Burning River is approaching and I guess I’m starting to go into ‘Caveman Mode’. The reality of things is settling in and this means that I am both scared and very excited. I get a bit myopic at times like this and creativity shuts down.
Because of this, and also because I have wanted to write about osteoblasts for a while now, I’m cutting and pasting an article that I wrote a few years ago for ‘The Academic Leader’. The article speaks of stress within organizations, although it could easily be tweaked to discuss stress within personal relationships or in other areas.
You might enjoy this and, then again, you might not. The publisher now charges poor graduate students, with deadlines approaching, seven dollars to access this on-line; strangely it was free when it was new—go figure. Its not worth seven dollars and so I present it to you here for exactly the price that I think its worth. The only thing I ask is that you do not read this and start quoting Nietzsche. Niezsche was the guy that coined the phrase “That which does not kill us makes us stronger”. That’s not what I’m saying at all. Lots of things can not kill you and yet do not make you stronger. Nietzche ended up taking his own life…many know the quote but few seem to know that this was his outcome…so apparently he found his limit. Lets not follow his example.
Here it is:
Using Stress to Create Change; Just as Nature Intended
Organizations are often anthropomorphized; attributed with the characteristics of living things. One might describe an organization as strong or weak. Organizations might be said to flourish or wither. They might be said to experience periods of peace or other periods in which they are under attack and in a position of mortal danger. We might describe an organization as a family or as a team. The stock price of a company may be said to dive or to soar. Organizations are said to be born and, sadly, they often die.
Organizations are, of course, not living things. You will not find them listed in any biological text. They do, however, behave in ways which are analogous to living organisms and nature is often an effective teacher.
The terminology used to describe stress in an organization is nearly identical to the language used in physiology to describe the body’s reaction to both appropriate amounts of stress and stress overload. A comparison of organizational and physiological adaptation to stress yields an important lesson.
In the body, as in an organization, stress is needed for growth. Without stress there is the opposite of growth; atrophy. Overstress leads to breakdown. As tissues are stressed, an inflammatory reaction occurs which leads to environmental changes including increased temperature, a lack of blood flow to the affected area, a buildup of damaging acids, an accumulation of waste products, and a lack of oxygen. This environment, though unpleasant, does have beneficial side effects. If the body is stressed cells called osteoblasts spring into action and repair an area using collagen; a bony material which makes the tissue stronger. Osteoblasts only function in a hot, acidic, low oxygen environment and so stress is always needed to strengthen tissues. There is no growth without inflammation and no inflammation without stress. The next time the tissue is stressed, through exercise or mild trauma, it takes more stress to cause the area to become inflamed because the body is now stronger and more stress resistant. Continued mild stress applied to tissue being repaired causes it to form itself to new job demands. This process is known as remodeling. It’s a great system.
The only problem is that the osteoblasts have no intelligence. The cannot say “Gosh that seems like plenty of collagen; let’s stop the repair (change) process now”. Instead they will continue to lay down bony tissue as long as their environment tells them to. This can lead to too much bone on a joint surface (osteoarthritis) or in a muscle (myositis) making the joint surface operate less smoothly or making the muscle less pliable. Since the muscle and joint then do not operate efficiently they tend to become inflamed more easily. This, in turn, leads to continued hot, acidic environment, which leads to even more bone being laid down by the osteoblasts. The system is cyclical and what was once a promising repair system is now the cause of the injury; often long after the original cause of damage is gone.
Change in the body or in an organization can be due to healthy overload (such as increased business in an organization or exercise in the body) or trauma (such as an organizational crisis or a fracture in the body). In either case, even though the environment produced is unpleasant, the repair (change) process can make the organism stronger. In order to do this the process has to follow a sensible pattern of overload followed by rebuilding. In either case total absence of activity is never the answer. Without stress the tissues or organization will not remodel themselves to their new demands. They will simply become scarred. The trick in either the body or the organization is to allow progressive overload to occur without creating an environment which proves to be chronically toxic; leading to a cyclical breakdown. This can be done through well planned, progressive growth (through exercise or progressive change) or through a sensible healing and remodeling phase (following bodily or organizational trauma). The rate of change should not stress the damaged tissue or organization to a point where chronic overload causes a state of repeated breakdown and scarring.
Change is inevitable. Study of physiology and study of leadership show us that organisms and organizations are rarely static; at any moment they are either becoming stronger or becoming weaker. Appropriate levels of stress are needed to elicit growth. Stasis leads to atrophy. What is needed for either organizational or physiological change, however, is careful monitoring of the environment to ensure that the results of change land between weakness caused by atrophy and inflexible scarring caused by a chronically inflamed environment.
http://www.magnapubs.com/issues/magnapubs_al/21_8/news/597748-1.html
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Almost Heaven
The Appalachian Mountains are old. I don’t know exactly how old but that’s OK because no one really expects me to know. Geologists, who absolutely should know, do not know either. They say that the Appalachians are between 420 and 496 million years old. I would be willing to forgive geologists for this 76 MILLION year ‘rounding error’ if they had been willing to curve the final exam just a tiny bit in GEOL100 at Ohio University back in 1983. But they were not willing to be reasonable then and so neither will I be now. Get your act together geologists. An 18% margin of error is OK for you guys, I suppose, but I miss a “C” by two points and you question my character when I ask for a pitty bump? Be gone! We will finish this conversation without you!
Now that the Flintstones have left the room lets just sit back for a moment and consider how old the Appalachian Mountains really are. They are much, much older than the Rockies and the Alps and virtually every other mountain range on earth. How much older? Who knows? Not me and also not you-know-who. But lots older. Like hundreds of millions of years older. They also used to be just as high as the highest mountain ranges on earth today. Erosion has, over the course of untold millions of years, eroded the former jagged rocky peaks into the chlorophyll choked safehouses of life that we know today. We might consider the rocks that lie exposed today on the trails of this region to be some pretty tough characters. This is the rubble that could not and would not be beaten into submission by numerous ice ages, billions of rain storms, heat, wind, and earthquakes. The shale and sandstone disappeared long ago. A rock that has survived all of that isn’t going to bend easily. It won’t even be beaten into form by contact with its own kind, which is why a small sampling of trail within these mountains (lets say, randomly, 31 miles of such trail) contains millions of rocks in all shapes and sizes. And if they survived the forces of hundreds of millions of years I don’t guess that an ankle or a head will have much impact if they strike them full force.
Dennis Hamrick and a handful of his buddies from Charleston, West Virginia decided 15 years ago that it would be a good idea to hold a race over this terrain. They could have given the race any name they liked, but they are down-to-earth folks and wanted to promote tourism. They wouldn’t want to name the race anything that would scare people away such as ‘The Ankle Breaker 50K’ or ‘The Heat Exhaustion Derby’ or ‘The Squeal Like a Piggy Ultramarathon’. No, this was to be a fun, family sort of race run by fun, family sorts of guys so they decided to call it something nice….and “The Rattlesnake Trail 50K” was born.
This is a brief report of my experiences in this year’s edition:
I pulled into the pool parking lot at Kanahwa State Forest and Dennis walked right up to me to introduce himself. I believe that he sees this event as his personal party and feels a commitment to making sure that each of his ‘guests’ feels welcome. I believe we all did. Rattlesnake has a family reunion feel. The event has grown and become prestigious over the years. It has been called the toughest 50K in the eastern United States but that doesn’t mean you can’t sit around with the race directors and listen to tall tales and bad jokes. There were piles of pizza and coolers filled with pop. I registered and told Dennis that I was heading out to find a hotel. He told me that camping was free and it seemed that a lot of runners were sleeping in their cars and that I was welcome to do the same. The night before Mohican I rented a hotel room and didn’t sleep a wink. This time I took all the stuff out of the trunk of my car, let the back seat down, climbed in and slept so soundly that I almost missed the start of the race.
At 6:15 A.M. I pulled the emergency latch on the inside of the trunk and emerged into a group of runners congregating at the start. I swear any other group on earth would have screamed in horror but all I got were a few ‘Good mornings’. Ultra runners are accustomed to strange behavior I suppose. As I scrambled to get ready for the 6:30 start I realized, to my absolute shock, that I had not packed any running shorts. I pulled every single item out of every single part of the car but they simply weren’t there. Five minutes until race time and no shorts, and to make matters worse I was absolutely groggy from TOO MUCH sleep. Well, what’s a guy to do? I grabbed a pair of Khaki semi-dress shorts out of my suitcase and slipped them on, grabbed my waist belt, and made the start just as the gun fired.
We ran 50 feet and began to climb. Rattlesnake has 10 major climbs. All of them have a uniquely tortuous nature. Some climb straight up like a cliff wall, others are more like a staircase. Some are gentler but endless. They all share one characteristic, however; as you are tackling one type of hill you find yourself wishing it was some other type. The long ones make you sentimental for the short steep ones and vice versa. The downhills ranged from steep and dangerous to gradual and dangerous. All of them were rock strewn. The locals run down them like they are skiing on invisible snow. I pray, jump from rock to rock, and apologize to those whose path I am blocking, which is everyone. Rattlesnake is the only race where I have ever ended up with blisters on my HANDS from grabbing trees in order to stay rubber-side-down on the descents.
Passing through a campground at what might have been the 8 mile mark I was sweating and the cotton shorts were starting to weigh me down so I panhandled a hunting knife from a camper, disappeared into the woods, doffed my shorts, cut three inches from the bottoms of each leg, returned the knife, got a confused look from the camper, and was on my way. It took 2 minutes flat. Indianapolis has never seen a more concise pit stop.
Rattlesnake was my very last chance to goof around with food and water and equipment prior to Burning River. So far the shorts were really truly wonderfully comfortable. They made me feel kinda tough and low-tech. Snooty runners avoided me and grizzled old veterans gave me knowing nods…but I’m wearing regular shorts at Burning River because I’m not insane. I also decided to experience sodium depletion. I took no sodium of any kind for 5 hours then took about 80mg per 30 min. for the last 90 minutes. I felt the sodium kick in and man-oh-man it was like someone handed me a new set of legs. I won’t go into detail but I will say that if my problem in 100’s is sodium I think I have it figured out. If its not sodium and I simply cannot run 100’s for some other reason then so be it, but this was a valuable lesson.
The race, by and large, was spectacularly, lovingly, deliciously uneventful. Tragedies make the best and the longest stories I guess. The Rattlesnake was brutal but not tragic. Everything went according to plan, and by this I mean that I ran on a tough course and suffered accordingly. The aid stations were terrific. They seemed to be staffed by folks who were genuinely interested in our well-being. The course was beautiful. It was just a perfect hot sunny summer day. There wasn’t a single place on earth that I would have rather been.
There were, of course, some runners who badly misjudged the race. By-and-large these people kept their misery to themselves. The only exception that I saw befell the family from Parkersburg who had the misfortune of choosing a picnic shelter at the base of hill #8. For all the world their family picnic looked like an aid station. They soon learned that the actual aid station was located about 100 yards away and it became their unofficial duty to explain this to each and every runner as they passed. They were kind people however and apparently not beyond offering some aid to a truly needy runner. As I ran by, a woman who appeared to be the matriarch of the clan walked up to a runner calling out “I WAS able to find a hammer after all”. As she said this the poor wretch proceeded to vomit within 5 feet of the pavilion. I’m guessing that he thought this was the aid station and asked for some sort of Hammer product since they were the race sponsors. Another Rattlesnake casualty I suppose. I will never know whether or not I could have been of some sort of assistance…because I didn’t stop to ask. I was too busy getting myself back to the swimming pool for a dunk prior to my drive home.
The final half mile of this race turns flat and perfectly runnable. I was surprised and really really really grateful. I finished in 6:37…over an hour faster than my only other attempt at this race, in 2004. I crossed the finish line with a huge smile on my face and was handed a water bottle and a glass sculpture that was either a replica of a Hershey’s Kiss or some sort of bird. I don’t know what it is but I love it to pieces and I’m keeping it forever, or until the last rock in the Appalachian Mountains has turned to sand, whichever comes first.
Now that the Flintstones have left the room lets just sit back for a moment and consider how old the Appalachian Mountains really are. They are much, much older than the Rockies and the Alps and virtually every other mountain range on earth. How much older? Who knows? Not me and also not you-know-who. But lots older. Like hundreds of millions of years older. They also used to be just as high as the highest mountain ranges on earth today. Erosion has, over the course of untold millions of years, eroded the former jagged rocky peaks into the chlorophyll choked safehouses of life that we know today. We might consider the rocks that lie exposed today on the trails of this region to be some pretty tough characters. This is the rubble that could not and would not be beaten into submission by numerous ice ages, billions of rain storms, heat, wind, and earthquakes. The shale and sandstone disappeared long ago. A rock that has survived all of that isn’t going to bend easily. It won’t even be beaten into form by contact with its own kind, which is why a small sampling of trail within these mountains (lets say, randomly, 31 miles of such trail) contains millions of rocks in all shapes and sizes. And if they survived the forces of hundreds of millions of years I don’t guess that an ankle or a head will have much impact if they strike them full force.
Dennis Hamrick and a handful of his buddies from Charleston, West Virginia decided 15 years ago that it would be a good idea to hold a race over this terrain. They could have given the race any name they liked, but they are down-to-earth folks and wanted to promote tourism. They wouldn’t want to name the race anything that would scare people away such as ‘The Ankle Breaker 50K’ or ‘The Heat Exhaustion Derby’ or ‘The Squeal Like a Piggy Ultramarathon’. No, this was to be a fun, family sort of race run by fun, family sorts of guys so they decided to call it something nice….and “The Rattlesnake Trail 50K” was born.
This is a brief report of my experiences in this year’s edition:
I pulled into the pool parking lot at Kanahwa State Forest and Dennis walked right up to me to introduce himself. I believe that he sees this event as his personal party and feels a commitment to making sure that each of his ‘guests’ feels welcome. I believe we all did. Rattlesnake has a family reunion feel. The event has grown and become prestigious over the years. It has been called the toughest 50K in the eastern United States but that doesn’t mean you can’t sit around with the race directors and listen to tall tales and bad jokes. There were piles of pizza and coolers filled with pop. I registered and told Dennis that I was heading out to find a hotel. He told me that camping was free and it seemed that a lot of runners were sleeping in their cars and that I was welcome to do the same. The night before Mohican I rented a hotel room and didn’t sleep a wink. This time I took all the stuff out of the trunk of my car, let the back seat down, climbed in and slept so soundly that I almost missed the start of the race.
At 6:15 A.M. I pulled the emergency latch on the inside of the trunk and emerged into a group of runners congregating at the start. I swear any other group on earth would have screamed in horror but all I got were a few ‘Good mornings’. Ultra runners are accustomed to strange behavior I suppose. As I scrambled to get ready for the 6:30 start I realized, to my absolute shock, that I had not packed any running shorts. I pulled every single item out of every single part of the car but they simply weren’t there. Five minutes until race time and no shorts, and to make matters worse I was absolutely groggy from TOO MUCH sleep. Well, what’s a guy to do? I grabbed a pair of Khaki semi-dress shorts out of my suitcase and slipped them on, grabbed my waist belt, and made the start just as the gun fired.
We ran 50 feet and began to climb. Rattlesnake has 10 major climbs. All of them have a uniquely tortuous nature. Some climb straight up like a cliff wall, others are more like a staircase. Some are gentler but endless. They all share one characteristic, however; as you are tackling one type of hill you find yourself wishing it was some other type. The long ones make you sentimental for the short steep ones and vice versa. The downhills ranged from steep and dangerous to gradual and dangerous. All of them were rock strewn. The locals run down them like they are skiing on invisible snow. I pray, jump from rock to rock, and apologize to those whose path I am blocking, which is everyone. Rattlesnake is the only race where I have ever ended up with blisters on my HANDS from grabbing trees in order to stay rubber-side-down on the descents.
Passing through a campground at what might have been the 8 mile mark I was sweating and the cotton shorts were starting to weigh me down so I panhandled a hunting knife from a camper, disappeared into the woods, doffed my shorts, cut three inches from the bottoms of each leg, returned the knife, got a confused look from the camper, and was on my way. It took 2 minutes flat. Indianapolis has never seen a more concise pit stop.
Rattlesnake was my very last chance to goof around with food and water and equipment prior to Burning River. So far the shorts were really truly wonderfully comfortable. They made me feel kinda tough and low-tech. Snooty runners avoided me and grizzled old veterans gave me knowing nods…but I’m wearing regular shorts at Burning River because I’m not insane. I also decided to experience sodium depletion. I took no sodium of any kind for 5 hours then took about 80mg per 30 min. for the last 90 minutes. I felt the sodium kick in and man-oh-man it was like someone handed me a new set of legs. I won’t go into detail but I will say that if my problem in 100’s is sodium I think I have it figured out. If its not sodium and I simply cannot run 100’s for some other reason then so be it, but this was a valuable lesson.
The race, by and large, was spectacularly, lovingly, deliciously uneventful. Tragedies make the best and the longest stories I guess. The Rattlesnake was brutal but not tragic. Everything went according to plan, and by this I mean that I ran on a tough course and suffered accordingly. The aid stations were terrific. They seemed to be staffed by folks who were genuinely interested in our well-being. The course was beautiful. It was just a perfect hot sunny summer day. There wasn’t a single place on earth that I would have rather been.
There were, of course, some runners who badly misjudged the race. By-and-large these people kept their misery to themselves. The only exception that I saw befell the family from Parkersburg who had the misfortune of choosing a picnic shelter at the base of hill #8. For all the world their family picnic looked like an aid station. They soon learned that the actual aid station was located about 100 yards away and it became their unofficial duty to explain this to each and every runner as they passed. They were kind people however and apparently not beyond offering some aid to a truly needy runner. As I ran by, a woman who appeared to be the matriarch of the clan walked up to a runner calling out “I WAS able to find a hammer after all”. As she said this the poor wretch proceeded to vomit within 5 feet of the pavilion. I’m guessing that he thought this was the aid station and asked for some sort of Hammer product since they were the race sponsors. Another Rattlesnake casualty I suppose. I will never know whether or not I could have been of some sort of assistance…because I didn’t stop to ask. I was too busy getting myself back to the swimming pool for a dunk prior to my drive home.
The final half mile of this race turns flat and perfectly runnable. I was surprised and really really really grateful. I finished in 6:37…over an hour faster than my only other attempt at this race, in 2004. I crossed the finish line with a huge smile on my face and was handed a water bottle and a glass sculpture that was either a replica of a Hershey’s Kiss or some sort of bird. I don’t know what it is but I love it to pieces and I’m keeping it forever, or until the last rock in the Appalachian Mountains has turned to sand, whichever comes first.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Rattlesnake
This sport has grown so much that its hard to not be amazed. The Buckeye trail 50K is next weekend and I cannot run it because its SOLD OUT. In fact it has been sold out for many months now. How cool is that?....the sold out part, not the 'I can't run it' part. I ran the BT once waayyy back in 1997. As I recall it was a fun run in conjuntion with Joe Jurczyk's birthday. I distinctly recall that the race instructions called for us to show up on time....but please JUST on time. We didn't need people milling around attracting attention since the park didn't exactly 100% know that the race was being held. Sometimes its easier to get forgiveness than permission. But its always best to simply not get caught. I might be recalling things wrong but thats how I remember it. At any rate, the race is now full-fledged bonafide and downright prestigious. Good on ya mates. May the trail rise to meet you. Godspeed and good luck to my friends who planned ahead.
I'm off to do the Rattlesnake 50K in Charleston, WV on Saturday. I ran it once before and sat in a cave for a while waiting for a lightning storm to pass...lightning seems to be a theme this week. Oh well. This race is a toughie. Five thousand feet of elevation (which also always means another 5000 feet of de-levation). The course also has 85 million rocks, each the size of a human head. I'm using bug spray, watching my step, and sticking to tapwater and wonder bread.
Peace friends. --Mark
I'm off to do the Rattlesnake 50K in Charleston, WV on Saturday. I ran it once before and sat in a cave for a while waiting for a lightning storm to pass...lightning seems to be a theme this week. Oh well. This race is a toughie. Five thousand feet of elevation (which also always means another 5000 feet of de-levation). The course also has 85 million rocks, each the size of a human head. I'm using bug spray, watching my step, and sticking to tapwater and wonder bread.
Peace friends. --Mark
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Burning Question
I remember when I was in eighth grade and just starting to fall in love with cross country running. I proudly ran for the blue and dirty-gold of Frederick Roehm Jr. High School. Just across town there was another junior high school, and another cross country team, and another runner who was also just starting to fall in love with cross country running. His name was also Mark. That’s where the similarities ended though. I could pound Mark at any distance, any time, anywhere. So could a lot of other guys. He was a nice guy and an OK runner but anyone could beat him if they tried hard enough…until he got hit by lightning and got fast.
That’s just the order in which it happened too. One day we were saying “Did you hear about Mark? He got hit by lightning!” and the next thing you know he was kicking the tar out of all of us.
In hindsight I can see that getting hit by lightning and getting fast are two separate events, but you couldn’t have convinced any of us of any such thing back then. We had read enough comic books to know darn well that getting hit by lightning gives you special powers. And if you needed to see any more proof then you better look fast because there it goes now, disappearing over yonder hill!
Even now if I’m out running and a thunder storm kicks up, the fear I feel is mixed with just a tiny trace of hope. I think of Mark every time I see lightning. But I think of lightning after every ultra I run and I’ll tell you why I do in just a bit.
Did you know that you can get hit by lightning and be walking around feeling just fine-and-dandy and bragging about it? You don’t have to believe me, just pay close attention the next time you get hit by lightning and you will see that I am correct. In fact, maybe you could even get a sympathy date. “Hey, I got hit by lightning and lived. You should date me because I am just that kind of man” you might say. But if you do get hit by lightning you should insist that the date happen pretty soon, because a day later you might be feeling queasy. Then a couple of days after that you might be dead. And no one wants to date a dead guy…not even Demi Moore.
That movie was awful.
See, what happens is that the lightning can travel along your nerve tracts. They are built to carry electricity so a little lightning isn’t such a huge deal to them. If you are really lucky the electricity can pass right on through and maybe just give you a little exit burn and leave a taste like old pennies in your mouth. I don’t know why it tastes like pennies so don’t interrupt me by asking. This I do know though; you really should get that copper taste out of your mouth before your big date. What you won’t discover for 24 hours or so, is that you may have killed one or more vital organs and not even know about it. You can live for a while without a functional liver, or kidneys, so the real symptoms don’t show up for a while. If you time it just right you can stick your date with the check at the fancy restaurant you take her to.
I’ve always felt that running an ultramarathon is a lot like getting hit by lightning. In an ultra your endocrine system, which is responsible for maintaining your body’s homeostasis, can take a real hit. Sometimes, if you haven’t beaten your legs up too badly, you can fool yourself into thinking that no damage has been done. This might happen after a race like Mohican. You feel great but then the mystery injury or illness arises…usually right in the middle of that charity 5K that your co-worker challenged you to. If you don’t plan your recovery properly you will have to suffer the effects of the injury and/or listen to that jerk bragging around the office for several months or more.
I felt good for a few days after Mohican this year. I had been here before though so I settled in and awaited the lethargy, moodiness, and sleep disorders. But they didn’t arrive. In fact I kept feeling good. I might be deeply tired and I suppose I must be. I did run 80 miles after all. But this has been weird. I did 50 miles last week and just ran a hard 10 miler and felt terrific. No cough, no weird odors, no mystery-rash. What gives? After all, if I had spewed just a few more times at Mohican I could have been offered an employment contract as a geyser at Yellowstone. Those are just the type of symptoms you’d expect from a flawed endocrine system. But those symptoms went right away and weren’t replaced by other mystery signs. No weird painless swelling, no breaking into profuse sweats for no reason, no crying while watching “You’ve got mail”.
That movie was awful too.
So anyhow I got to thinking which, for purposes of this conversation, we will not consider to be a weird symptom. Here’s what I was thinking: Once you screw up your endocrine system you can’t just unscrew it. It stays screwed up for a while. So, using the transitive property of ultragoggery, if I’m not screwed up, it can’t be the endocrine system. So then what in the heck happened at Mohican? I was all set to give up on ultras. I was going to switch to shorter distances and win 3rd place ribbons in my age group at 5K’s hosted by festivals that exist in order to honor vegetables. That was the plan…and now I just don’t know.
Could it be sodium? I was not drinking and yet managed to spew crazy amounts of …stuff. Where was it coming from? Maybe salt buildup was causing reverse osmosis …pulling liquid from my body into my stomach instead of vice-versa. That would explain the loaves-and-fishes quality of my stomach contents on the long crawl back to the bridge.
Then I heard from Ron Ross. Ron hooked me up with some studies on sodium and one day, instead of doing my job, I read all about salt. How much sodium do we need? How much do we use? How much is too much? Then I looked at the amount of sodium I took in during Mohican and I did some cyphering and learned that at about the time I was arriving at the Mill aid station on the night of Mohican I was one of the saltiest things on the planet. In fact, the exact order was:
1. The Dead Sea
2. Me
3. Gatorade
4. The Bonneville Salt Flats
So really there could be several different things at work. It could be that I just can’t do 100 milers any more. If that’s the case then so be it. It could be that I am a pansy, but I don’t think so. A pansy couldn’t handle the amount of heaving I did. I heaved so hard I strained an intercostal muscle (“I heaved so hard that I strained an intercostal muscle. You should date me because I am just that kind of man”).
Or it could be.
Yes it could be.
Something special.
Just.
For.
Me.
That movie was awesome!
Or it could be salt. But I cannot train through sleet all next winter just to have another DNF. I am trained now and I need to know now. I’m going to do Burning River and if I monitor the salt and live then Mohican is on for next year. If I don’t then maybe its time to be the scourge of the West Jefferson Squash Festival 5K Run/Walk.
I’ll try to finish BR but mainly this is a science experiment. Data collection really. I'm going to check my ego and my Gatorade bottle at the door.
And if that doesn’t work I’ll just get myself a rainy day, a kite, and a key.
All my love, --Mark
That’s just the order in which it happened too. One day we were saying “Did you hear about Mark? He got hit by lightning!” and the next thing you know he was kicking the tar out of all of us.
In hindsight I can see that getting hit by lightning and getting fast are two separate events, but you couldn’t have convinced any of us of any such thing back then. We had read enough comic books to know darn well that getting hit by lightning gives you special powers. And if you needed to see any more proof then you better look fast because there it goes now, disappearing over yonder hill!
Even now if I’m out running and a thunder storm kicks up, the fear I feel is mixed with just a tiny trace of hope. I think of Mark every time I see lightning. But I think of lightning after every ultra I run and I’ll tell you why I do in just a bit.
Did you know that you can get hit by lightning and be walking around feeling just fine-and-dandy and bragging about it? You don’t have to believe me, just pay close attention the next time you get hit by lightning and you will see that I am correct. In fact, maybe you could even get a sympathy date. “Hey, I got hit by lightning and lived. You should date me because I am just that kind of man” you might say. But if you do get hit by lightning you should insist that the date happen pretty soon, because a day later you might be feeling queasy. Then a couple of days after that you might be dead. And no one wants to date a dead guy…not even Demi Moore.
That movie was awful.
See, what happens is that the lightning can travel along your nerve tracts. They are built to carry electricity so a little lightning isn’t such a huge deal to them. If you are really lucky the electricity can pass right on through and maybe just give you a little exit burn and leave a taste like old pennies in your mouth. I don’t know why it tastes like pennies so don’t interrupt me by asking. This I do know though; you really should get that copper taste out of your mouth before your big date. What you won’t discover for 24 hours or so, is that you may have killed one or more vital organs and not even know about it. You can live for a while without a functional liver, or kidneys, so the real symptoms don’t show up for a while. If you time it just right you can stick your date with the check at the fancy restaurant you take her to.
I’ve always felt that running an ultramarathon is a lot like getting hit by lightning. In an ultra your endocrine system, which is responsible for maintaining your body’s homeostasis, can take a real hit. Sometimes, if you haven’t beaten your legs up too badly, you can fool yourself into thinking that no damage has been done. This might happen after a race like Mohican. You feel great but then the mystery injury or illness arises…usually right in the middle of that charity 5K that your co-worker challenged you to. If you don’t plan your recovery properly you will have to suffer the effects of the injury and/or listen to that jerk bragging around the office for several months or more.
I felt good for a few days after Mohican this year. I had been here before though so I settled in and awaited the lethargy, moodiness, and sleep disorders. But they didn’t arrive. In fact I kept feeling good. I might be deeply tired and I suppose I must be. I did run 80 miles after all. But this has been weird. I did 50 miles last week and just ran a hard 10 miler and felt terrific. No cough, no weird odors, no mystery-rash. What gives? After all, if I had spewed just a few more times at Mohican I could have been offered an employment contract as a geyser at Yellowstone. Those are just the type of symptoms you’d expect from a flawed endocrine system. But those symptoms went right away and weren’t replaced by other mystery signs. No weird painless swelling, no breaking into profuse sweats for no reason, no crying while watching “You’ve got mail”.
That movie was awful too.
So anyhow I got to thinking which, for purposes of this conversation, we will not consider to be a weird symptom. Here’s what I was thinking: Once you screw up your endocrine system you can’t just unscrew it. It stays screwed up for a while. So, using the transitive property of ultragoggery, if I’m not screwed up, it can’t be the endocrine system. So then what in the heck happened at Mohican? I was all set to give up on ultras. I was going to switch to shorter distances and win 3rd place ribbons in my age group at 5K’s hosted by festivals that exist in order to honor vegetables. That was the plan…and now I just don’t know.
Could it be sodium? I was not drinking and yet managed to spew crazy amounts of …stuff. Where was it coming from? Maybe salt buildup was causing reverse osmosis …pulling liquid from my body into my stomach instead of vice-versa. That would explain the loaves-and-fishes quality of my stomach contents on the long crawl back to the bridge.
Then I heard from Ron Ross. Ron hooked me up with some studies on sodium and one day, instead of doing my job, I read all about salt. How much sodium do we need? How much do we use? How much is too much? Then I looked at the amount of sodium I took in during Mohican and I did some cyphering and learned that at about the time I was arriving at the Mill aid station on the night of Mohican I was one of the saltiest things on the planet. In fact, the exact order was:
1. The Dead Sea
2. Me
3. Gatorade
4. The Bonneville Salt Flats
So really there could be several different things at work. It could be that I just can’t do 100 milers any more. If that’s the case then so be it. It could be that I am a pansy, but I don’t think so. A pansy couldn’t handle the amount of heaving I did. I heaved so hard I strained an intercostal muscle (“I heaved so hard that I strained an intercostal muscle. You should date me because I am just that kind of man”).
Or it could be.
Yes it could be.
Something special.
Just.
For.
Me.
That movie was awesome!
Or it could be salt. But I cannot train through sleet all next winter just to have another DNF. I am trained now and I need to know now. I’m going to do Burning River and if I monitor the salt and live then Mohican is on for next year. If I don’t then maybe its time to be the scourge of the West Jefferson Squash Festival 5K Run/Walk.
I’ll try to finish BR but mainly this is a science experiment. Data collection really. I'm going to check my ego and my Gatorade bottle at the door.
And if that doesn’t work I’ll just get myself a rainy day, a kite, and a key.
All my love, --Mark
Monday, June 29, 2009
Mohican Report Part 4
“Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me”
--Mama Cass
“Basically you are OK. Get some sleep, stop vomiting and you’ll be alright. Hey, I hope we see you at Colleen’s dinner party in January!”
--Paramedic at covered bridge 4:30am
Mohican is the only day all year long that my urine really gets the attention that is deserves. Its color, volume, and frequency are as spellbinding to me as an “Ice Road Truckers” marathon. I hate to brag. I really do. But so far my urine had been the type of stuff that could inspire poetry. Hemingway would have described it as “Dependable pee. Strong and true. The kind of ‘number one’ a man could live with”! It really was kinda beautiful there, all silhouetted against my headlight as I stopped on the climb to Hickory Ridge. There just didn’t seem to be nearly as much of it as there was before but that’s OK right? Sure it was. Besides there really wasn’t any time or need to worry. I was walking behind Dick Canterbury and he was looking as good as I felt. My pacer Kevin had my back and we were coming up on 68 miles and the bright lights of the Hickory Ridge aid station. That meant that we were entering the realm of the Mansfield Running Club. These folks are fun, and knowledgeable, and dependable. If the people at the Rock Point aid station were the type that you would choose if you were looking to do a little homesteading then the attractive and fun bunch at Hickory Ridge would be your admissions department if you were going to start a college…a fun college. They had cute women who thought that it was interesting and acceptable that a man was lacking, say, skin on his feet, or a stomach lining. They knew how to treat these maladies and also had smiles and tomato juice and salted potatoes. I hated to leave but the Mill beckoned. I promised to join them on one of their famous Tuesday night runs in the future and boogied out into the night.
The only unpleasantness at all, in fact, at Hickory Ridge was that when I asked how their team-mate Michelle Bichsel was doing they looked a bit glum. “She’s kinda sick” said a cute one. “Yeah but she’s gonna finish up just fine because she’s tough” said a fun one. Then everyone smiled.
At about this time Michelle was at the Mill arguing with Rob Powell. Rob was testing his recent surgical scar tissue just a bit by crewing for Michelle, who had been suffering gastrointestinal distress all day. Michelle wanted to drop out; Rob was having none of it. In fact Rob had taken the identification strip off of Michelle’s race bib so the she COULD NOT legally drop out. Backing Rob up was Don Baun who had decided to leave his best effort for a better day and then, in true Mohican fashion, eschewed a warm bed for an all-night crew position. Michelle argued the point but her friends were most likely only presaging what her own mind would have told her given a moment of silence. She wasn’t going to float this time but she wasn’t going to sink either.
Kevin and I passed a sign that told us that we had only 4 more miles of bike trail left. That means that we were three miles from Hickory Ridge which means we had gone…..ummmm…68 plus 3 equals….about 70 or something like that. Yeah seventy. “Hey Kevin guess what? We only have like 33 more miles to go! I feel great”. Five steps later I was bent at the waist heaving loud enough to stir birds from their nests. “Whoa. That was weird” Said I. “Let’s get out of these woods. We’ll just go nice and easy and it’ll all be BLEEEHHHHH!”
At this point in the race Wyatt Hornsby must have been running a bit scared. Wyatt had just done something that he must have envisioned on a hundred training runs over the past year. It was bold and it was ballsy and it was unlikely. He had run well back from the frontrunners all day long; keeping them just within range. This was a wise strategy. But just a while ago his patience, alertness, and knowledge of the course allowed him to take over the lead from Mark Tanaka of San Francisco and he was now irrevocably committed to pulling off his goal of winning the Mohican Trail 100 Mile Run. This was the work of a believer. Wyatt was a good runner. In fact he had finished in the top five in a local 50K race on this very course a few months ago. But this was Tanaka’s race and everyone knew it. Well, almost everyone. Tanaka was the genuine deal. He was a member of the famous La Sportiva Mountain Running Team. Wyatt was running ruthlessly. He refused to walk on even some of the steepest climbs and increased his effort time and again over the final miles. Think of Rocky climbing off the canvas for a knockout. Wyatt crossed the line to the delight of all skinny-low-heart-rated Ohioans, in first place in 19:52.
[Quick editorial note here: By all accounts Mark Tanaka is a genuinely wonderful person and a terrific athlete. In no way do I mean to paint him into the "bad guy" role here...I just love an upset/local-boy-makes-good story : ). Nothing but all-around respect intended. In his blog Wyatt spoke in the highest terms of the talent and courage displayed by both Tanaka and Matt Aro. All three runners gave ultra fans one of the best races seen at Mohican in many years. Maybe ever.]
I stumbled down the final mile of the bike path and into the campground parking lot. I lay right down on my face and went to sleep. Kevin woke me up saying “Its only one mile to the Mill, pull your shit together”. “Tough titty Miss Kitty” said I. I lay there while the inconsiderate bastards in the truck parked nearby kept asking me over and over again if I was alright and did I need any help at all? Wasn’t there something they could please do? “I’m fine!”
I guess I wasn’t portraying “Fine” as well as I thought I was.
About an hour earlier Nick the Brewer, Nick the Philosopher, Nick the runner-at heart who lives in kid-like joy at his ability to run long distances had set a P.R. Nick arrived at the Covered Bridge aid station at 64 miles after battling muscle cramps for the last 43 miles, blistered feet for the past 10 hours, low blood sodium all day long and, straight from the “Insult to injury” file, a headlamp that picked the treacherous green loop to wink out…then on again…then out...then kinda on…in the pitch black darkness of the toughest stretch of woods in the toughest 100 miler in the Midwest, since nightfall. The problem with the light (and this story tells its own tale about being a mammal in lousy weather conditions) was that it was shorting out because Nick was sweating into the battery compartment. He stopped to drain it and continued. No belt buckle but, on the bright side, no self-administered electro-shock therapy either. Nick’s road to the finish line at Mohican will continue into 2010 and on this road lies the Javelina 100 this fall, and many miles and many good stories and a few finely crafted homebrews as well perhaps.
“No worries man. There is absolutely no way that I am dropping out. My kids have gone through way worse than this and I’m just going to have to suffer. I don’t need to eat. I can do the whole thing on body fat if I need to. I did last year.” I explained to Ron Ross. Ron has finished more Mohicans than nearly anyone and he is just about the fittest and nicest human being anywhere. “That’s great Mark.” He said using “great” as convincingly as I had used “fine” 1 mile (and 45 minutes) earlier. “You can do it” he said. And this part I am convinced he meant. Man it was good to see Ron. Kevin meanwhile had gotten me half a cup of some sort of soup and strained everything solid out of it. I was sitting UNDER a picnic table at the Mill, had gotten 5 minutes of sleep and was wearing the fleece vest that I bought at Salvation Army 2 days ago for three dollars. I think of EVERYTHING. Yep. Things were better. Then I walked a quarter of a mile and threw up half a gallon of broth.
I often find it odd that when I go to remote but beautiful places, such as Mohican, for training runs that there aren’t more local runners out on the trails. In fact there seem to be none at all. I asked a college team-mate, Mitch Bentley about this once. Mitch was from the town of Plymouth in the Hocking Hills region and won the state cross country championship in High School. Mitch explained it by telling me that there are, after all, an awful lot of trails and odds of seeing anyone aren’t great. Yes, I argued, but I NEVER see ANYONE. Mitch then let out a loving ‘You just don’t get it’ sigh and told me. “Some of these folks have real world problems and don’t give a shit about us or our jogging programs. Keep that in mind”. The Mohican area is not as remote or economically depressed as the Hocking Hills region but I still have wondered “Why no local Mohican runners?” All of that was about to change. Late in the race Terry Lemke, who lived three miles from the course and had decided to enter the race just weeks before was running strong 10 minutes behind the leader. Mohican has been a family affair for the Lemke’s. They have worked an aid station as a family in past years and now Mom was in the mix in the middle of the night being paced by her son. Terry went on to finish as the second place female in just over 24 hours…and she may or may not give a shit about my jogging program. One can never be sure.
I stood and wavered from foot to foot and stared at the hill in front of me. Mohican has 11,000 feet of elevation gain but this 5 foot pitch was straight up and involved me grabbing onto one tree and climbing under another. This was trouble. I made it up and over the North Rim Trail but that involved legs which, despite having no access to quick burning energy, were holding up pretty good. I hoisted myself up. Sat at the top for a moment and stared down the other side. It was an equally steep 5 feet back down to the river and if I didn’t grab that sapling at the bottom I was going right into the river. I barely hooked the sapling and slung myself to the ground. Face down. Asleep for the fourth time in 2 miles.
I will spare you the horridness of this stretch. Suffice to say that it involved horrendous nausea, weakness, and flu-like symptoms that I have not experienced before. Over and over I told myself that my kids would never quit. I pictured myself walking in the front door and handing them my buckle and telling them to always remember that Carroll’s are tough. Kevin told me I was weaving, staggering, tripping, and talking nonsense. When we got to the bridge he called in the medics. It turns out that they knew me from past years. That has to be some sort of warning sign—having a personal relationship with medical personnel at your favorite race—but I’m not going to think about it now.
Kevin drove me back and I climbed into the back seat of my car, covered with the feces of different species, Vaseline, mud, Gatorade, vomit, dead bugs, sunscreen, and layer after layer of dust. I had no emotion. I let out one huge sob. Then sleep took me.
Twenty-nine hours, fifty-six minutes and twenty-nine seconds after the start of the race 36 year old Jennifer Broton crossed the finish line. She will return to Pennsylvania with the final belt buckle of 2009 and the title “Last of the Mohicans”. With Jennifer’s crossing, Mohican-world returns to torpor for another year. The water will continue to fall over Big Lyons falls every moment of the next twelve months and if I awake at, let us say, 2:17 am on a midwinter’s night I can be sure that Hickory Ridge is still there. I can roll over, and go back to sleep. But Mohican won’t exist again until next year, no matter how many blogs and training runs and photo albums are devoted to it. It won’t exist because we are not there. The truth is Mohican needs us to breathe life into it as much as we need Mohican, for thirty hours each year, to turn you, and him, and her and me, into us.
Its one week later and I am in the stands at the Ohio Special Olympics Summer Games. For three days, each June, thousands of Special Olympics athletes from every county in the state monopolize Ohio State University’s gigantic campus, filling many of its dorms and requiring the support of thousands of volunteers as they compete in 19 separate sports spread across thousands of acres connected by an intricate system of shuttle buses. On this evening Jesse Owens Stadium is filled to beyond-capacity with nearly 20,000 athletes, coaches, volunteers, friends, family members, and press corps. The evening climaxes as the Olympic torch, which has traveled the state of Ohio for an entire week (beginning at the approximate time that I was passing Hickory Ridge for the first time last Saturday) is escorted into the stadium. The torch is guarded by a dozen State Highway Patrol motorcycles, sirens blaring, and escorted by 100 highway patrol cadets, a military color-guard, and dozens of high-level politicians. As the torch circles the track the roar of the crowd crescendos, turning physical; shaking the foundations of the stands. As the Olympic flame is ignited a chopper buzzes the stadium but it, as well as the announcer’s voice, are unheard, overwhelmed by the shouts of joy as so many individuals, too often marginalized in daily life, announce that for this time they are the center of the universe.
More fireflies.
The Special Olympics Oath is:
“Let me win.
But if I cannot win,
Let me be brave in the attempt.”
Maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe the thing connecting the strands that comprise Mohican isn’t a belt buckle. Maybe the only thing that Wyatt and Jennifer, Luc and Scott and Casey, Dave and Michelle and Terry and Nick and Ron and Rob and Don have in common with me and Dick Canterbury and Mike McCune and the ultra-punks and the other Mohicans is that we all did, in our own way and according to our own circumstances and abilities, try.
Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me”
--Mama Cass
“Basically you are OK. Get some sleep, stop vomiting and you’ll be alright. Hey, I hope we see you at Colleen’s dinner party in January!”
--Paramedic at covered bridge 4:30am
Mohican is the only day all year long that my urine really gets the attention that is deserves. Its color, volume, and frequency are as spellbinding to me as an “Ice Road Truckers” marathon. I hate to brag. I really do. But so far my urine had been the type of stuff that could inspire poetry. Hemingway would have described it as “Dependable pee. Strong and true. The kind of ‘number one’ a man could live with”! It really was kinda beautiful there, all silhouetted against my headlight as I stopped on the climb to Hickory Ridge. There just didn’t seem to be nearly as much of it as there was before but that’s OK right? Sure it was. Besides there really wasn’t any time or need to worry. I was walking behind Dick Canterbury and he was looking as good as I felt. My pacer Kevin had my back and we were coming up on 68 miles and the bright lights of the Hickory Ridge aid station. That meant that we were entering the realm of the Mansfield Running Club. These folks are fun, and knowledgeable, and dependable. If the people at the Rock Point aid station were the type that you would choose if you were looking to do a little homesteading then the attractive and fun bunch at Hickory Ridge would be your admissions department if you were going to start a college…a fun college. They had cute women who thought that it was interesting and acceptable that a man was lacking, say, skin on his feet, or a stomach lining. They knew how to treat these maladies and also had smiles and tomato juice and salted potatoes. I hated to leave but the Mill beckoned. I promised to join them on one of their famous Tuesday night runs in the future and boogied out into the night.
The only unpleasantness at all, in fact, at Hickory Ridge was that when I asked how their team-mate Michelle Bichsel was doing they looked a bit glum. “She’s kinda sick” said a cute one. “Yeah but she’s gonna finish up just fine because she’s tough” said a fun one. Then everyone smiled.
At about this time Michelle was at the Mill arguing with Rob Powell. Rob was testing his recent surgical scar tissue just a bit by crewing for Michelle, who had been suffering gastrointestinal distress all day. Michelle wanted to drop out; Rob was having none of it. In fact Rob had taken the identification strip off of Michelle’s race bib so the she COULD NOT legally drop out. Backing Rob up was Don Baun who had decided to leave his best effort for a better day and then, in true Mohican fashion, eschewed a warm bed for an all-night crew position. Michelle argued the point but her friends were most likely only presaging what her own mind would have told her given a moment of silence. She wasn’t going to float this time but she wasn’t going to sink either.
Kevin and I passed a sign that told us that we had only 4 more miles of bike trail left. That means that we were three miles from Hickory Ridge which means we had gone…..ummmm…68 plus 3 equals….about 70 or something like that. Yeah seventy. “Hey Kevin guess what? We only have like 33 more miles to go! I feel great”. Five steps later I was bent at the waist heaving loud enough to stir birds from their nests. “Whoa. That was weird” Said I. “Let’s get out of these woods. We’ll just go nice and easy and it’ll all be BLEEEHHHHH!”
At this point in the race Wyatt Hornsby must have been running a bit scared. Wyatt had just done something that he must have envisioned on a hundred training runs over the past year. It was bold and it was ballsy and it was unlikely. He had run well back from the frontrunners all day long; keeping them just within range. This was a wise strategy. But just a while ago his patience, alertness, and knowledge of the course allowed him to take over the lead from Mark Tanaka of San Francisco and he was now irrevocably committed to pulling off his goal of winning the Mohican Trail 100 Mile Run. This was the work of a believer. Wyatt was a good runner. In fact he had finished in the top five in a local 50K race on this very course a few months ago. But this was Tanaka’s race and everyone knew it. Well, almost everyone. Tanaka was the genuine deal. He was a member of the famous La Sportiva Mountain Running Team. Wyatt was running ruthlessly. He refused to walk on even some of the steepest climbs and increased his effort time and again over the final miles. Think of Rocky climbing off the canvas for a knockout. Wyatt crossed the line to the delight of all skinny-low-heart-rated Ohioans, in first place in 19:52.
[Quick editorial note here: By all accounts Mark Tanaka is a genuinely wonderful person and a terrific athlete. In no way do I mean to paint him into the "bad guy" role here...I just love an upset/local-boy-makes-good story : ). Nothing but all-around respect intended. In his blog Wyatt spoke in the highest terms of the talent and courage displayed by both Tanaka and Matt Aro. All three runners gave ultra fans one of the best races seen at Mohican in many years. Maybe ever.]
I stumbled down the final mile of the bike path and into the campground parking lot. I lay right down on my face and went to sleep. Kevin woke me up saying “Its only one mile to the Mill, pull your shit together”. “Tough titty Miss Kitty” said I. I lay there while the inconsiderate bastards in the truck parked nearby kept asking me over and over again if I was alright and did I need any help at all? Wasn’t there something they could please do? “I’m fine!”
I guess I wasn’t portraying “Fine” as well as I thought I was.
About an hour earlier Nick the Brewer, Nick the Philosopher, Nick the runner-at heart who lives in kid-like joy at his ability to run long distances had set a P.R. Nick arrived at the Covered Bridge aid station at 64 miles after battling muscle cramps for the last 43 miles, blistered feet for the past 10 hours, low blood sodium all day long and, straight from the “Insult to injury” file, a headlamp that picked the treacherous green loop to wink out…then on again…then out...then kinda on…in the pitch black darkness of the toughest stretch of woods in the toughest 100 miler in the Midwest, since nightfall. The problem with the light (and this story tells its own tale about being a mammal in lousy weather conditions) was that it was shorting out because Nick was sweating into the battery compartment. He stopped to drain it and continued. No belt buckle but, on the bright side, no self-administered electro-shock therapy either. Nick’s road to the finish line at Mohican will continue into 2010 and on this road lies the Javelina 100 this fall, and many miles and many good stories and a few finely crafted homebrews as well perhaps.
“No worries man. There is absolutely no way that I am dropping out. My kids have gone through way worse than this and I’m just going to have to suffer. I don’t need to eat. I can do the whole thing on body fat if I need to. I did last year.” I explained to Ron Ross. Ron has finished more Mohicans than nearly anyone and he is just about the fittest and nicest human being anywhere. “That’s great Mark.” He said using “great” as convincingly as I had used “fine” 1 mile (and 45 minutes) earlier. “You can do it” he said. And this part I am convinced he meant. Man it was good to see Ron. Kevin meanwhile had gotten me half a cup of some sort of soup and strained everything solid out of it. I was sitting UNDER a picnic table at the Mill, had gotten 5 minutes of sleep and was wearing the fleece vest that I bought at Salvation Army 2 days ago for three dollars. I think of EVERYTHING. Yep. Things were better. Then I walked a quarter of a mile and threw up half a gallon of broth.
I often find it odd that when I go to remote but beautiful places, such as Mohican, for training runs that there aren’t more local runners out on the trails. In fact there seem to be none at all. I asked a college team-mate, Mitch Bentley about this once. Mitch was from the town of Plymouth in the Hocking Hills region and won the state cross country championship in High School. Mitch explained it by telling me that there are, after all, an awful lot of trails and odds of seeing anyone aren’t great. Yes, I argued, but I NEVER see ANYONE. Mitch then let out a loving ‘You just don’t get it’ sigh and told me. “Some of these folks have real world problems and don’t give a shit about us or our jogging programs. Keep that in mind”. The Mohican area is not as remote or economically depressed as the Hocking Hills region but I still have wondered “Why no local Mohican runners?” All of that was about to change. Late in the race Terry Lemke, who lived three miles from the course and had decided to enter the race just weeks before was running strong 10 minutes behind the leader. Mohican has been a family affair for the Lemke’s. They have worked an aid station as a family in past years and now Mom was in the mix in the middle of the night being paced by her son. Terry went on to finish as the second place female in just over 24 hours…and she may or may not give a shit about my jogging program. One can never be sure.
I stood and wavered from foot to foot and stared at the hill in front of me. Mohican has 11,000 feet of elevation gain but this 5 foot pitch was straight up and involved me grabbing onto one tree and climbing under another. This was trouble. I made it up and over the North Rim Trail but that involved legs which, despite having no access to quick burning energy, were holding up pretty good. I hoisted myself up. Sat at the top for a moment and stared down the other side. It was an equally steep 5 feet back down to the river and if I didn’t grab that sapling at the bottom I was going right into the river. I barely hooked the sapling and slung myself to the ground. Face down. Asleep for the fourth time in 2 miles.
I will spare you the horridness of this stretch. Suffice to say that it involved horrendous nausea, weakness, and flu-like symptoms that I have not experienced before. Over and over I told myself that my kids would never quit. I pictured myself walking in the front door and handing them my buckle and telling them to always remember that Carroll’s are tough. Kevin told me I was weaving, staggering, tripping, and talking nonsense. When we got to the bridge he called in the medics. It turns out that they knew me from past years. That has to be some sort of warning sign—having a personal relationship with medical personnel at your favorite race—but I’m not going to think about it now.
Kevin drove me back and I climbed into the back seat of my car, covered with the feces of different species, Vaseline, mud, Gatorade, vomit, dead bugs, sunscreen, and layer after layer of dust. I had no emotion. I let out one huge sob. Then sleep took me.
Twenty-nine hours, fifty-six minutes and twenty-nine seconds after the start of the race 36 year old Jennifer Broton crossed the finish line. She will return to Pennsylvania with the final belt buckle of 2009 and the title “Last of the Mohicans”. With Jennifer’s crossing, Mohican-world returns to torpor for another year. The water will continue to fall over Big Lyons falls every moment of the next twelve months and if I awake at, let us say, 2:17 am on a midwinter’s night I can be sure that Hickory Ridge is still there. I can roll over, and go back to sleep. But Mohican won’t exist again until next year, no matter how many blogs and training runs and photo albums are devoted to it. It won’t exist because we are not there. The truth is Mohican needs us to breathe life into it as much as we need Mohican, for thirty hours each year, to turn you, and him, and her and me, into us.
Its one week later and I am in the stands at the Ohio Special Olympics Summer Games. For three days, each June, thousands of Special Olympics athletes from every county in the state monopolize Ohio State University’s gigantic campus, filling many of its dorms and requiring the support of thousands of volunteers as they compete in 19 separate sports spread across thousands of acres connected by an intricate system of shuttle buses. On this evening Jesse Owens Stadium is filled to beyond-capacity with nearly 20,000 athletes, coaches, volunteers, friends, family members, and press corps. The evening climaxes as the Olympic torch, which has traveled the state of Ohio for an entire week (beginning at the approximate time that I was passing Hickory Ridge for the first time last Saturday) is escorted into the stadium. The torch is guarded by a dozen State Highway Patrol motorcycles, sirens blaring, and escorted by 100 highway patrol cadets, a military color-guard, and dozens of high-level politicians. As the torch circles the track the roar of the crowd crescendos, turning physical; shaking the foundations of the stands. As the Olympic flame is ignited a chopper buzzes the stadium but it, as well as the announcer’s voice, are unheard, overwhelmed by the shouts of joy as so many individuals, too often marginalized in daily life, announce that for this time they are the center of the universe.
More fireflies.
The Special Olympics Oath is:
“Let me win.
But if I cannot win,
Let me be brave in the attempt.”
Maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe the thing connecting the strands that comprise Mohican isn’t a belt buckle. Maybe the only thing that Wyatt and Jennifer, Luc and Scott and Casey, Dave and Michelle and Terry and Nick and Ron and Rob and Don have in common with me and Dick Canterbury and Mike McCune and the ultra-punks and the other Mohicans is that we all did, in our own way and according to our own circumstances and abilities, try.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Mohican Report: Part 3
“We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.”
--Pink Floyd
“If I hadn’t been cut from the pole vaulting squad in the seventh grade I wouldn’t be here. Screw you, Coach S., wherever you are!”
--Me, while climbing the North Rim Trail, 1:45am
Race Day: Three A.M. The alarm clock goes off but I’m way ahead of it. Shower, shave, brush, spit, rinse, tape, more tape, just a little more tape, sunscreen, lube, cold coffee, Little Debbie, car keys, lie on bed for one more minute because its my last time to do so for a long long time. There are drunks in the parking lot wearing ball caps with numbers on them. They are getting ready to go to an all day race. So am I. They haven’t slept yet. Neither have I.
Forty five minutes before the 5:00am start the sky opens with a roaring downpour that threatens to force my car to the roadside. I prepare myself mentally for a 30 hour slog through hopeless rain. Then, miraculously, impossibly, as race time draws nearer the rain vanishes and I see a star in the sky. The rain is gone forever, replaced with clouds that sulk into the distance, repeatedly drawing nearer and yelling threats before finally shrugging and surrendering to perfect skies and light breezes as dawn greets us for the first of two times on this unusual day.
I decide to jog at the start. This simple act puts me into the top 30 runners and I let it happen because, by being up front, I can avoid the clog at the trail leaving the campground at the half mile point. In doing so I find myself behind Michelle Bichsel. Floating. Always floating. Does Michelle never land? Does she ever struggle? I’ve never seen it. I’m certain that if the race has an elite runner in the field this year it is Michelle. I’m equally certain that she’ll float to the finish. It’s the nature of things. After the clog I immediately slow way way way down. I gently walk the first long hill and, in so doing, get to greet many friends as they pass me. There’s Dick Canterbury, going by for his tenth finish. Scott and Casey, my pacers from last year, jog past. They seem to be having fun. Here is Terry Lemke. Terry doesn’t know it but I copied a picture taken of her on a training run by Michelle Bichsel a few weeks ago. In the picture 40-something Terry is leading a group of the young-guns down a rocky cliff wall as they struggle to hang on. That picture has been my computer screen saver since I got it. Way inspirational. I get to run with Don Baun for several minutes. Don was one of the founders of this race and he’s a constant source of energy. Don offers to slow down and run with me but no matter how slow he goes I am slower. Don moves past, along with most of the field. I am totally at peace.
At Rock Point the road turns to trail and we experience mud. Some of it kinda bad and deep. For some reason it doesn’t bother me. I have my trail legs on and I negotiate it well. Early morning in the deep woods is a quiet time and other than whispered well wishes the runners do nothing to disturb it. By this point the groove of the early day is upon us. Lightly fuel. Sip. Gently step. Breathe. Adjust a sock. A pebble in the shoe now could be a wound tonight. Get rid of it. Chat. Pray. South Park passes and then the firetower. These are the good times. All is well. All starters are still among us. I get my traditional fire tower kiss from Colleen Theusch and plunge into the lovely, gentle downhill to the covered bridge and into the purple loop at 21 miles.
The purple loop; exhausting, but dangerous. Everyone loves the purple loop. I love it too but make no mistake, this innocent family hiking trail can break you like a twig. The many jumps over and around scenic logs and boulders can trash-compact the finest pair of quadriceps over the course of just four miles. Because of this I walk nearly all of it. God has blessed us, once again, on the sunny and hot climb up Goon Rd. with Avery’s presence. Avery, a local resident, ancient and attentive, sits on the porch of his house softly calling out encouragement to runners on this murderous climb as he has for longer than anyone can remember. For the first time ever I call back to him telling him that I notice him every year and that I appreciate it. Avery beams at this, takes a pull from his oxygen cannula, and calls out “See you next year”. I hope that God blesses us both enough to make that prediction come true. The purple loop is poorly marked. Possibly the rain has washed away the chalk arrows, although this doesn’t seem to have happened on any other part of the course. I know the course well and guide some runners through it, past Lyons Falls and back to the 25.1 mile mark. Here I see Scott and Casey, looking tired. They both have an alert look, like someone ‘playing chicken’ with a freight train. Scott sits in a chair content to want nothing until the time comes where he must rise and, once again, want everything. Casey is nearby, shopping at the food table, looking for the right fuel to make it to Hickory Ridge. Scott will rally; he always does. And when he does Casey will be with him; he always is. I would bet my house on them finishing their first ultra. And they do, with stories enough to last the summer and miles enough to feed the addiction they do not yet know that they have.
Behind me Luc has taken a wrong turn. He completes several miles of the purple loop but knows when he returns again to the covered bridge that he must not have completed the whole loop. This has put Luc into a bit of distress with the time cut-offs but rather than compromise the race in any way he peacefully and uncomplainingly decides to do the ENTIRE brutal Purple loop again, from start to finish. Now Luc needs to make up some time but rather than rushing ahead he chooses to walk the loop with a woman who is attempting to walk the entire 100 miles. Luc safely guides her through the course but has only minutes to spare on the time cut-off when he returns to the bridge. Furthermore he needs to push on because the exhausting climb to Hickory Ridge lies ahead. Many other runners take a wrong turn on the blue loop but none that I know of handle it in the gentlemanly and sportsmanlike way that Luc has. I could go on for thousands of words about who Luc is and how he lives. But I don’t have to. By reading this, and taking my word that this is typical behavior, you already know.
At the bridge I salt some watermelon, grab a fist full of cookies and head toward the long climb to Hickory Ridge. Summer is in full bloom. Life is everywhere it can possibly be. The trails crawl with tiny insects and the sky is filled with birds. Weeds sprout improbably from the tops of chunks of granite. This feels good, all of it. I run through the Hickory Ridge Aid station, pausing just long enough to grab a sandwich, and run more comfortably than I ever have to the 36 mile point and the exit of the mountain bike trail.
The truth is that I have never enjoyed the run into and through the “Old Mill” (circa 2003). The run along Route 3 is hot and noisy and somewhat dangerous. I have always accepted that this part of the route was a tradeoff to promote tourism into a region that welcomes the race with open arms and needs a favor in return. The race brings business and exposure to the Mill and the community and so it’s a mutually supportive arrangement. The high point of the run to the Mill is seeing Dave Essinger. Dave is a co-worker and new friend of mine from the University of Findlay. Although it is his first 100 miler he runs like a veteran...all the way to the finish! Go Oilers!
From the Mill I made my way up back to the Covered bridge and the 42 mile mark along a lovely, if root and rock covered, trail along the river. The river crossing at the Bridge was delightful. I happened to wade across the river precisely as a group of tough-looking teenagers were floating by on inner tubes. One of them looked at me and said “How far are you running?” I told him “100 miles” and the entire group clapped and wished me well. Way way way too cool.
At about this time my friend Luc, who had managed to stay moments ahead of the time cut-offs that his good nature had placed upon him, sat at the Mill Aid station desperately trying to lower his body temperature and refuel in time to get back onto the course. Surely if he had the time (nearly 2 hours) that he lost on the purple loop, first through poor course marking s and then through an act of kindness to a stranger, he could have regrouped and gone the distance. Instead Luc’s day ended sitting in the sun with a throbbing head and a core temperature that made eating or drinking unappealing although those were exactly the things he needed. He never complained once. In fact Luc believes he had a good time out there. Luc, if you are reading this lets do many runs this year. I could learn a lot from you.
From the Covered Bridge it was straight up hill to the Bridle Staging area. It was hot by this point but I wasn’t feeling the heat. I had picked up distant acquaintance turned fast-friend Mike McCune. It has taken me years to realize that Mike is one tough sumbitch. He appears, at all points in any race, to be badly sunburned, sweaty, exhausted, and…happy. In my minds eye I see Mike walking along the trail every year perhaps holding a small empty hand-held water bottle in one hand and perhaps a thick black cotton T-shirt in the other. Mike would appear to be in the final throws of desperation were it not for the smile on his face and willingness to share his adventures with any new or old friends he might find along the way. Mike has smiled and toughed his way through some of the toughest ultamarathon’s in the Midwest in just such a manner. Mike and I run together for several more hours. We pick up runners, get passed by runners, pass runners, and yet never lose each other. I run past the half way point in about 12 hours still feeling ridiculously good. Entering the Rock Point aid station at 52 miles I am once again reminded that the volunteers make Mohican, and the volunteers at the Rock are consistently the best. This is a rugged outpost on the course. Tough to get to, even by car, difficult to re-supply and open longer than any other aid station on the course. And they still manage, somehow, to offer the best food on the course and the most comfort, the most love, and the most Goodwill-Karma-Mojo on the planet.
From here it is a run into the early and endless dusk that only the deep woods on the longest day of the year can provide. I pass the South Park Aid station again and Mike and I and a few intermittent friends move toward the hospitality of the firetower and my pacer, Kevin. The good part is about to start.
Note: If you are still reading please understand that this blog is, more than anything else, a diary and is written for myself. If I have offended anyone or have facts wrong about course markings or the Mill aid station please feel free to defend them by making comments below. I’d welcome a more positive outlook. For now its late and I have the joy of attending the State Special Olympics Summer games the next three days. I’ll be staying in a dorm with some boys the entire time and it’ll be a blast. I’ll write more for myself…and for you if you care to read, when I return. Peace. --Mark
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.”
--Pink Floyd
“If I hadn’t been cut from the pole vaulting squad in the seventh grade I wouldn’t be here. Screw you, Coach S., wherever you are!”
--Me, while climbing the North Rim Trail, 1:45am
Race Day: Three A.M. The alarm clock goes off but I’m way ahead of it. Shower, shave, brush, spit, rinse, tape, more tape, just a little more tape, sunscreen, lube, cold coffee, Little Debbie, car keys, lie on bed for one more minute because its my last time to do so for a long long time. There are drunks in the parking lot wearing ball caps with numbers on them. They are getting ready to go to an all day race. So am I. They haven’t slept yet. Neither have I.
Forty five minutes before the 5:00am start the sky opens with a roaring downpour that threatens to force my car to the roadside. I prepare myself mentally for a 30 hour slog through hopeless rain. Then, miraculously, impossibly, as race time draws nearer the rain vanishes and I see a star in the sky. The rain is gone forever, replaced with clouds that sulk into the distance, repeatedly drawing nearer and yelling threats before finally shrugging and surrendering to perfect skies and light breezes as dawn greets us for the first of two times on this unusual day.
I decide to jog at the start. This simple act puts me into the top 30 runners and I let it happen because, by being up front, I can avoid the clog at the trail leaving the campground at the half mile point. In doing so I find myself behind Michelle Bichsel. Floating. Always floating. Does Michelle never land? Does she ever struggle? I’ve never seen it. I’m certain that if the race has an elite runner in the field this year it is Michelle. I’m equally certain that she’ll float to the finish. It’s the nature of things. After the clog I immediately slow way way way down. I gently walk the first long hill and, in so doing, get to greet many friends as they pass me. There’s Dick Canterbury, going by for his tenth finish. Scott and Casey, my pacers from last year, jog past. They seem to be having fun. Here is Terry Lemke. Terry doesn’t know it but I copied a picture taken of her on a training run by Michelle Bichsel a few weeks ago. In the picture 40-something Terry is leading a group of the young-guns down a rocky cliff wall as they struggle to hang on. That picture has been my computer screen saver since I got it. Way inspirational. I get to run with Don Baun for several minutes. Don was one of the founders of this race and he’s a constant source of energy. Don offers to slow down and run with me but no matter how slow he goes I am slower. Don moves past, along with most of the field. I am totally at peace.
At Rock Point the road turns to trail and we experience mud. Some of it kinda bad and deep. For some reason it doesn’t bother me. I have my trail legs on and I negotiate it well. Early morning in the deep woods is a quiet time and other than whispered well wishes the runners do nothing to disturb it. By this point the groove of the early day is upon us. Lightly fuel. Sip. Gently step. Breathe. Adjust a sock. A pebble in the shoe now could be a wound tonight. Get rid of it. Chat. Pray. South Park passes and then the firetower. These are the good times. All is well. All starters are still among us. I get my traditional fire tower kiss from Colleen Theusch and plunge into the lovely, gentle downhill to the covered bridge and into the purple loop at 21 miles.
The purple loop; exhausting, but dangerous. Everyone loves the purple loop. I love it too but make no mistake, this innocent family hiking trail can break you like a twig. The many jumps over and around scenic logs and boulders can trash-compact the finest pair of quadriceps over the course of just four miles. Because of this I walk nearly all of it. God has blessed us, once again, on the sunny and hot climb up Goon Rd. with Avery’s presence. Avery, a local resident, ancient and attentive, sits on the porch of his house softly calling out encouragement to runners on this murderous climb as he has for longer than anyone can remember. For the first time ever I call back to him telling him that I notice him every year and that I appreciate it. Avery beams at this, takes a pull from his oxygen cannula, and calls out “See you next year”. I hope that God blesses us both enough to make that prediction come true. The purple loop is poorly marked. Possibly the rain has washed away the chalk arrows, although this doesn’t seem to have happened on any other part of the course. I know the course well and guide some runners through it, past Lyons Falls and back to the 25.1 mile mark. Here I see Scott and Casey, looking tired. They both have an alert look, like someone ‘playing chicken’ with a freight train. Scott sits in a chair content to want nothing until the time comes where he must rise and, once again, want everything. Casey is nearby, shopping at the food table, looking for the right fuel to make it to Hickory Ridge. Scott will rally; he always does. And when he does Casey will be with him; he always is. I would bet my house on them finishing their first ultra. And they do, with stories enough to last the summer and miles enough to feed the addiction they do not yet know that they have.
Behind me Luc has taken a wrong turn. He completes several miles of the purple loop but knows when he returns again to the covered bridge that he must not have completed the whole loop. This has put Luc into a bit of distress with the time cut-offs but rather than compromise the race in any way he peacefully and uncomplainingly decides to do the ENTIRE brutal Purple loop again, from start to finish. Now Luc needs to make up some time but rather than rushing ahead he chooses to walk the loop with a woman who is attempting to walk the entire 100 miles. Luc safely guides her through the course but has only minutes to spare on the time cut-off when he returns to the bridge. Furthermore he needs to push on because the exhausting climb to Hickory Ridge lies ahead. Many other runners take a wrong turn on the blue loop but none that I know of handle it in the gentlemanly and sportsmanlike way that Luc has. I could go on for thousands of words about who Luc is and how he lives. But I don’t have to. By reading this, and taking my word that this is typical behavior, you already know.
At the bridge I salt some watermelon, grab a fist full of cookies and head toward the long climb to Hickory Ridge. Summer is in full bloom. Life is everywhere it can possibly be. The trails crawl with tiny insects and the sky is filled with birds. Weeds sprout improbably from the tops of chunks of granite. This feels good, all of it. I run through the Hickory Ridge Aid station, pausing just long enough to grab a sandwich, and run more comfortably than I ever have to the 36 mile point and the exit of the mountain bike trail.
The truth is that I have never enjoyed the run into and through the “Old Mill” (circa 2003). The run along Route 3 is hot and noisy and somewhat dangerous. I have always accepted that this part of the route was a tradeoff to promote tourism into a region that welcomes the race with open arms and needs a favor in return. The race brings business and exposure to the Mill and the community and so it’s a mutually supportive arrangement. The high point of the run to the Mill is seeing Dave Essinger. Dave is a co-worker and new friend of mine from the University of Findlay. Although it is his first 100 miler he runs like a veteran...all the way to the finish! Go Oilers!
From the Mill I made my way up back to the Covered bridge and the 42 mile mark along a lovely, if root and rock covered, trail along the river. The river crossing at the Bridge was delightful. I happened to wade across the river precisely as a group of tough-looking teenagers were floating by on inner tubes. One of them looked at me and said “How far are you running?” I told him “100 miles” and the entire group clapped and wished me well. Way way way too cool.
At about this time my friend Luc, who had managed to stay moments ahead of the time cut-offs that his good nature had placed upon him, sat at the Mill Aid station desperately trying to lower his body temperature and refuel in time to get back onto the course. Surely if he had the time (nearly 2 hours) that he lost on the purple loop, first through poor course marking s and then through an act of kindness to a stranger, he could have regrouped and gone the distance. Instead Luc’s day ended sitting in the sun with a throbbing head and a core temperature that made eating or drinking unappealing although those were exactly the things he needed. He never complained once. In fact Luc believes he had a good time out there. Luc, if you are reading this lets do many runs this year. I could learn a lot from you.
From the Covered Bridge it was straight up hill to the Bridle Staging area. It was hot by this point but I wasn’t feeling the heat. I had picked up distant acquaintance turned fast-friend Mike McCune. It has taken me years to realize that Mike is one tough sumbitch. He appears, at all points in any race, to be badly sunburned, sweaty, exhausted, and…happy. In my minds eye I see Mike walking along the trail every year perhaps holding a small empty hand-held water bottle in one hand and perhaps a thick black cotton T-shirt in the other. Mike would appear to be in the final throws of desperation were it not for the smile on his face and willingness to share his adventures with any new or old friends he might find along the way. Mike has smiled and toughed his way through some of the toughest ultamarathon’s in the Midwest in just such a manner. Mike and I run together for several more hours. We pick up runners, get passed by runners, pass runners, and yet never lose each other. I run past the half way point in about 12 hours still feeling ridiculously good. Entering the Rock Point aid station at 52 miles I am once again reminded that the volunteers make Mohican, and the volunteers at the Rock are consistently the best. This is a rugged outpost on the course. Tough to get to, even by car, difficult to re-supply and open longer than any other aid station on the course. And they still manage, somehow, to offer the best food on the course and the most comfort, the most love, and the most Goodwill-Karma-Mojo on the planet.
From here it is a run into the early and endless dusk that only the deep woods on the longest day of the year can provide. I pass the South Park Aid station again and Mike and I and a few intermittent friends move toward the hospitality of the firetower and my pacer, Kevin. The good part is about to start.
Note: If you are still reading please understand that this blog is, more than anything else, a diary and is written for myself. If I have offended anyone or have facts wrong about course markings or the Mill aid station please feel free to defend them by making comments below. I’d welcome a more positive outlook. For now its late and I have the joy of attending the State Special Olympics Summer games the next three days. I’ll be staying in a dorm with some boys the entire time and it’ll be a blast. I’ll write more for myself…and for you if you care to read, when I return. Peace. --Mark
Monday, June 22, 2009
Mohican Report: Part 2
“I really have to use
my imagination
to think of good reasons
to keep on keeping on.
I’ve got to make the best of
a bad situation
ever since that day that
I found that you* were gone
Darkness all around me
blocking out the sun
friends call to me
but I just don’t feel like talking to anyone
Emptiness has found me
and it just won’t let me go
thought I had no limits
but now I just don’t know…”
--Gladys Knight
*In this case “you” being my endocrine system’s ability to maintain homeostasis
“This really is the sport of kings, isn’t it?”
--Kevin Krupp, my pacer, as he counterbalanced me at 3:45am while I heaved
You can understand what running means to me by understanding what Mohican means to me. Mohican came to me as a savior during the darkest period of my life and showed me that wonderfulness can be found in the direst circumstances and that God is watching always. Mohican is where I learned that, as harsh as it sounds, God’s plan for us is not necessarily any of our business. Mohican was where I realized that this life is for service and learning and that joy is where you find it. Its where I learned that a breeze can be the perfect reminder that we are missing a constant bombardment of love because we are seeking rather than being.
If none of that makes any sense to you catch me on a very long run some time and, for the price of a few Gu Packs and a long slow swig from your camelback, I’ll tell you about tragedy and miracles. But for now take my word for it. I was on a top-twenty ranked cross country team in college. I was a good marathoner in the mid-80’s. I’ve run cross country, track, roads and trails. I’ve run in minus-26 degree actual temperature (minus-56 degree windchill) and 106 degree heat. None of that ever held a candle to Mohican.
Mohican has been the centerpiece of my running existence since the day in 1997 when my wife told me that if I was going to drop out I should drop out on a trail in the woods at Mohican in June rather than out of life in February. That year I strapped a 15 ounce miners lamp to my head, packed as many snickers as I could into a waist pack, made my own salt pills by emptying vitamin B-12 capsules and refilling them with table salt. I came out of that blazing day and starry night knowing that my challenges hadn’t changed but my mind had forever. We became instant lifelong lovers, Mohican and I. I run other races but only to prepare for Mohican.
I think that might all be over now though and I think that’s OK. I really do.
I went on to finish Mohican seven times in a row. Since then I have managed to finish once in my last five tries. I think my body has changed. This year I did everything right. I started last August by dieting until, by Christmas, I had lost 30 pounds. Then I started the best buildup of my adult life. Steady mileage, more long runs than ever, consistent sleep, no illness, no injury, great mental attitude, and a smart taper. My pacer, Kevin, has been a lifelong friend since College, he was in our wedding party, and is a terrific runner himself. Yep, having old Kev along surely took care of the Karma piece. So here’s how 2009 went:
I got a room near I-71 because, even though I love nature, 30 hours of loving is all I am into these days without a prescription. I stopped off at my room on my way to the race and taped my feet. Good old elasticon. If you have blisters and don’t use this stuff get ahold of me.
Pulling up to the bag-drop and dinner the night before the race is always wonderful. Mohican-world has erupted from its cocoon and all the players are flitting around, so happy to be there that we could all just pop, and yet all too nervous and giddy to have real conversation. Buzzes and grunts, hugs and gentle plaintiff requests for merciful news. Has anyone seen the trails? They are dry right? Do you think my new socks will work? The church ladies aren’t handling dinner this year...that’s not going to affect us right? I see Colleen Theusch. The only woman that has my wife’s full permission to kiss me. She has no idea how much she means to me although I have told her a hundred times. I stand back and see that everyone else has the same relationship with her. Its wonderful. If Mohican could ever turn human for a moment it would choose to be Colleen. I also see Luc who looks like a man who is about to do something wonderful and, if you read on, you will see that he does. I see Rob Powell, the fittest man that will not run. Back surgery has taken yet another Mohican from him but this man has a love for this event that might even surpass my own. No spinal injury can keep him from this and I make sure to shake his hand to get some of his energy. Nick is there. Nick the brewer, Nick the philosopher, Nick the man who consistently seems surprised that he is a runner. I don’t see Michelle Bichsel, my new friend who has been winning every race she touches this year. I see another friend, Terry Lemke, who warns me not to get stuck in the mud as I drive past. She might have meant my car or my race. I didn’t ask. Terry decided to run the 100 miler a couple of weeks ago. She virtually lives on the course and she is making the right move. I see my pacers from last year, Scott and Casey. They told me I was nuts at the finish line last year and then went ahead and signed right up for this year’s 50 miler. They are talking to West Coast ultra-star Mark Tanaka who flew in to challenge the sharp hills, mud, and roots of the toughest 100 miler in the midwest. I see Leo Lightner and Ron Ross and Roy Heger. I see Art Moore and I see the young ultra punks. The new generation thrills me. They are wild and carefree. A hand-held bottle and cotton T-shirt is fine thanks. Just some tap water and an ipod and an open trail. Move aside sir, we’re here and your sport will thrive forever because of us. One of them wanders the floor with a hand-lettered shirt that reads “I’ll show you a 2.5 Gallon Bag”.
Its too much joy. I go to the hotel to lie wide awake all night too happy to sleep.
I’ll get around to talking about the race in my next post. I promise.
my imagination
to think of good reasons
to keep on keeping on.
I’ve got to make the best of
a bad situation
ever since that day that
I found that you* were gone
Darkness all around me
blocking out the sun
friends call to me
but I just don’t feel like talking to anyone
Emptiness has found me
and it just won’t let me go
thought I had no limits
but now I just don’t know…”
--Gladys Knight
*In this case “you” being my endocrine system’s ability to maintain homeostasis
“This really is the sport of kings, isn’t it?”
--Kevin Krupp, my pacer, as he counterbalanced me at 3:45am while I heaved
You can understand what running means to me by understanding what Mohican means to me. Mohican came to me as a savior during the darkest period of my life and showed me that wonderfulness can be found in the direst circumstances and that God is watching always. Mohican is where I learned that, as harsh as it sounds, God’s plan for us is not necessarily any of our business. Mohican was where I realized that this life is for service and learning and that joy is where you find it. Its where I learned that a breeze can be the perfect reminder that we are missing a constant bombardment of love because we are seeking rather than being.
If none of that makes any sense to you catch me on a very long run some time and, for the price of a few Gu Packs and a long slow swig from your camelback, I’ll tell you about tragedy and miracles. But for now take my word for it. I was on a top-twenty ranked cross country team in college. I was a good marathoner in the mid-80’s. I’ve run cross country, track, roads and trails. I’ve run in minus-26 degree actual temperature (minus-56 degree windchill) and 106 degree heat. None of that ever held a candle to Mohican.
Mohican has been the centerpiece of my running existence since the day in 1997 when my wife told me that if I was going to drop out I should drop out on a trail in the woods at Mohican in June rather than out of life in February. That year I strapped a 15 ounce miners lamp to my head, packed as many snickers as I could into a waist pack, made my own salt pills by emptying vitamin B-12 capsules and refilling them with table salt. I came out of that blazing day and starry night knowing that my challenges hadn’t changed but my mind had forever. We became instant lifelong lovers, Mohican and I. I run other races but only to prepare for Mohican.
I think that might all be over now though and I think that’s OK. I really do.
I went on to finish Mohican seven times in a row. Since then I have managed to finish once in my last five tries. I think my body has changed. This year I did everything right. I started last August by dieting until, by Christmas, I had lost 30 pounds. Then I started the best buildup of my adult life. Steady mileage, more long runs than ever, consistent sleep, no illness, no injury, great mental attitude, and a smart taper. My pacer, Kevin, has been a lifelong friend since College, he was in our wedding party, and is a terrific runner himself. Yep, having old Kev along surely took care of the Karma piece. So here’s how 2009 went:
I got a room near I-71 because, even though I love nature, 30 hours of loving is all I am into these days without a prescription. I stopped off at my room on my way to the race and taped my feet. Good old elasticon. If you have blisters and don’t use this stuff get ahold of me.
Pulling up to the bag-drop and dinner the night before the race is always wonderful. Mohican-world has erupted from its cocoon and all the players are flitting around, so happy to be there that we could all just pop, and yet all too nervous and giddy to have real conversation. Buzzes and grunts, hugs and gentle plaintiff requests for merciful news. Has anyone seen the trails? They are dry right? Do you think my new socks will work? The church ladies aren’t handling dinner this year...that’s not going to affect us right? I see Colleen Theusch. The only woman that has my wife’s full permission to kiss me. She has no idea how much she means to me although I have told her a hundred times. I stand back and see that everyone else has the same relationship with her. Its wonderful. If Mohican could ever turn human for a moment it would choose to be Colleen. I also see Luc who looks like a man who is about to do something wonderful and, if you read on, you will see that he does. I see Rob Powell, the fittest man that will not run. Back surgery has taken yet another Mohican from him but this man has a love for this event that might even surpass my own. No spinal injury can keep him from this and I make sure to shake his hand to get some of his energy. Nick is there. Nick the brewer, Nick the philosopher, Nick the man who consistently seems surprised that he is a runner. I don’t see Michelle Bichsel, my new friend who has been winning every race she touches this year. I see another friend, Terry Lemke, who warns me not to get stuck in the mud as I drive past. She might have meant my car or my race. I didn’t ask. Terry decided to run the 100 miler a couple of weeks ago. She virtually lives on the course and she is making the right move. I see my pacers from last year, Scott and Casey. They told me I was nuts at the finish line last year and then went ahead and signed right up for this year’s 50 miler. They are talking to West Coast ultra-star Mark Tanaka who flew in to challenge the sharp hills, mud, and roots of the toughest 100 miler in the midwest. I see Leo Lightner and Ron Ross and Roy Heger. I see Art Moore and I see the young ultra punks. The new generation thrills me. They are wild and carefree. A hand-held bottle and cotton T-shirt is fine thanks. Just some tap water and an ipod and an open trail. Move aside sir, we’re here and your sport will thrive forever because of us. One of them wanders the floor with a hand-lettered shirt that reads “I’ll show you a 2.5 Gallon Bag”.
Its too much joy. I go to the hotel to lie wide awake all night too happy to sleep.
I’ll get around to talking about the race in my next post. I promise.
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