(With apologies to Clint Eastwood.)

cene one: the good

It’s brutally early (4:30 a.m.) when the alarm on my watch goes off. Under

normal circumstances, I would hurl it against the wall, but I’ve been awake for the last 30 minutes anyway. I’m suffering from a more severe case of prerace jitters than usual, as I am about to attempt my first ultramarathon. I want to get a bit of coffee and at least a Clif Bar in me before running the Blue Springs 50K in Blue Springs, Missouri.

Thad struggled more than usual to finish my last marathon six weeks earlier. Maybe it was a result of leftover anger from a poorly managed race, or perhaps I am getting a little bit tired of dodging the well-meaning but totally clueless halfmarathon walkers in the latter stages of every marathon, but I was ready for a change. My wife, Karen, and I were running a 15-miler a few weeks later when she reminded me that she wanted to go to Blue Springs to run the marathon in three weeks. The wheels began turning in my head: If I have my marathon base (numerous 20-plus milers including a couple at 24) under my belt, what would keep me from finishing a 50K if I just ran it at training pace? After all, it’s only an extra five miles, right?

A few evenings later I printed out a copy of the race application, filled it out, and sent it off. On the back of the envelope, in small letters, a handwritten note to the race director: “I must be nuts.”

I bumped up the mileage for a few weeks and then went through a bit less of a taper than usual. After all, it’s just a training pace run, and it’s only an extra five miles, right?

On the drive to Blue Springs, doubts began to creep in. A good healthy dose of prerace fear can be beneficial, but these doubts were rooted in experience.

Voice inside head: “What were you smoking when you filled out that race app?”

Me: “No problem. Training-run pace, and after all, it’s only an extra five miles, right?”

Voice inside head: “An extra five miles, huh? Every time you run a marathon, the last six miles is pure misery. Now you want to add five more on top of that? Have you forgotten how badly you smoldered in Montana after the 20-mile mark?”

Me: “Well, I guess I hadn’t looked at it that way. I did go out a little too hard early at the Montana race, so maybe running this like a training run will help.”

Voice inside head: “OK, fine. By the way, what is the longest training run you’ve ever done?”

Me: “You know the answer to that, wiseguy. It’s 24 miles, and I’ve done it several times.”

Voice inside head: “And how did you feel after those runs?”

Me: “Never mind. You’re right. I must have been smoking something.”

Back to race morning. The hotel lobby doesn’t open until 6:00, so I have to drive across the road to aconvenience store to get coffee for us. Bruce Springsteen wailing “Murder, Incorporated” screams from the CD player in the car. If this were a football game, that would be a good omen. This is a SOK run. Could be a bad omen, a really bad omen.

It’s now 6:40. We’re sitting in the car at the shelter that serves as race headquarters. Coffee, Clif Bar, and a banana are sitting there as well,

Blue Springs 50/50—flat, fast, and fun.

£ g < = g

but inside my stomach, patiently waiting. It’s in the mid-30s, calm, and the sky is just beginning to lighten in the east. Lights bobbing up and down on the service road leading to the shelter look like cars driving through potholes, but they’re runners jogging around in the dark in headlamps, loosening up.

Feeling ready, I get out of the car, peel off my outer layer, and get the mind (still conversing about my sanity) ready to rock. At the starting line, I ask Lou Joline, the race director, if the gates that I saw at points on the trail were going to be open. His response: “Nope. Just hurdle them!” Hmm.

I see our friend Earl White, who is running the full 50 miles. “Earl, ready for another long one?” I ask. “Nope, I guess I’ll just have to grind this one out!” he responds. Talk about a tough guy! Any shred of confidence I had now wavers.

Karen plants one last kiss on me (is this really it?), Lou lets rip with a whistle, and we’re off—in more ways than one.

Aman and a woman fly off the line and sprint out to a huge lead. Must be a couple of wimpy half-marathoners, | think to myself. It’s still pretty dark, and I lose sight of them quickly. Another male runner close to my age goes by at about the two-mile mark, again obviously too fast to be running 50K. The course is set up as a series of north/south out-and-backs, which makes it very easy to break the course into segments. I settle into what feels like my normal training pace, but I can’t tell because I can’t read my watch, as it’s still a bit dark.

I’m in fourth place overall. When there are several races going on, you have to rely on common sense regarding whether to be concerned when getting passed. After all, it’s a training run, and it’s only five extra miles, right?

I reach the first turnaround point, which includes a water stop at a shelter. In keeping with a low-key event, there is one volunteer at the shelter, pointing to the water. I take the hint and get it all by myself, just like a big boy. Heading back toward the start/finish shelter, I see Karen, who is only a few places behind and running very well (second woman overall in the marathon). Earl appears on the horizon and strangely, considering the task in front of him, is smiling. As I mentioned earlier, he is one tough dude.

Back to the start shelter just behind the nine-mile mark, Lou is standing by two orange coolers, one containing water and the other Gatorade. I jog over to the bench and say “Gatorade!” He replies: “It’s in the orange cooler.” “They’re both orange,” I cry. His response: “It’s the oranger of the orange coolers!” That Lou. What a guy!

The next segment (opposite direction) goes by uneventfully until Karen sees me and calls, “You’re past halfway!” I’m indeed coming up on the 16-mile mark but having so damned much fun out there that I don’t think of it that way.

Voice inside head: “Gee. You’re halfway there! Just think. Only four more miles until everything falls apart!”

Me: “Not so fast, my friend! Cool day, no wind, good trail, flat course, training pace. Besides, it’s only an extra five miles, right?”

Voice inside head: “Sport, the longest race you’ve ever done is a marathon. That’s 26.2 miles. What’s going to happen at 26.3?”

Me: “I don’t know. What?”

Voice inside head: “Therein lies the unknown.”

Visions of monkeys swinging from chandeliers or gorillas jumping on my back begin to creep into my brain. That voice was right. I don’t know what lies beyond 26.2. I must have been smoking something.

A few miles after seeing Karen again, I’m back at the start/finish shelter, this time just beyond 17 miles into the race. Another segment of the northbound lane begins. Ireach the 20-mile mark feeling OK. I see Karen ducking into a porta-potty (her best friend). As I run past it, she hollers out, “Make sure you know where to turn around!” A couple of other runners near me think that they’ve come across the world’s first talking outhouse.

The final southbound segment begins, yep, at the start/finish shelter with the two orange coolers. It’s the marathon mark, and I’ve reached it in 3:11. I tell Lou, “T’ve had as much fun as I can possibly stand,” as I fill a cup from the oranger of the orange coolers. He says, “Hey, it’s only five extra miles, right?” Déja vu all over again. Off into the unknown. I steel myself for—what?

After about a mile, it’s clear that there are no other runners in front of me or close behind. Realizing this, another conversation with myself begins:

Voice inside head: “You know, you could take a walking break. No one is near you, so this one is in the bag, baby! Besides, Jeff Galloway thinks it’s a good strategy.”

Me: “Galloway, shmalloway! No way! Do you remember the Montana Marathon? I walked once, and the next thing I knew I was picking flowers and soaking up the sun with six miles to go.”

Voice inside head: ““Well, yeah, but you only have four miles to go, dude. Just a short walking break. It’s not like there’s a gorilla on your back or anything!”

Me: “Don’t even go there. I know there aren’t any gorillas out there, but ’’m not going to cave.”

Voice inside head: “Want a banana?”

Ireach the 50K turnaround on that segment that Karen (via the talking outhouse) voiced concern about sans monkeys, gorillas, orangutans, or any other primates, just me and a flock of turkeys by the riverbank. Must have been the running gods making an editorial comment about my effort. The quads are tightening, but there is no way that I’m stopping now!

With less than a quarter mile to go, I round the curve in the trail, and there is Karen, waiting. She finished her marathon and ran back to the car to get the digital camera and back out onto the course so she could snap a picture or two

of the conquering hero. She jogs toward me, stops, mutters under her breath, and tells me she just felt something fall off the camera. “What?” I practically scream. “Never mind, just keep running,” she says, like I’m considering stopping to check out the camera! Across the bridge, up the sidewalk, and at the end of it, my first ultra, my first ultra victory, and a state age-group record 3:48:33 to boot! “Take that!” I say to the voice inside head.

Scene two: the bad

One week later, back on the trails at home and still basking in the glow of finishing my first ultra, I allow the Y chromosome that the male species is afflicted with to take over. I immediately resume training and checking out websites for future ultras. I tell Karen that I want to qualify for and run the Western States 100. Always the supportive spouse, she checks out that website with me (multiple times). She decides that she, too, will take that 50-kilometer trip into the unknown. After all, it’s only five extra miles, right? Hmm, where have I heard that before?

In my hubris, I decide that I can pick up my training where I left off. Iran the Blue Springs race at training pace, right?

Wrong. Ina total act of insanity, I decide that I need to start running trails. That’s not necessarily an insane idea. The trail I choose is a single-track mountain-bike trail full of rocks and roots—again, not necessarily terrible. The Y chromosome decides that it would be a great idea to do an entire Sunday long run on the trails, although I have no experience on them and own no trail shoes. Paint a big red $ in the middle of my forehead.

Four days later, eight miles into an 11-miler, my IT band, obviously under duress, decided that it didn’t like where it was living and moves to the west a few millimeters, causing my knee to quit tracking properly. It locked up, and my running was done for the entire month of November. I wish that the voice inside my head had spoken up in that case.

Scene three: the ugly

I’m spending most of the month of November cross-training, icing, and eating ibuprofen daily in lieu of running. Western States seems a million miles away. Pool running, elliptical training, power walking: whatever it takes, I’m doing it. also am keeping the carrot out there in front of me by planning another ultra for the spring.

One afternoon as I’m pool running, I watch a young fellow in a calf-high splint limp across the pool deck. He sits down, takes off his splint, and gingerly slithers into the pool like a water snake. He paddles around with the help of a foam board but is obviously having a bit of difficulty due to his ankle problem. My knee doesn’t feel so bad now.

We pass each other, he paddling, me running in the pool. We give each other that look that says, “Brother, I feel your pain.” We speak. “Rehab sucks!” I say. “Yeah, we’re in the pool for all of the wrong reasons,” he replies. I’ve found a comrade. Another voice joins the conversation.

Voice inside head: “You weenie! Look at that guy. That’s how badly you have to be hurting to be here.”

Me: “Shut up. You’re in my head, not my knee. I’m not listening. I didn’t listen before, and I proved you wrong! And while we’re on the subject, why didn’t you say anything about that stupid trail-run idea?”

Voice inside head: “I was busy laughing at you.”

Now it’s the last week in November, three weeks since the injury, and I’m ready to give it a test. Thirty minutes on the elliptical trainer and the knee is warmed up. Around the upstairs of our local Y is an 11-laps-to-the-mile track. For 10 minutes, I jog the straights and walk the curves. The knee is tracking OK, but the muscles around it tire easily. The next morning, 40 minutes of cross-training and then 15 minutes on a treadmill. The knee is still tracking. I just might live! Two days later on the trail, I get caught in a rainstorm during an eight-mile run. Cold and wet never felt so good.