entered an ultra, she met a fellow runner who explained his feelings about the sport. “He told me how he felt ultrarunning was the closest call back to instinctual human beings,” said Healy. “As hunter/gatherers we probably did a lot of long-distance movement in a day; a walk-a-thon kind of thing. Many ultrarunners feel a recall back to this.”

A flashback to our prognathous, spear-throwing Neanderthal days is one thing. But how does one go about surviving the physical stress and mental tedium of a 100-mile endurance run? “People often ask me, ‘What do you think about in all those hours of running?’” said Healy. “The implication is often ‘What do you do to distract yourself from the pain?’ I remain gently focused

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on running. Oh, my mind wanders around to different topics, but it always comes back to relaxation and breathing. I figure that you rest half the time while running, so why ever get tired? While the right leg works, the left rests. While the hamstring works, the quad rests.

“And the backbone sits perfectly balanced, gently shifting back and forth with the stride. And the head is balanced perfectly on the shoulders, so there is little effort expended there. As I run, I check to make sure I’m relaxed and centered, my face relaxed so I can feel my breath gently puff my cheeks, my breathing centered and deep.

“And then my mental state has to be attended to. Are my thoughts calm and peaceful? This is the most difficult at the beginning and end of an ultra. At the beginning there is awe and fear of the distance to be covered and a series of aches and pains that threaten to thwart the run. But anxiousness must be avoided, and pains monitored. Usually they go away if I’m properly relaxed.

“At the end there is a tendency to just want it to be over. I’ ve learned to savor the last miles, feeling joy in the miles I’ve run, thinking back over the terrain covered, the beauty along the way, the companionship of others runners. If I’ ve spent the last hours with my body and mind and spirit perfectly centered, why would I want it to end?

“When I’ve run to Willow Creek, a part of me has stopped at the top of the hill where I can see the town and the finish line. I’ve felt the great peace of wanting it to go on forever. On the other hand, it does feel wonderful to finish the run.”

Thanks to Healy’s kind assistance, I somehow finished my own run, limping back into Arcata, dreaming about a long, healing shower, soft slippers, a cold drink, and the crisp, infinitely inviting sheets of my bed. I had gone 40 miles, but it was something of a pyrrhic victory. My tired body was amonument to oversized ambition and dubious judgment. I came away with no illusions about the Significance of Ultramarathoning and a great respect for those who made it their sport.

Thad just started to hobble in the direction of home when Healy strolled over and patted me on the back. “Not bad,” she said. “Not bad for a beginner.”

It was about as close as a MAU member came to handing out bouquets to novices. I was so deeply touched that I made an involuntary, choking sound of contentment, and actually swore that I’d be back next week… .

Unless I came to my senses first. i