vestige of prolonged aerobic exercise that farmers received—everything else already having been mechanized.

On a visit to Minnesota a few years ago, I asked the farmer who now rents our family farm for permission to walk a section of our soybean field the old-fashioned way. He said that if was crazy enough to want to do it, it was okay with him. When I asked him how many acres a day a person could cover riding a new-style “bean buggy,” he said that on a good day they could do about 30 to 40 acres per person.

The next morning at 6:00 a.m. I borrowed a garden hoe and started to walk the soybeans. I was wearing light hiking boots, which soon became caked Jeff Hagen weeding the soybeans with several inches of mud due to reultra-style. cent rains. All morning hordes of mos- ——______—_ quitoes swarmed around my head, waiting to drill me for blood if I stopped long enough to retie a shoelace.

Where the weeds were thick, the going was agonizingly slow. Stray cornstalks could be cut with the hoe, but cockleburs and other weeds had to be pulled one-by-one and laid against the soybean row with their roots in the air. Fortunately, in some areas the weeds were scarce, and I found that I could run those sections of the field at approximately 100-mile trail race pace. [used my standard ultramarathoning strategies for eating and drinking on the run, thanks to the crew support provided by my wife and daughters.

After more than 15 hours of nonstop walking, running, cutting, and pulling, Iwas forced to stop due to darkness. Identifying weeds with a flashlight is, after all, an inexact science. By day’s end I had thoroughly weeded a total of 50.6 acres of soybeans, which absolutely amazed our renter and the local newspaper editor who stopped by for photos and an interview.

In the process I had walked/run 46 linear miles, not counting the miles covered while stepping back and forth over the eight rows that I was weeding in each pass across the field. And, unlike the legendary John Henry, who did not survive his battle with the steel-driving machine, I felt just fine when the “ordeal” was over.

Even though this event created quite a stir in my old neighborhood, most veteran ultrarunners would have shared my view that it was just another day on

JOYCE HAGEN,

the trail, with a slightly different twist. As I met the challenges of the soybean field, I remember being struck by their similarity to the demands of many ultrarunning events in which I had participated. It seems clear to me that as an experienced ultrarunner deals with adversity on and off the running course, the insight gained from each of these sources complements the other in a way that is almost symbiotic.

AN ALTERNATIVE THEORY

Let me offer an alternative theory from the lighter side. Not everyone would agree with the preceding theorems. Certainly there are other theories about why masters runners do so well in ultramarathons.

One hypothesis, which probably came from some fledgling runner who was humiliated by one or more old fogies during an ultramarathon, is the “Dead Brain Cell Theory.” The gist is that as people run more and more ultramarathons, the shortage of oxygen that they experience for hours on end kills a bunch of their brain cells. If they run at altitude or in extreme cold or heat, such as in 100mile trail races, even more brain cells are lost. The “Catch-22” part of this theory is that the more brain cells these ultrarunners lose, the more they want to run ultras, because they no longer have enough sense nof to run them.

This becomes a vicious cycle, progressing from more ultras to fewer brain cells to more ultras. By the time these poor souls become masters runners, all they want to do is run ultras, and they get pretty good at it. I guess this is similar to the “you don’t have to be crazy to run ultramarathons, but it sure helps” school of thought.

Who knows? Maybe the brain cell theory is valid.

MASTERS OF THE ULTRA

Tf you are a masters runner who is involved in ultramarathons or contemplating your first ultra, I hope these impressions will inspire you to get out there,

have some fun, and show the younger ultrarunners how it should be done. If you have not yet reached the masters age group, rest assured that it will

creep up on you sooner than you think. Then you’ll have your chance [%¢

to be one of the masters of the ultramarathon! BB

Jeff Hagen MASTERS OF THE ULTRA ff 75

The Champion of the Chip

When “The Chip” Came to Boston, It Nearly Found Itself Locked Out.

5 :00 a.m., Monday, 15 April 1996, Boston Hilton—The affable man from Nagano, Japan, Eiichi Kaneshiro, and I stood in the lobby clutching containers of lukewarm coffee. We were awaiting the arrival of Wim Meijer and Peter Bruinink of the Netherlands, along with Mike Burns, their American colleague, and a couple of other assorted technical types. We had requested the opportunity to tag along and watch Meijer and the others set up the ChampionChip timing system for the “100th” running of the Boston Marathon.

Neither Eiichi nor I had ever seen The Chip in action, though we would soon be responsible for its use in the Olympic Games, I in the upcoming Summer Games in Atlanta and he for the 1998 Winter Games.

The Chip had been invented and developed in Europe by Meijer and Bruinink and was finally making its way to the States. Runners tie The Chip to their shoelace. The Chip is encoded with a runner’s race number, and as the runner strides over rubber mats at start, finish, and intermediate points in the race, electronic sensors wired beneath the mats relay the runner’s number to computers gathered on the sideline. Thus, a runner’s exact start time and finish time is captured electronically, giving him or her the true time it took to run the distance, irrespective of the time it took each to reach the starting line.

Boston Marathon organizers had arranged with Meijer and Bruinink to use the system to time the 38,000 runners in the wildly celebratory running of Boston’s “100th.”

The IAAF, the international federation governing track and field, supported our desire to use the chip system to track the 5K splits in the Olympic women’s and men’s marathons. Start and finish times would be recorded in the Olympic Stadium using equipment used for all the other running events. As director of the marathons, I needed to understand not only how The Chip system worked in practice, but also the vans, volunteers, tables, and other equipment essential for support.

Thus, I had flown to Boston to befriend the ChampionChip personnel and get permission to observe the operation. Meijer and Bruinink could not have been more gracious; not only would I be able to watch the system work, but I was also invited to be part of the crew.

Eiichi and I had little time to wait before Meijer and Bruinink arrived. Tall, intense, with a long blonde flattop and cheery blue eyes behind round glasses, Meijer was the faster-paced and more Americanized of the two. Equally tall, though quieter, with the rosy cheeks of a cold-climate outdoorsman, Bruinink seemed the more business-oriented. Both spoke the excellent colloquial English of the European educated classes. “Let’s go,” declared the ever-organized Meijer. “We’ll need the two of you to drive as well. Okay?”

PUT US IN, COACH

Eiichi and I were a bit startled, as we had thought being part of the crew meant moving the occasional box. Eager to be of use, however, we both assented quickly and trotted along in Meijer’s wake to find our vehicles.

Four gleaming, brand new Buick minivans were parked side by side in the hotel garage. Deep burgundy in color, each boasted the official logo of the “100th Running of The Boston Marathon” on the front side doors, and the “100th Running of The Boston Marathon” plastered across the top of the windshield. The vans had obviously been brought directly from the final assembly and purred with the latest in automotive technology. The rear cargo space in each van was jammed with the rubber mats, yellow computer boxes, and coils of wires necessary to time the 38,000 runners at start and intermediate points.

Meijer handed us our keys and told us to follow him westward through Boston and along the turnpike to Hopkinton and the starting point of the marathon. There we would unload the material for the start, and some of us would continue on to the half-marathon point to set up the intermediate timing.

Eiichi and I got into our vans and edged our way onto the still silent streets of Boston. It was 5:30 4.M., and we were on our way to the start of the 100th Running of The Boston Marathon.

As we sped along, it seemed evident that Eiichi’s willingness to drive in America somewhat outstripped his knowledge of American driving customs; nonetheless, we arrived at the start line in Hopkinton without incident, our official vehicle passes getting us through the area roadblocks that were already in place. It was now 6:30, and the sun was beginning to shine on what would bea fine day for running. Meijer indicated that we should stop near the start line, which was painted with wide ceremony across the three-lane street. We then hopped out to receive further orders.

Julia Emmons THE CHAMPION OF THE CHIP @& 77

This early on Boston Marathon morning, Hopkinton was pretty quiet, as the race doesn’t start until noon. But even at 6:30 a.M., there was certain activity on the town common. The four highly competitive local TV stations all go live from Hopkinton at 5:30, as do many of the radio stations. Reporters and camera crews roamed about, interviewing the locals and race volunteers, and the few runners who had come out early to check out the scene.

Alert enterpreneurs were already selling hot dogs, stale rolls, coffee, and Cokes to the nonrunners. Dogs and children bounced about in the crisp, early sunlight. At the start line, the viewing stand, which in a few hours would accommodate race bigwigs and sponsor VIPs, was already awash in festive bunting. We felt we were on hand for a most memorable occasion.

Eiichi and I gathered close to Meijer for instructions. He suggested that we unload the vans that were carrying the start line timing equipment, set it up and test it briefly, and then send a team down to the half-way point to set up the second timing station. We stamped our feet in the morning chill. “Well, let’s get going,” he said, and we headed toward the vans.

MY KINGDOM FOR THE KEYS

“Julia, I need the keys,” Meijer said upon reaching my van.

“No problem,” I replied. “The van is open,” and I scurried over to prove the point. I arrived as Meijer was futilely pulling on the door. I grabbed the handle myself and yanked. The door, open a crack, didn’t budge. Meijer and I pressed our faces to the glass; the key dangled playfully in the ignition.

We inserted our fingers into the crack. Nothing happened. I stared at the tantalizing keys, I stared at the timing equipment for the “100th Running of The Boston Marathon” resting inside the gleaming burgundy shanks of the “Official Car of The 100th Running of The Boston Marathon,” and I thought Ohnoohnoohno.

Texplained that the car had somehow mysteriously locked itself. No one in our small cluster cooed sympathetically.

“T think we might ask the police chief for help,” Meijer said, very likely fighting back a string of choice Dutch swear words.

“Yes,” I gasped, grasping at what was obvious salvation. I trotted off toward the Hopkinton Common. The chief was readily located, slightly portly with badges agleam for the most important day of the Hopkinton year. An officer would come quickly, he told me. Within minutes, a young, moustached policeman puffed up, holding a long thin metal strip. We gathered at the car’s door; he slid the strip down inside the window, gthump, gthump; he pulled up and down to open the door. Gthump, gthump.

emilee = cel

MICHAEL HUGHES

With eyes fixed either on the strip or on the dangling keys, it took me a while to realize that the officer and I were no longer alone with our little technical problem. I looked up, and into the wide lens of aTV camera. “What’s going on, officer?” queried a reporter from one of Boston’s four TV stations. Gthump, gthump, gthump.

“This woman from the Olympics,” replied the policeman, pointing to me, “locked the keys of this marathon vehicle inside the van, with the timing equipment in back.”

Word quickly spread. The quiet of the Hopkinton morning had now been shattered by the high drama at the start line: the timing equipment needed for “The 100th Running of The Boston Marathon” was locked in the van. From all points on the Common, reporters and camera crews converged on the burgundy Buick. Gthump. Gthump. Ohnoonnoohno.

A forest of camera lenses focused on the officer, manfully carrying out his task of rescue. They focused, too, on the distraught damsel in distress, recording for the breathless viewing audience her bleak squeaks of despair. Gthump, gthump. Ohnoohnoohno. Minutes dragged by as even the most obtuse mediaperson finally learned of our predicament and rushed to the scene.

Gthump, gthump; the officer continued to give it his all. Finally, he turned tome and announced the obvious: The lock on the Buick was too low; we would

Julia Emmons THE CHAMPION OF THE CHIP & 79