Monday, August 2, 2010
Quick Burning River Result
I was able to make it to the 70.8 mile point of this year's race. I had an amazing time and spent a terrific day with many friends. I'm a little bit disappointed in not finishing but I think that I know what went wrong and I think I can fix a few things and succeed in the future. The sun doesn't shine on the same dog every day and I've had many many many ultra-blessings this year. It was an amazing race!!! I will post a report very soon. In the meantime, if you were one of those lovely people that kept me moving down the trail, or cared for me when I could no longer do so, THANK YOU!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Prequel
Burning River is in 2 days!!!! Every year is a separate race, a different story, and a new adventure. I will write about this year's race next week, but for now I want to share with my friends what this race means to me. The following is a cut-and-pasted re-issue from part of my lengthy race report last year. Forgive the apparent laziness of not writing new material. I forgive myself because I think its important that I remember why this race is important and why we should all learn from its lesson. Wish me luck, and pray that I don't lose sight of how blessed I am to be able to try this adventure once again. Peace. --Mark
One day in the winter of 1953 my Dad decided that he had had enough of being poor. He had grown up in Dublin Ireland in the 1940’s and during that era, in that country, you grew up to do whatever it was that your father did. When my dad was 15 years old his father was killed when a ditch that he was digging with a hand shovel collapsed, burying him and leaving his wife and ten kids penniless. My father, being the oldest child, dropped out of school, hopped a boat to London, and worked piecemeal as a longshoreman, sending whatever money he could back home to his mother. This kept everyone fed, more or less, but there was no reason for hope. There would never be a connection to employment in Ireland and in London he was treated as a second class citizen. It seemed he would indeed follow in his father’s footsteps and scramble to scrape together survival wages until his own death occurred. There really wasn’t a way out in sight…until he heard about Cleveland.
Dad had an uncle who had come to Cleveland a few years before and he sent my dad a loan to buy a plane ticket. He was promised that there was so much work in Cleveland, in fact in all of northeastern Ohio, that no more advanced planning than this was necessary. He turned out to be correct. Dad got a job at the Ford Motor Company plant in Brookpark and, six months later, sent a ticket to his girlfriend, who joined him and they married later that year. Dad went on to work for other companies, finished school, became a tooling engineer, and eventually moved half of his Irish family to Cleveland where they similarly prospered.
We love to tell this story at family reunions but the truth is that the story is not even remotely unique or even particularly interesting to those outside our immediate family. By the 1950’s Cleveland had been a city of dreams for over 150 years. Untold thousands of immigrants came to Cleveland and flourished. Oil, steel, tooling, shipping, salt, and dozens of other industries flourished. Wealth was created and shared. Generations lived and died in this place of ample opportunity.
By the 1960’s things began to change. Unemployment was rampant, industry was dying out and a sort of hopelessness had enveloped the city. I was five years old in 1969 when the Cuyahoga River caught fire. I remember almost nothing from that year but I do remember starting kindergarten and I remember the moon walk and I remember the fire… or maybe I don’t. Do I actually recall it or do I think I remember because as a Cleveland native I was never allowed to forget?
Growing up in Cleveland in the 1970’s I learned to love the city the way one loves an abusive relative. I was always cheering for it. I was always hoping that Cleveland would win but I was always also being told that it was no good. I hated it for the bad things but I also saw the good parts and wondered why no one else could. The stand-up comics on television had only just begun to get warmed up on the river fire when Mayor Ralph Perk set his hair on fire while giving a fire-safety demonstration downtown. The critics never stopped for a breath. “Of course Cleveland’s football team is called the Browns; the sky is brown, the water is brown, the buildings are brown, so why not the football team?” they said. The city appeared to be dying. Even Cleveland’s tallest building, they pointed out, was “Terminal”. The basement of Terminal Tower had homeless individuals living in it and outside on Public Square storefronts were boarded up. Mayor Dennis Kucinich (yes, he was Mayor of Cleveland after Perk) battled to keep the city from bankruptcy. Shipping slowed and the once busy docks in the flats were now places where the Mafia dumped bodies. Crime was rampant; domestic violence and drug use were up. The Browns lost the AFC Championship in heartbreaking fashion three years in a row, Cleveland State was denied a trip to the NCAA final four when David Robinson tipped in a last second shot for Navy, the Cavs were chronically in last place, and the even the free tickets that the Indians gave to schoolchildren went unused for lack of interest.
This was when I discovered running. We used to run through the metroparks for miles and miles and wonder why no one else could see the beauty. I won’t speak for Joe Jurczyk but I remember Joe from high school cross country meets. He went to school in Parma, just a few miles away from me. He must have seen all of this as well.
In hindsight the tower wasn’t really terminal and neither was the city. You don’t take the hardest working and most diversely talented gene pool ever assembled on this planet and hold them down for long. These folks were of good stock. Their work ethic and ingenuity created a rubber industry in nearby Akron, a collection of Universities and museums unrivaled outside of New York City, and a faith in their ability to succeed fueled by the stories told at their own family reunions. If they could dig the canals they could dig out of this mess as well.
And they have.
The basement of the Terminal Tower now boasts ‘The Galleria’ one of the most beautiful shopping malls in the country and the only people sleeping in the Tower these days are paying top dollars to The Ritz hotel to do so. The flats are now the place to experience the city’s night life. The Lakefront boasts parks and athletic facilities that are the envy of nearly any city and just try getting a ticket to a Cavs game these days to see LeBron! (remember, I wrote this last year : ))
The jokes still remain though and they have become annoying in their inaccuracy. When the time came for Joe Jurczyk and friends to put together the first one-hundred mile trail race in the region they decided to call it “The Burning River 100 Mile Endurance Run” and gave it the motto “eracing the past. Moving forward.”
To me the name issues a challenge: “Hey funny guy, haven’t been paying attention?...you should see us now! The Cuyahoga River Valley is now a NATIONAL PARK, and one of the most beautiful places in the world. Care to join us for a little jog? We’ll arrange to have some of our local runners show you around…they are, after all, one of the most talented and decorated communities of ultra runners in the United States and you can just entertain them with your little jokes for as long as you can keep them in earshot. OK?” And one more thing, “In case you have heard that Clevelander’s are rude, we are going to blow you away with our goodwill and hospitality”.
A few days after my DNF at Mohican in 2009 I knew it was time to return home. I may or may not have another ultra in me, I figured, but if I had one left I wanted it to be Joe’s race. Besides, if Dad got a second chance, and Northeastern Ohio got a second chance, and the Cuyahoga River Valley got a second chance, well then why not me?
And this year the national 100 mile TRAIL RUNNING championship lies on a course, through the wilderness, between Cleveland and Akron...the thought never ceases to amaze me. Thank you God!
One day in the winter of 1953 my Dad decided that he had had enough of being poor. He had grown up in Dublin Ireland in the 1940’s and during that era, in that country, you grew up to do whatever it was that your father did. When my dad was 15 years old his father was killed when a ditch that he was digging with a hand shovel collapsed, burying him and leaving his wife and ten kids penniless. My father, being the oldest child, dropped out of school, hopped a boat to London, and worked piecemeal as a longshoreman, sending whatever money he could back home to his mother. This kept everyone fed, more or less, but there was no reason for hope. There would never be a connection to employment in Ireland and in London he was treated as a second class citizen. It seemed he would indeed follow in his father’s footsteps and scramble to scrape together survival wages until his own death occurred. There really wasn’t a way out in sight…until he heard about Cleveland.
Dad had an uncle who had come to Cleveland a few years before and he sent my dad a loan to buy a plane ticket. He was promised that there was so much work in Cleveland, in fact in all of northeastern Ohio, that no more advanced planning than this was necessary. He turned out to be correct. Dad got a job at the Ford Motor Company plant in Brookpark and, six months later, sent a ticket to his girlfriend, who joined him and they married later that year. Dad went on to work for other companies, finished school, became a tooling engineer, and eventually moved half of his Irish family to Cleveland where they similarly prospered.
We love to tell this story at family reunions but the truth is that the story is not even remotely unique or even particularly interesting to those outside our immediate family. By the 1950’s Cleveland had been a city of dreams for over 150 years. Untold thousands of immigrants came to Cleveland and flourished. Oil, steel, tooling, shipping, salt, and dozens of other industries flourished. Wealth was created and shared. Generations lived and died in this place of ample opportunity.
By the 1960’s things began to change. Unemployment was rampant, industry was dying out and a sort of hopelessness had enveloped the city. I was five years old in 1969 when the Cuyahoga River caught fire. I remember almost nothing from that year but I do remember starting kindergarten and I remember the moon walk and I remember the fire… or maybe I don’t. Do I actually recall it or do I think I remember because as a Cleveland native I was never allowed to forget?
Growing up in Cleveland in the 1970’s I learned to love the city the way one loves an abusive relative. I was always cheering for it. I was always hoping that Cleveland would win but I was always also being told that it was no good. I hated it for the bad things but I also saw the good parts and wondered why no one else could. The stand-up comics on television had only just begun to get warmed up on the river fire when Mayor Ralph Perk set his hair on fire while giving a fire-safety demonstration downtown. The critics never stopped for a breath. “Of course Cleveland’s football team is called the Browns; the sky is brown, the water is brown, the buildings are brown, so why not the football team?” they said. The city appeared to be dying. Even Cleveland’s tallest building, they pointed out, was “Terminal”. The basement of Terminal Tower had homeless individuals living in it and outside on Public Square storefronts were boarded up. Mayor Dennis Kucinich (yes, he was Mayor of Cleveland after Perk) battled to keep the city from bankruptcy. Shipping slowed and the once busy docks in the flats were now places where the Mafia dumped bodies. Crime was rampant; domestic violence and drug use were up. The Browns lost the AFC Championship in heartbreaking fashion three years in a row, Cleveland State was denied a trip to the NCAA final four when David Robinson tipped in a last second shot for Navy, the Cavs were chronically in last place, and the even the free tickets that the Indians gave to schoolchildren went unused for lack of interest.
This was when I discovered running. We used to run through the metroparks for miles and miles and wonder why no one else could see the beauty. I won’t speak for Joe Jurczyk but I remember Joe from high school cross country meets. He went to school in Parma, just a few miles away from me. He must have seen all of this as well.
In hindsight the tower wasn’t really terminal and neither was the city. You don’t take the hardest working and most diversely talented gene pool ever assembled on this planet and hold them down for long. These folks were of good stock. Their work ethic and ingenuity created a rubber industry in nearby Akron, a collection of Universities and museums unrivaled outside of New York City, and a faith in their ability to succeed fueled by the stories told at their own family reunions. If they could dig the canals they could dig out of this mess as well.
And they have.
The basement of the Terminal Tower now boasts ‘The Galleria’ one of the most beautiful shopping malls in the country and the only people sleeping in the Tower these days are paying top dollars to The Ritz hotel to do so. The flats are now the place to experience the city’s night life. The Lakefront boasts parks and athletic facilities that are the envy of nearly any city and just try getting a ticket to a Cavs game these days to see LeBron! (remember, I wrote this last year : ))
The jokes still remain though and they have become annoying in their inaccuracy. When the time came for Joe Jurczyk and friends to put together the first one-hundred mile trail race in the region they decided to call it “The Burning River 100 Mile Endurance Run” and gave it the motto “eracing the past. Moving forward.”
To me the name issues a challenge: “Hey funny guy, haven’t been paying attention?...you should see us now! The Cuyahoga River Valley is now a NATIONAL PARK, and one of the most beautiful places in the world. Care to join us for a little jog? We’ll arrange to have some of our local runners show you around…they are, after all, one of the most talented and decorated communities of ultra runners in the United States and you can just entertain them with your little jokes for as long as you can keep them in earshot. OK?” And one more thing, “In case you have heard that Clevelander’s are rude, we are going to blow you away with our goodwill and hospitality”.
A few days after my DNF at Mohican in 2009 I knew it was time to return home. I may or may not have another ultra in me, I figured, but if I had one left I wanted it to be Joe’s race. Besides, if Dad got a second chance, and Northeastern Ohio got a second chance, and the Cuyahoga River Valley got a second chance, well then why not me?
And this year the national 100 mile TRAIL RUNNING championship lies on a course, through the wilderness, between Cleveland and Akron...the thought never ceases to amaze me. Thank you God!
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Mohican Report: Part 3
WARNING: This post is really really long. I suspect that there will be a high dropout rate so be sure to pace yourself. In fact this posting isn’t even the whole story. This is part 3. If you want to start at the beginning g’head and scroll wayyyyyy down to part one. Be sure to drink plenty and stay in the shade so’s you don’t get the heaves. Also, I want you to know that this part of the story was compiled based upon 5 different race reports, my personal observations, and several interviews (some with beer, some without). I feel certain that the facts are correct. Its an amazing story and I have endeavored to tell it accurately. You might be relieved to know that even though I paint myself into the tapestry (like a very unskilled Hitchcock) the story is not just about me for once. Please enjoy. And remember to shut off your cell phones and keep you children under control. And while you are at it, diversify your investment portfolio a bit as well. Peace. --Mark
If one were required, for some odd reason, to go to Port Columbus International Airport and identify a person whom they had never seen before, but who was described as having finished Grandma’s Marathon that morning, and had followed it up with a long, delayed plane ride, they could be excused for not correctly identifying Starshine Blackford as being that person.
Star looks like a runner. She is five-foot-nothing as my neighbor Bob used to say, and she is fit looking. But a marathoner should be hobbling around wearing a proud, painful, wincing smile, possibly a finisher’s medal draped around their neck. Star, on the other hand, was bobbing up and down in front of the baggage terminal belt wondering why it wouldn’t just speed up already. In her mind she was probably working out a sixth grade proficiency question that went something like:
“Your airplane leaves Minneapolis at 8:00 P.M. traveling at 500mph. The plane lands and then you dispatch a car and drive 60mph for 70 miles. Meanwhile your runner leaves the 65 mile point of a race at 8:00pm traveling at 3 mph. At what mile mark on the trail will you meet the runner (please allow for slow luggage belts and pee breaks)?”
The answer might surprise you. Then again, if you have ever run 100 miles, it might not.
Star and her husband Darris came rolling in to the Bridle Staging area aid station, gravel flying, at precisely midnight, to find that David Huss was sitting in a chair looking like death, and being ministered to by his wife Katie and Steve Zeidner’s wife Leigh. He had gone 7 miles in four hours. He was moving but unable to eat and the iliotibial band in his right knee was irretrievably inflamed. He had 30 miles to go and a cutoff clock that was ticking loudly.
They might have made it a few minutes earlier if Star had driven. Darris insisted on accompanying her even though he was due at work in Columbus by noon the next day. On the way up from Columbus Star wanted to drive. But Darris has been in ultra-land before and so he knew that there was no way his wife, scheduled to pace David Huss after a morning marathon, was going to be safe in a post-marathon/sleep deprived state circumnavigating drunks and deer. Both of whom would most certainly be sharing the twisting roads around Mohican on a Saturday night in June.
Michael Patton sat in a chair nearby. He was doing just a bit better than Dave but still lacked the energy to walk the 30 feet over to Dave’s chair so he sent his pacer, Kevin, with the following message: “Mikey wants you to walk out of here with him”. Dave accepted, and all four hiked out into the most feared section of the Mohican course. Seven-point-three miles to Rock Point. Three river crossings and a sea of mud and horse shit lay in front of them. It was a heck of a place to try to limber up a knee.
Meanwhile Ted Nieman stood near the CB radio located at Rock Point and suddenly found himself with a free Saturday night on his hands. Ted didn’t know Steve Zeidner prior to this race but had been connected to him through Michael. Ted had agreed to pace Steve from Rock Point to the finish but when the message that “Number 160 is out” crackled across the airwaves Ted realized that this was Steve’s number and that it was officially over. He then did a noble thing. He picked up another needy runner and headed down the trail with a new and unexpectedly grateful friend.
Steve actually had made a valiant effort to reach the Bridle Staging area. He left the Covered Bridge at mile 70 with Dave, walked halfway up the monstrous hill and turned around to walk back down to the bridge. On the way down the hill he ran into Michael who begged him to turn around. Mike told me later that Steve gave a firm “No” and continued downhill without stopping.
By the time I got to the Covered Bridge Steve was sitting in a chair, covered by someone else’s towel, shivering, and miserable. I asked Steve to walk out with us. He looked at me and said softly “I just can’t do it. Its my stomach”. I looked into his eyes and could see straight through to his spinal cord. There was nothing there. I had been in the place he was now and had never been able to come back from it. In 100 mile races there are down periods, there are near-death experiences, and there are Jesus-as-my-witness “Cannot’s”. Cannot go on. Cannot think straight. Cannot regain homeostasis. Steve meant it. He was done. “God bless his poor heart but there is nothing he can do”, I thought. My pacer Scott, told me later that he saw Steve’s eyes and knew the look as well. I muttered some advice anyway and headed up the trail. Steve deserved better than this but I had seen this scene so many times today I was sadly numb to it.
And that’s when Mohican’s magic presented itself.
The magic makes a visit every year and this time it took the form of two attractive, committed, and loving young women who were prepared to offer some gentle persuasion, or kick some ass; whichever it took.
Katie Huss and Leigh Zeidner had been dispatched to the bridge, on Dave’s request, to give poor old Steve a ride back to the hotel. Instead they walked up to Steve, told him they were there for him. They also told him to rise and walk. Steve told them that it was too late. He had already officially dropped from the race. The women responded to this by walking up to the dumbfounded radio jockey and telling him firmly that Steve was “un-dropping” from the race. After a few radio communications with race headquarters it was decided that the rules said…well, they didn’t really say anything…actually. This had never happened before.
Well then, that settled it!
And so for the first time in the 21 year history of the event, a death certificate was revoked and an officially DNF’ed runner “dropped back in” to the race, with just a few minutes to go on the cutoff.
Immediately after leaving the covered bridge I heaved. Actually I expected it and was surprised that it had taken me this long to puke. I was ready for it. Way way way back hours and hours ago when I was approaching Hickory Ridge at mile 60 I had a hint that the stomach would be closing down for the night and I was delighted that I was able to pop and hold down three no-doze. The problem with not being able to eat or drink all night (as has been my pattern in recent years) is that not only don’t you get fluid or calories, but you also can’t have anti-inflammatories or caffeine. I’m becoming a reluctant expert on calorie-free running. I find that no matter how weak or thirsty I get I can still move slowly. But only slowly. No running, no fast walking, and rest breaks are required on uphills. It’s a crappy way to spend an evening but I really wanted this buckle and so I bent myself to the task. I have found that I can walk the nausea off in about 10 hours. A guy does get thirsty in that time though and so I rinse my mouth out and sometimes manage a small swallow.
Dave and Star were approaching Rock Point when Star found what she described as an “awesome” walking stick for Dave. His knee was ready to collapse on every downhill step and so the walking stick was used to cushion the blow. The uphills were going a bit better. Star entertained Dave with stories of old races, how she met her husband Darris, etc. and tried to keep the conversation light and upbeat. This is important for a runner.
On my way to Rock Point my own pacer, Casey, was employing a similar strategy. Casey never nagged me. He thought of hopeful things to tell me. He pointed out when I was walking well and reminded me that the bad patches wouldn’t last when they presented themselves. I didn’t speak much and he was fine with that. At one point we started to talk about some family troubles that I experienced this year. Then we decided not to speak of anything negative. The stars were out, a gentle breeze was blowing and we were moving. That was a wonderful thing, moving. Casey and I decided that we would concentrate on the beauty. We would produce good Karma. Meanwhile my other pacers, Scott and Nick, were seated in lawn chairs at the Sand Ridge cemetery sharing recipes for homebrew and holding a contest to determine who could produce the most pornographic shadow puppet on the wall of the abandoned church by the light of their headlamps.
Pacers are, after all, only on duty when they are on duty.
Steve arrived at The Bridle Staging area hours later than he originally planned. In fact he should have already been at Rock Point according to his original schedule. His current pacer, a friend named Ashley, agreed to stay with him through the rugged path to Rock Point. This was going to be a longer night than she banked on.
Meanwhile Katie and Leigh raced to Rock Point to try to notify Ted Nieman that Steve was back into the race. Katie, sprinted up the hill into Rock Point, breathless and searching for Ted, only to receive the devastating news that he was gone. The ladies knew that Ted had done the right thing but they also knew that this would leave Steve alone from Rock Point until the finish line. They immediately began to search for other pacers. They also began to rummage for running clothes…just in case no one could be found.
As I headed into Rock Point I was worried about cutoff times. It was 3 am and we were holding an hour cushion on the cutoff but we were really moving slowly. My experience at Rock Point was an odd one. Michael’s dad, Tom Patton, warmly greeted me and I was nearly non-responsive. It was almost coma-like. It was as though I didn’t realize that I could have chatted with him, or thanked him. I saw David sitting in a chair having a bandage applied to his foot and I was delighted to see him…internally. But I was unable to reach over to the other side and speak with anyone. It was like I was watching the scene on TV. I left the aid station a few minutes after Michael and a few minutes ahead of Dave. I also learned that Steve had rejoined the race. My heart leapt for joy at this almost unbelievable news. But I spoke with no one of it.
I don’t ever want to relive that experience.
When Steve arrived at Rock Point he was very nearly in last place. There were simply no pacers to be had and he couldn’t be left to wander the woods on his own…he was starting to fall asleep. So Ashley refilled her water bottle and decided that this was a night she would remember as her personal record for mileage.
Leaving the South Park Aid Station at mile 84 I decided it was time for another mouth rinsing. I grabbed what I thought was a bottle of ice water, took a huge swig, and vomited so loudly that it stirred sleeping birds from the trees. “ITSSSHHEEED”. I yelled to Nick between heaves. “What”? Nick Asked. “Itshheed” I replied. “What are you saying?” asked Nick again. “Its Heed. Oh God, its Heed”. Someone had put Heed in my bottle, and at that moment nothing could have made me more violently ill. I was actually using filthy language DURING my heaves. A couple of runners went by and I apologized “Hey man, its part of the sport” was their response. For some reason that made me happy. Very very happy. Nick and I joked that any chance we had for a Heed endorsement deal was irrevocably gone but that’s OK. As the mystery runner pointed out this was normal. And normal felt good.
Meanwhile, Steve was actually starting to do better. He could now break into an occasional shuffle…when he wasn’t sleeping. Ashley had finally run out of steam at the South Park aid station and so Leigh, a woman who must have been paying attention during the “Better or worse/ Sickness or health” part of the wedding vows, pulled on a spare set of Steve’s overly large running togs and decided that it was time to join her husband on this journey. She had never run 18 miles before and really had no plan regarding how she would achieve it now. But that plan could be formulated later. Now it was time to move forward with faith. She shuffled with Steve when he shuffled, woke him when he fell asleep on his feet, and gave him gentle shoves back onto the path when needed.
Up ahead Star and Dave were both falling asleep. They were motivated back to wakefulness when Ron Ross and his daughter Tracey passed by. I was wide awake but really needed sugar. There were three massive climbs to get to the fire tower and I didn’t have any fast burning power to climb them. Nick had procured an enormous bag of orange slices at South Park and I put one in my mouth at the start of each climb, tried to suck in sugar through my gums, and spit it back out at the top. It worked! The third climb was a hill that Nick and I ran powerfully in a workout last fall. Since that time we have determined that it is “our” hill. We crested it, gave a manly fist-bump and headed for the fire tower.
The sun came up just as we hit the fire tower at mile 88. Suzanne Pokorny walked out the trail to greet us and when I saw her my heart leapt, and then exploded. It was like fireworks. I was so happy to see my friend, until the sudden realization that her presence here meant that she was no longer in the race. I assumed all night long that she would pass me. Instead she fought terrible heat exhaustion all the way to Hickory Ridge where she simply was too ill to go on. Instead of sleeping she came to find us. This sort of caring is why I love Mohican. This is why the world needs to learn from us.
The walk down to the bridge should have been easy, with the daylight and net downhill path, but I almost collapsed with exhaustion. I don’t know why, but this simple little downhill leg was almost my undoing. I was so confused when we got to the bridge that I had to beg Nick to stay with me, even though the bridge was supposed to signal the end of his duties. He jumped at the chance. Nick is such a wonderful person. He has been having health issues and hasn’t been running much. A 23 mile run through the night was too much to ask. But I asked anyway because I needed it. Nick was able to provide. More Mohican Magic.
At the fire tower Katie Huss, dressed in street clothes, jumped in to pace Steve. Leigh would need a break, they reasoned, if she was going to hang with Steve until the finish. Meanwhile Ted Nieman, Steve’s originally scheduled pacer, finished pacing his runner to the finish, and learned from Michael’s wife that Steve was back in the race. Despite the fact that he had not slept and despite the fact that he had 23 miles on his legs, Ted Immediately headed to the covered bridge and found Steve. He agreed to pace him to the finish line. He arrived in the nick of time because Steve was only ten minutes up on the cutoff time was facing a steep six mile climb up Hickory Ridge. He needed to start running…and Ted was the man who could make that happen.
”Twenty minute miles. They have to be 20’s”. Star was carefully monitoring the clock, which was now ticking loudly in their ears. She was terrified they would “time-out” at the Hickory Ridge aid station. Dave was staying cool though. He was willing to risk a photo-finish at Hickory Ridge if it meant he could then risk jogging on the knee during the last 5 miles. He reasoned that a jog now, if it failed, might take him out of the race…and so they walked…and lost time. And Star worried. And Dave never blinked.
Nick and I ran more than we walked on our way to Hickory Ridge. I was able to eat and drink again and was feeling…OK…for the first time in forever. Despite our well-being we learned that we were only 21 minutes ahead of the cutoff and so we ran nearly the entire rest of the race.
Just out of Hickory Ridge Dave had an episode that I will quote directly from Star’s account of the race:
“…His IT band had locked back up and his leg was straight and he could not walk. I asked him if it was like before and he said it was worse. We stood there, stuck in the moment. He tried to put weight on it and he simply couldn't. And my heart broke for him, for the miles and the hours and the fight and the ugliness of it all. Because it was over, five miles from the finish. I think he told me he couldn't get there. I honestly had no idea what to do. What to say. Even what to think. I just stood there, lost and hurting for him.
And then he lurched forward. And lurched again. And the lurch became a walk, and the walk became the fastest it had been in hours. And I stood up and I walked behind him and I prayed without words.
And then he ran.
And he kept running.
And suddenly, I had to get up there.”
Steve was hitting full stride as well. After arriving at Hickory Ridge in last place and with only 2 minutes to spare he peeled off a 12 minute mile on his way to a scene that I did not witness but would have given anything to see. Steve caught up to his friend Dave with 2 miles to go and the two runners became so jubilant at the unlikely sight of each other that Star and Ted found it necessary to eventually break up the party and goad them into running again.
Closing in on the finish the heat of the day was on us again. I heard “Wooooooo Hoooooo, one mile to go”. It was Tracey Ross, leading a smiling Ron to another finish. This race has been a part of Ross family lore forever and I was delighted to be included in this Father’s day celebration.
It seemed like everyone I knew was at the finish line and the cheering was as loud as I have ever experienced. Finishing very late in a race is a lot like dying young. The funeral of a young person is crowded because everyone they know is alive, and thus available to attend. The earliest finishers are running ahead of all of their well-wishers and actually have a lonelier finish. In fact, one of the people cheering for me was Jay Smithberger. Jay won the 50 mile race in a course record time of 7:55 and was greeted at the finish line by precisely…no one. In fact he had to go find a race official to let them know that he was finished. He was the first finisher on the day and all other runners were still out on the course. There is a U-tube video of Jay’s finish floating around that is both hilarious and sad all at once. I guess it really is lonely at the top. It seems unfair but I was moved by the support nonetheless. I crossed the line and powerfully hugged Nick. There was no way I could have made it without him, and Scott, and Casey.
I received a long awaited kiss from my dear friend and the woman who represents the true spirit of the race. Colleen Theusch, a.k.a. “The Lady in Purple” is perhaps the only person who has attended all of the Mohicans since the beginning. She lends a life force to the race that simply needs to be experienced to be believed. She is loved beyond measure and loves without limits. I knew she would greet me at the finish no mater how slow I was and the reunion was as rewarding as the buckle she pressed into my hand.
This was my ninth finish and so now I can dream of the big buckle, God willing. I stood at the finish for a few minutes.
Then it happened.
David and Stephen crossed the line together in 56th and 57th place. It was the happiest scene I have ever witnessed at this race.
The 2010 version of the Mohican Trail 100 Mile Run had 133 starters and 58 finishers. Half of the finishers came in during the final 2 hours of the race. Among the final runners to finish were Michael, myself, Stephen, David, The legendary Ron Ross, who tied the all-time Mohican record with 15 finishes, and Fred Davis who has 12 Mohican Finishes.
This group was capped off by Mike Heider, who earned his 1000 mile buckle with this, his tenth finish. He also earned the “Last of the Mohican’s” award for being the final finisher. The “Last of the Mohican’s” award is an honor possibly more valued than the Champion’s Trophy in this race, where perseverance is prized and rewarded like no where else.
Epilogue:
About ninety minutes after my finish I was sitting in the shade with my friend, Shannon Fisher, when Karen Ray (K-Ray), the woman who shared her light with me on the way into Mohican Adventures the night before, appeared. Karen was smiling ear-to-ear and accompanied by her husband as she crossed the finish line in 31 hours. Karen had “timed out” at the Hickory Ridge aid station but chose to complete the final miles with the love of her life. I had believed that Stephen’s and David’s actions were the bravest story of the year, but I believe K-Ray shares this podium with them. She promises to return next year.
In last year’s blog post I stated my belief that Mohican-world sadly returns to torpor when the Last of the Mohicans crosses the finish line. Karen’s presence at the finish line as morning turned to afternoon proves that I was wrong. Mohican isn’t about race administrators and it isn’t about aid stations. In fact I’m not even sure that its about the trail. Mohican doesn’t go away when the clock strikes 30:00:00. Its still here. Mohican is about magic and Mohican is about us.
If one were required, for some odd reason, to go to Port Columbus International Airport and identify a person whom they had never seen before, but who was described as having finished Grandma’s Marathon that morning, and had followed it up with a long, delayed plane ride, they could be excused for not correctly identifying Starshine Blackford as being that person.
Star looks like a runner. She is five-foot-nothing as my neighbor Bob used to say, and she is fit looking. But a marathoner should be hobbling around wearing a proud, painful, wincing smile, possibly a finisher’s medal draped around their neck. Star, on the other hand, was bobbing up and down in front of the baggage terminal belt wondering why it wouldn’t just speed up already. In her mind she was probably working out a sixth grade proficiency question that went something like:
“Your airplane leaves Minneapolis at 8:00 P.M. traveling at 500mph. The plane lands and then you dispatch a car and drive 60mph for 70 miles. Meanwhile your runner leaves the 65 mile point of a race at 8:00pm traveling at 3 mph. At what mile mark on the trail will you meet the runner (please allow for slow luggage belts and pee breaks)?”
The answer might surprise you. Then again, if you have ever run 100 miles, it might not.
Star and her husband Darris came rolling in to the Bridle Staging area aid station, gravel flying, at precisely midnight, to find that David Huss was sitting in a chair looking like death, and being ministered to by his wife Katie and Steve Zeidner’s wife Leigh. He had gone 7 miles in four hours. He was moving but unable to eat and the iliotibial band in his right knee was irretrievably inflamed. He had 30 miles to go and a cutoff clock that was ticking loudly.
They might have made it a few minutes earlier if Star had driven. Darris insisted on accompanying her even though he was due at work in Columbus by noon the next day. On the way up from Columbus Star wanted to drive. But Darris has been in ultra-land before and so he knew that there was no way his wife, scheduled to pace David Huss after a morning marathon, was going to be safe in a post-marathon/sleep deprived state circumnavigating drunks and deer. Both of whom would most certainly be sharing the twisting roads around Mohican on a Saturday night in June.
Michael Patton sat in a chair nearby. He was doing just a bit better than Dave but still lacked the energy to walk the 30 feet over to Dave’s chair so he sent his pacer, Kevin, with the following message: “Mikey wants you to walk out of here with him”. Dave accepted, and all four hiked out into the most feared section of the Mohican course. Seven-point-three miles to Rock Point. Three river crossings and a sea of mud and horse shit lay in front of them. It was a heck of a place to try to limber up a knee.
Meanwhile Ted Nieman stood near the CB radio located at Rock Point and suddenly found himself with a free Saturday night on his hands. Ted didn’t know Steve Zeidner prior to this race but had been connected to him through Michael. Ted had agreed to pace Steve from Rock Point to the finish but when the message that “Number 160 is out” crackled across the airwaves Ted realized that this was Steve’s number and that it was officially over. He then did a noble thing. He picked up another needy runner and headed down the trail with a new and unexpectedly grateful friend.
Steve actually had made a valiant effort to reach the Bridle Staging area. He left the Covered Bridge at mile 70 with Dave, walked halfway up the monstrous hill and turned around to walk back down to the bridge. On the way down the hill he ran into Michael who begged him to turn around. Mike told me later that Steve gave a firm “No” and continued downhill without stopping.
By the time I got to the Covered Bridge Steve was sitting in a chair, covered by someone else’s towel, shivering, and miserable. I asked Steve to walk out with us. He looked at me and said softly “I just can’t do it. Its my stomach”. I looked into his eyes and could see straight through to his spinal cord. There was nothing there. I had been in the place he was now and had never been able to come back from it. In 100 mile races there are down periods, there are near-death experiences, and there are Jesus-as-my-witness “Cannot’s”. Cannot go on. Cannot think straight. Cannot regain homeostasis. Steve meant it. He was done. “God bless his poor heart but there is nothing he can do”, I thought. My pacer Scott, told me later that he saw Steve’s eyes and knew the look as well. I muttered some advice anyway and headed up the trail. Steve deserved better than this but I had seen this scene so many times today I was sadly numb to it.
And that’s when Mohican’s magic presented itself.
The magic makes a visit every year and this time it took the form of two attractive, committed, and loving young women who were prepared to offer some gentle persuasion, or kick some ass; whichever it took.
Katie Huss and Leigh Zeidner had been dispatched to the bridge, on Dave’s request, to give poor old Steve a ride back to the hotel. Instead they walked up to Steve, told him they were there for him. They also told him to rise and walk. Steve told them that it was too late. He had already officially dropped from the race. The women responded to this by walking up to the dumbfounded radio jockey and telling him firmly that Steve was “un-dropping” from the race. After a few radio communications with race headquarters it was decided that the rules said…well, they didn’t really say anything…actually. This had never happened before.
Well then, that settled it!
And so for the first time in the 21 year history of the event, a death certificate was revoked and an officially DNF’ed runner “dropped back in” to the race, with just a few minutes to go on the cutoff.
Immediately after leaving the covered bridge I heaved. Actually I expected it and was surprised that it had taken me this long to puke. I was ready for it. Way way way back hours and hours ago when I was approaching Hickory Ridge at mile 60 I had a hint that the stomach would be closing down for the night and I was delighted that I was able to pop and hold down three no-doze. The problem with not being able to eat or drink all night (as has been my pattern in recent years) is that not only don’t you get fluid or calories, but you also can’t have anti-inflammatories or caffeine. I’m becoming a reluctant expert on calorie-free running. I find that no matter how weak or thirsty I get I can still move slowly. But only slowly. No running, no fast walking, and rest breaks are required on uphills. It’s a crappy way to spend an evening but I really wanted this buckle and so I bent myself to the task. I have found that I can walk the nausea off in about 10 hours. A guy does get thirsty in that time though and so I rinse my mouth out and sometimes manage a small swallow.
Dave and Star were approaching Rock Point when Star found what she described as an “awesome” walking stick for Dave. His knee was ready to collapse on every downhill step and so the walking stick was used to cushion the blow. The uphills were going a bit better. Star entertained Dave with stories of old races, how she met her husband Darris, etc. and tried to keep the conversation light and upbeat. This is important for a runner.
On my way to Rock Point my own pacer, Casey, was employing a similar strategy. Casey never nagged me. He thought of hopeful things to tell me. He pointed out when I was walking well and reminded me that the bad patches wouldn’t last when they presented themselves. I didn’t speak much and he was fine with that. At one point we started to talk about some family troubles that I experienced this year. Then we decided not to speak of anything negative. The stars were out, a gentle breeze was blowing and we were moving. That was a wonderful thing, moving. Casey and I decided that we would concentrate on the beauty. We would produce good Karma. Meanwhile my other pacers, Scott and Nick, were seated in lawn chairs at the Sand Ridge cemetery sharing recipes for homebrew and holding a contest to determine who could produce the most pornographic shadow puppet on the wall of the abandoned church by the light of their headlamps.
Pacers are, after all, only on duty when they are on duty.
Steve arrived at The Bridle Staging area hours later than he originally planned. In fact he should have already been at Rock Point according to his original schedule. His current pacer, a friend named Ashley, agreed to stay with him through the rugged path to Rock Point. This was going to be a longer night than she banked on.
Meanwhile Katie and Leigh raced to Rock Point to try to notify Ted Nieman that Steve was back into the race. Katie, sprinted up the hill into Rock Point, breathless and searching for Ted, only to receive the devastating news that he was gone. The ladies knew that Ted had done the right thing but they also knew that this would leave Steve alone from Rock Point until the finish line. They immediately began to search for other pacers. They also began to rummage for running clothes…just in case no one could be found.
As I headed into Rock Point I was worried about cutoff times. It was 3 am and we were holding an hour cushion on the cutoff but we were really moving slowly. My experience at Rock Point was an odd one. Michael’s dad, Tom Patton, warmly greeted me and I was nearly non-responsive. It was almost coma-like. It was as though I didn’t realize that I could have chatted with him, or thanked him. I saw David sitting in a chair having a bandage applied to his foot and I was delighted to see him…internally. But I was unable to reach over to the other side and speak with anyone. It was like I was watching the scene on TV. I left the aid station a few minutes after Michael and a few minutes ahead of Dave. I also learned that Steve had rejoined the race. My heart leapt for joy at this almost unbelievable news. But I spoke with no one of it.
I don’t ever want to relive that experience.
When Steve arrived at Rock Point he was very nearly in last place. There were simply no pacers to be had and he couldn’t be left to wander the woods on his own…he was starting to fall asleep. So Ashley refilled her water bottle and decided that this was a night she would remember as her personal record for mileage.
Leaving the South Park Aid Station at mile 84 I decided it was time for another mouth rinsing. I grabbed what I thought was a bottle of ice water, took a huge swig, and vomited so loudly that it stirred sleeping birds from the trees. “ITSSSHHEEED”. I yelled to Nick between heaves. “What”? Nick Asked. “Itshheed” I replied. “What are you saying?” asked Nick again. “Its Heed. Oh God, its Heed”. Someone had put Heed in my bottle, and at that moment nothing could have made me more violently ill. I was actually using filthy language DURING my heaves. A couple of runners went by and I apologized “Hey man, its part of the sport” was their response. For some reason that made me happy. Very very happy. Nick and I joked that any chance we had for a Heed endorsement deal was irrevocably gone but that’s OK. As the mystery runner pointed out this was normal. And normal felt good.
Meanwhile, Steve was actually starting to do better. He could now break into an occasional shuffle…when he wasn’t sleeping. Ashley had finally run out of steam at the South Park aid station and so Leigh, a woman who must have been paying attention during the “Better or worse/ Sickness or health” part of the wedding vows, pulled on a spare set of Steve’s overly large running togs and decided that it was time to join her husband on this journey. She had never run 18 miles before and really had no plan regarding how she would achieve it now. But that plan could be formulated later. Now it was time to move forward with faith. She shuffled with Steve when he shuffled, woke him when he fell asleep on his feet, and gave him gentle shoves back onto the path when needed.
Up ahead Star and Dave were both falling asleep. They were motivated back to wakefulness when Ron Ross and his daughter Tracey passed by. I was wide awake but really needed sugar. There were three massive climbs to get to the fire tower and I didn’t have any fast burning power to climb them. Nick had procured an enormous bag of orange slices at South Park and I put one in my mouth at the start of each climb, tried to suck in sugar through my gums, and spit it back out at the top. It worked! The third climb was a hill that Nick and I ran powerfully in a workout last fall. Since that time we have determined that it is “our” hill. We crested it, gave a manly fist-bump and headed for the fire tower.
The sun came up just as we hit the fire tower at mile 88. Suzanne Pokorny walked out the trail to greet us and when I saw her my heart leapt, and then exploded. It was like fireworks. I was so happy to see my friend, until the sudden realization that her presence here meant that she was no longer in the race. I assumed all night long that she would pass me. Instead she fought terrible heat exhaustion all the way to Hickory Ridge where she simply was too ill to go on. Instead of sleeping she came to find us. This sort of caring is why I love Mohican. This is why the world needs to learn from us.
The walk down to the bridge should have been easy, with the daylight and net downhill path, but I almost collapsed with exhaustion. I don’t know why, but this simple little downhill leg was almost my undoing. I was so confused when we got to the bridge that I had to beg Nick to stay with me, even though the bridge was supposed to signal the end of his duties. He jumped at the chance. Nick is such a wonderful person. He has been having health issues and hasn’t been running much. A 23 mile run through the night was too much to ask. But I asked anyway because I needed it. Nick was able to provide. More Mohican Magic.
At the fire tower Katie Huss, dressed in street clothes, jumped in to pace Steve. Leigh would need a break, they reasoned, if she was going to hang with Steve until the finish. Meanwhile Ted Nieman, Steve’s originally scheduled pacer, finished pacing his runner to the finish, and learned from Michael’s wife that Steve was back in the race. Despite the fact that he had not slept and despite the fact that he had 23 miles on his legs, Ted Immediately headed to the covered bridge and found Steve. He agreed to pace him to the finish line. He arrived in the nick of time because Steve was only ten minutes up on the cutoff time was facing a steep six mile climb up Hickory Ridge. He needed to start running…and Ted was the man who could make that happen.
”Twenty minute miles. They have to be 20’s”. Star was carefully monitoring the clock, which was now ticking loudly in their ears. She was terrified they would “time-out” at the Hickory Ridge aid station. Dave was staying cool though. He was willing to risk a photo-finish at Hickory Ridge if it meant he could then risk jogging on the knee during the last 5 miles. He reasoned that a jog now, if it failed, might take him out of the race…and so they walked…and lost time. And Star worried. And Dave never blinked.
Nick and I ran more than we walked on our way to Hickory Ridge. I was able to eat and drink again and was feeling…OK…for the first time in forever. Despite our well-being we learned that we were only 21 minutes ahead of the cutoff and so we ran nearly the entire rest of the race.
Just out of Hickory Ridge Dave had an episode that I will quote directly from Star’s account of the race:
“…His IT band had locked back up and his leg was straight and he could not walk. I asked him if it was like before and he said it was worse. We stood there, stuck in the moment. He tried to put weight on it and he simply couldn't. And my heart broke for him, for the miles and the hours and the fight and the ugliness of it all. Because it was over, five miles from the finish. I think he told me he couldn't get there. I honestly had no idea what to do. What to say. Even what to think. I just stood there, lost and hurting for him.
And then he lurched forward. And lurched again. And the lurch became a walk, and the walk became the fastest it had been in hours. And I stood up and I walked behind him and I prayed without words.
And then he ran.
And he kept running.
And suddenly, I had to get up there.”
Steve was hitting full stride as well. After arriving at Hickory Ridge in last place and with only 2 minutes to spare he peeled off a 12 minute mile on his way to a scene that I did not witness but would have given anything to see. Steve caught up to his friend Dave with 2 miles to go and the two runners became so jubilant at the unlikely sight of each other that Star and Ted found it necessary to eventually break up the party and goad them into running again.
Closing in on the finish the heat of the day was on us again. I heard “Wooooooo Hoooooo, one mile to go”. It was Tracey Ross, leading a smiling Ron to another finish. This race has been a part of Ross family lore forever and I was delighted to be included in this Father’s day celebration.
It seemed like everyone I knew was at the finish line and the cheering was as loud as I have ever experienced. Finishing very late in a race is a lot like dying young. The funeral of a young person is crowded because everyone they know is alive, and thus available to attend. The earliest finishers are running ahead of all of their well-wishers and actually have a lonelier finish. In fact, one of the people cheering for me was Jay Smithberger. Jay won the 50 mile race in a course record time of 7:55 and was greeted at the finish line by precisely…no one. In fact he had to go find a race official to let them know that he was finished. He was the first finisher on the day and all other runners were still out on the course. There is a U-tube video of Jay’s finish floating around that is both hilarious and sad all at once. I guess it really is lonely at the top. It seems unfair but I was moved by the support nonetheless. I crossed the line and powerfully hugged Nick. There was no way I could have made it without him, and Scott, and Casey.
I received a long awaited kiss from my dear friend and the woman who represents the true spirit of the race. Colleen Theusch, a.k.a. “The Lady in Purple” is perhaps the only person who has attended all of the Mohicans since the beginning. She lends a life force to the race that simply needs to be experienced to be believed. She is loved beyond measure and loves without limits. I knew she would greet me at the finish no mater how slow I was and the reunion was as rewarding as the buckle she pressed into my hand.
This was my ninth finish and so now I can dream of the big buckle, God willing. I stood at the finish for a few minutes.
Then it happened.
David and Stephen crossed the line together in 56th and 57th place. It was the happiest scene I have ever witnessed at this race.
The 2010 version of the Mohican Trail 100 Mile Run had 133 starters and 58 finishers. Half of the finishers came in during the final 2 hours of the race. Among the final runners to finish were Michael, myself, Stephen, David, The legendary Ron Ross, who tied the all-time Mohican record with 15 finishes, and Fred Davis who has 12 Mohican Finishes.
This group was capped off by Mike Heider, who earned his 1000 mile buckle with this, his tenth finish. He also earned the “Last of the Mohican’s” award for being the final finisher. The “Last of the Mohican’s” award is an honor possibly more valued than the Champion’s Trophy in this race, where perseverance is prized and rewarded like no where else.
Epilogue:
About ninety minutes after my finish I was sitting in the shade with my friend, Shannon Fisher, when Karen Ray (K-Ray), the woman who shared her light with me on the way into Mohican Adventures the night before, appeared. Karen was smiling ear-to-ear and accompanied by her husband as she crossed the finish line in 31 hours. Karen had “timed out” at the Hickory Ridge aid station but chose to complete the final miles with the love of her life. I had believed that Stephen’s and David’s actions were the bravest story of the year, but I believe K-Ray shares this podium with them. She promises to return next year.
In last year’s blog post I stated my belief that Mohican-world sadly returns to torpor when the Last of the Mohicans crosses the finish line. Karen’s presence at the finish line as morning turned to afternoon proves that I was wrong. Mohican isn’t about race administrators and it isn’t about aid stations. In fact I’m not even sure that its about the trail. Mohican doesn’t go away when the clock strikes 30:00:00. Its still here. Mohican is about magic and Mohican is about us.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Mohican Report: Part 2
If you want advice on how to finish a 100 mile run you could very easily find several thousand sources more reliable than me. I do know a few things about getting a middle age body to a finish line though and I believe that the most important thing that a runner can do…more important than nutrition, more important than shoe selection, even more important than training or fitness…is to maintain an optimistic mind; an even-keel mentality. A 100 mile participant should prepare for tough times but hope for the best. They should have an easy, light feeling of confidence augmented by a bottomless cup of hope. A 100 mile buckle-seeker will be alone on the trail with their own thoughts for a long, long, long (LONG) time. And so it is necessary that their mind, their companion, be a good traveling mate. No one wants to drive across the country with an individual who does nothing but bitch about the heat, or about the traffic. Or about the government. No one wants to be reminded over and over again that the gas tank is running low, or that the “check engine” light is on (Its probably just an oxygen sensor thingy, so try not to get too upset right?). And no one wants to ride along in a body for one hundred miles with a mind that is being an annoying jerk.
I know all of this. But as I headed into the Buckhaven aid station I couldn’t shut my brain up. I was worried and, in all honesty, probably a bit irritated.
So far everything was going OK. I managed to get a couple of hours of sleep the night before. Terri and Mark Lemke hosted several of us at their house. The hospitality and friendship calmed me and the headlamp-lit excitement of the starting line made me smile.
I wonder do lemmings have a feeling of camaraderie in the moments before they plunge over the cliff? I ask this because I know of no other species that seems as peaceful, happy, and excited than a group of runners heading out into a day that will bring a 50% chance of failure and a 100% chance of pain. The tension is wonderful. Any joke brings laughter and all exchanges bring sincere, heartfelt wishes of wellness. I feel certain that the mechanics of our day-to-day culture are faulty. I feel equally certain that the culture that exists on the starting line of a 100 mile run is some kind of solution. In fact, I believe there is a thread to all of this; the running, the growth, the friendships, the care. It might be that if we think about who we are long enough, and appreciate it, and analyze it, we might have some sort of large-scale answer to our world’s troubles. Could the answer to the world’s problems be born in the light of headlamps on the trails of North Central Ohio? Something is afoot. I have suspected this for a while now.
But heading into Buckhaven I was starting to get irritated. Physically I was doing fine. I was in the best shape of my life. I was an experienced Mohicanite (Mohicaner?). I had all of the correct types of tape, shoes, and lubricants. I had a medicine bag that would have put a shaman to shame. I had a special hat that was designed to suck the heat out of my head (that’s what the advertisement said), and just in case it didn’t, I had it loaded with ice. I was doing everything right…but my chances of getting to the finish line were being reduced nonetheless, and for no noble reason.
This year’s course included a section of largely open road from miles 19-42. You will never hear me complain in any meaningful way about heat, or hills, or mud, or bugs, or river crossings. But I’m going to say it here and I’m only going to say it once: putting a group of individuals out onto largely open roads in the middle of a day that would reach 92 degrees, for 23 miles, is the wrong decision and, on the surface, seems to lack an element of care. I will complain about it because I can. I finished this year’s race and so my concerns should not be misconstrued as sour grapes. Call me a wussy if you want to but I’m a wussy who finished. I finished due to the grace of God. So many others did everything right and did not finish. Their complaints could be misconstrued as defensive.
I was fortunate.
I heard no one complain about the heat and pounding sun during the race. Ultra marathoners are a notoriously tough breed. Complaining brings along its own heavy karmic baggage and so it should, and generally is, and was, avoided. In fact one would have been hard pressed to find an individual to complain ABOUT. Don Baun designs the race course and he has designed it every year since the inception of the race. This year Don faced a problem. The race could no longer start at the Mohican Wilderness Campground and the road sections had to go SOMEWHERE right? Don should be applauded and credited for his efforts regarding the race over the years. I hope that some day a statue of Don will be placed at the base of the North Rim trail. He deserves the recognition. This year he saved things by hastily redesigning the course. The problem is that last minute changes that occur when relationships erode rarely allow for creativity. There were other ways in which the course could have been routed that would have helped to prevent the mass implosion that occurred at this year’s race. But such planning takes time, and communication, and I believe that Don worked through his solution without adequate access to either.
It was hot this year. That’s a fact and heat is never anyone’s fault. But it has been 92 degrees and sunny at Mohican before. In fact it has been this hot several times. And the race never faced the crisis (I know it’s a harsh word but I’m using it anyway) that we faced this year, because in a woods one has an ability to slow down, regroup, get the core temperature under control, and move on. No such ability exists under an open sun. And for those who might sniff and point out that “This is nothing compared to Badwater” I will point out that Badwater, a race through Death Valley in July, requires its runners to have unlimited personal aid in the form of a vehicle that must stay with them at all times. The vehicle can be air conditioned and provide shelter and respite and easy access to ice. At one point on the road section of this year’s course runners were required to go more than 14 miles with only one aid station (and no other access to water). Furthermore they were banned from accepting aid from crews or vehicles during that section. Badwater also ADVERTISES itself as just exactly what it is…a race of survival. Does Mohican need to be a race of survival? Is that the race’s mission? And, if so, is it advertised as such? It is generally described as a very tough but wonderful choice for a first-time 100 mile experience. And as I ran down the hot roads, equipped with a hat filled with ice, 55 ounces of fluid, and a head full of the type of experience that 14 one-hundred miles starts (and several failures) can bring, I wondered how our first-time friends were doing?
Stephen Zeidner was a first timer. He was doing…OK. He should have been doing OK. After all, he was young, strong, fast, well trained, and had a personality ideally suited to this sort of adventure. He finished in the top ten in a prestigious 50K race a few months ago. Furthermore he had respect for the distance. He was running well but not doing anything stupid. The same could be said for his friend, David Huss. Dave finished Mohican last year as did their buddy, Michael Patton. All three were, in a word, ready. I did a training run with all three of them a few months ago on the Mohican course and severely strained my right quadriceps. I didn’t jar it, I didn’t trip, in fact I didn’t do anything to it…other than try to keep up. My connective tissue could not hang with these guys on a short training run. If they are the future of our sport then our sport has a fun, fast, strong future ahead of it. Despite this, by the beginning of the road section Michael was suffering from nausea, and by the end of this section Steve was feeling hints of the same. David had knee surgery in January and the knee was holding up fine. But his OTHER knee was aching a bit. Strange stuff. Rob Powell had more experience but only a bit more success. He could be found along the road, naked except for running shorts, sitting submerged in a drainage culvert trying to cool down.
Others suffered quietly.
According to a volunteer at the Rock Point aid station, the end point of the road section--the 42 mile check in, saw dead-eyed runners slumped in chairs, ill, considering dropping out. The volunteer told me “This was the type of stuff you would expect to see at 3 O’clock AM, not three in the afternoon”.
As for me? I was saved from my own mind by the sudden appearance of a friend who has developed a recent habit of saving me from my own mind. Suzanne Pokorny and I trained together for this race. We were in similar shape and so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that we would run a similar pace on race day. But 100 mile races seldom turn out that way. Runners leap-frog each other. Suzanne and I SPECIFICALLY decided, before the start of the race to NOT run together. Our reasoning was that any agreement to stick together would be a detriment to both of us. If Suzanne stuck with me during my inevitable bad patches, and I did the same for her, then simple math would dictate that we would be slowed by TWICE the number of bad patches. So the deal we made was “no deals”. Harsh but caring; that was our agreement.
Fate stepped in and made our agreement moot for a while. We happened to be moving at the same pace. We each had mini-bad patches and mini-good patches but were within hailing distance of each other for many miles. We tried to ignore the elements and instead challenged each other to name the worst song ever written. There were many candidates but the winner was “We Built This City on Rock and Roll” by Starship. The decision was based more upon the shameless sell out of the artist rather than the quality of the song (Shame on you, Grace Slick! I hope you spent the money on something that produced some good : )). We also talked about life, and past Mohicans. We visited with Roy Heger as he passed by and connected briefly with Ron Ross at an aid station. We learned that Fred Davis was somewhere behind us. We had a wonderfully long visit with Joe Jurczyk. Joe is a past race director of Mohican and the current race director of Burning River. I have known Joe forever and it was uplifting to see him back at his sport, in the event that he helped to make great. I wondered aloud about these legends being way back here in our part of the pack but chalked it up to some sort of wisdom on their part. We wondered how our other friends were faring. Neither of us spoke aloud of our fears that the race was eating its young. We didn’t know for sure and we didn’t want any confirmation if it was true.
Suzanne and I stuck together through the road section and into the green loop, past Rock Point at mile 42, and into South Park at mile 46. The trail into South Park was difficult for me. Suzanne moved out a bit ahead of me. I caught her and then she slowed a bit. Our bad patches were no longer in sync and my heart began to hurt. We would soon spend less time together. We would likely continue to leap frog each other but it would be at increasingly longer intervals. We had both danced this dance before and we knew that we were going to soon be disconnected. Neither of us spoke but, instead, as she passed me on a long downhill after South Park we decided to take five minutes and pretend that we were not in a race of any kind. We decided to be simply two friends walking through the woods on a beautiful summer day. And it was peaceful. And for a few minutes there was no worry. And we allowed ourselves to believe that this is how it would be. But soon the running started again, and then the leap frogging. We were separating and it was lonely. Like George and Lennie in Steinbeck’s ‘Of Mice and Men’ the partnership was the only thing separating us from the other desperate, solitary, individuals around us. And it would end soon. To my absolute amazement it was Suzanne who dropped back first.
I arrived at the Fire Tower and walked into the heart of the Lemke family. They were gathered around Terri. Terri Lemke is the strongest runner I know; mentally the toughest runner I have ever known. And she was cramped and heaving and desperate. She had done nothing at all wrong. Its just how things were. I spoke with her. I wanted to do some good. I failed. I knew that she would recover so I felt empathy, not sympathy. But I also felt fear. If Terri could hurt like this what hope was there for me, really? When would it hit? I also saw the Pokorny family. They were ready to revive Suzanne. That was good. And Suzanne was a much better night-runner than I am. I told myself that she would pass me in the night and that it would be nice. I told myself these and other things. But mainly I just missed my friend.
The Fire Tower and the Covered bridge aid stations brought the first real news in a while and none of it was good. Horror stories were everywhere. So many of my friends were out of the race, others were alive but dying.
The sun was starting to fade and I was alone. It seems I’m always alone when the sun starts to fade. My own brand of nausea began at the 60 mile mark. I was alive but only because I had gone so slowly. And that meant that I had far less cushion than usual on the time cutoffs. The race basically had three types of runner left; the elite runners, the runners who had imploded and were marking time until their DNF, and runners whose conservancy led to time cut-off pressures. I was firmly ensconced somewhere between the latter two types.
And then I began to see ghosts.
And then I wasn’t alone any more.
And then it turned beautiful.
I began to see unexpected appearances of runners who had dropped from the race; individuals who had eschewed a shower and a meal for a bag of ice and a pair of sandals. They began to appear on the course. They cheered. They advised. They walked with the alive but wounded for a while. If the esprit-de-corps at the starting line signaled a solution for all that is wrong with the world then this behavior must be a symptom of everything that is already right in the world.
Runners on the course were caring for each other as well. No one seemed to ever pass anyone else without a solid conversation and a clear commitment from the runner being passed that everything was OK. I saw one runner give ALL of her water to another who was struggling. I saw food change hands. I overheard soothing talks, and uplifting messages from runners who were, themselves, in the depths of despair. Someone produced a piece of lamb’s wool and another produced a pair of scissors to cut it with. Together they fashioned a cushion for a third runner’s blistered foot. I saw Michelle Bischell at the Hickory Ridge Aid Station. She was getting her 2nd wind…or possibly 3rd or 4th wind…of the day. We exchanged encouraging words. Everything that might have been wrong with the race was being corrected by everything that was right about the race.
Running the last couple of miles into the Mohican Adventures aid station at 65 miles I was in dire straits. I was hours behind schedule, night was falling, and I had lost my light. A runner by the name of Karen Ray appeared. She invited me to call her K-Ray, and so I did. She was running powerfully but slowed to my pace and shared good advice, companionship, and a light with me.
My crew was there. I knew they would be. Before the race I told them to meet me at the Bridle Staging Area, another ten miles up the path. They correctly ignored me and made a plan to form a relay to pace me from this point on. Scott Wolf. Casey Clark. Nick Longworth. Holy Cow do I have good friends or what? We stood in the dark for a few minutes and for the first time ever I realized that I can no longer run 100 miles….by myself. I need help. Lots of help. And there’s something very beautiful about that.
We had no time to spare and so we quickly set out. I was too nauseous to eat or drink anything but seven-up and the aid station had run out of that. Nick was dispatched to buy some and meet us at the Bridle Staging area. I saw Mike Patton leaving the aid station as I walked in. He had a look that suggested that thoughts of stopping had invaded his mind. He was, however, accompanied his pacer, Kevin Martin, a recent MMT finisher (!) who wore an equally intense look that seemed to say “No way in hell!” My money was on Mikey buckling. What a tough tough dude. I tried not to listen to news but what I did hear was horrendous. I was informed that Steve was dropping out at the bridge. I also heard that Dave’s knee had locked up. There were conflicting reports about Dave. Some said he had left the aid station and was on his way to the bridge. Some said he was done. But no one seemed to believe that it made any difference. Dave was as tough as they come but he was a dead man walking. And his only real hope, the only person who could possibly motivate him to the finish line was stranded at an airport in Minneapolis.
I’ll post part three in a few days. This is very long but I will like reading it when I’m 70. If anyone is still reading you are welcome to come back. Some of the endings in this story are happy ones. I promise
I know all of this. But as I headed into the Buckhaven aid station I couldn’t shut my brain up. I was worried and, in all honesty, probably a bit irritated.
So far everything was going OK. I managed to get a couple of hours of sleep the night before. Terri and Mark Lemke hosted several of us at their house. The hospitality and friendship calmed me and the headlamp-lit excitement of the starting line made me smile.
I wonder do lemmings have a feeling of camaraderie in the moments before they plunge over the cliff? I ask this because I know of no other species that seems as peaceful, happy, and excited than a group of runners heading out into a day that will bring a 50% chance of failure and a 100% chance of pain. The tension is wonderful. Any joke brings laughter and all exchanges bring sincere, heartfelt wishes of wellness. I feel certain that the mechanics of our day-to-day culture are faulty. I feel equally certain that the culture that exists on the starting line of a 100 mile run is some kind of solution. In fact, I believe there is a thread to all of this; the running, the growth, the friendships, the care. It might be that if we think about who we are long enough, and appreciate it, and analyze it, we might have some sort of large-scale answer to our world’s troubles. Could the answer to the world’s problems be born in the light of headlamps on the trails of North Central Ohio? Something is afoot. I have suspected this for a while now.
But heading into Buckhaven I was starting to get irritated. Physically I was doing fine. I was in the best shape of my life. I was an experienced Mohicanite (Mohicaner?). I had all of the correct types of tape, shoes, and lubricants. I had a medicine bag that would have put a shaman to shame. I had a special hat that was designed to suck the heat out of my head (that’s what the advertisement said), and just in case it didn’t, I had it loaded with ice. I was doing everything right…but my chances of getting to the finish line were being reduced nonetheless, and for no noble reason.
This year’s course included a section of largely open road from miles 19-42. You will never hear me complain in any meaningful way about heat, or hills, or mud, or bugs, or river crossings. But I’m going to say it here and I’m only going to say it once: putting a group of individuals out onto largely open roads in the middle of a day that would reach 92 degrees, for 23 miles, is the wrong decision and, on the surface, seems to lack an element of care. I will complain about it because I can. I finished this year’s race and so my concerns should not be misconstrued as sour grapes. Call me a wussy if you want to but I’m a wussy who finished. I finished due to the grace of God. So many others did everything right and did not finish. Their complaints could be misconstrued as defensive.
I was fortunate.
I heard no one complain about the heat and pounding sun during the race. Ultra marathoners are a notoriously tough breed. Complaining brings along its own heavy karmic baggage and so it should, and generally is, and was, avoided. In fact one would have been hard pressed to find an individual to complain ABOUT. Don Baun designs the race course and he has designed it every year since the inception of the race. This year Don faced a problem. The race could no longer start at the Mohican Wilderness Campground and the road sections had to go SOMEWHERE right? Don should be applauded and credited for his efforts regarding the race over the years. I hope that some day a statue of Don will be placed at the base of the North Rim trail. He deserves the recognition. This year he saved things by hastily redesigning the course. The problem is that last minute changes that occur when relationships erode rarely allow for creativity. There were other ways in which the course could have been routed that would have helped to prevent the mass implosion that occurred at this year’s race. But such planning takes time, and communication, and I believe that Don worked through his solution without adequate access to either.
It was hot this year. That’s a fact and heat is never anyone’s fault. But it has been 92 degrees and sunny at Mohican before. In fact it has been this hot several times. And the race never faced the crisis (I know it’s a harsh word but I’m using it anyway) that we faced this year, because in a woods one has an ability to slow down, regroup, get the core temperature under control, and move on. No such ability exists under an open sun. And for those who might sniff and point out that “This is nothing compared to Badwater” I will point out that Badwater, a race through Death Valley in July, requires its runners to have unlimited personal aid in the form of a vehicle that must stay with them at all times. The vehicle can be air conditioned and provide shelter and respite and easy access to ice. At one point on the road section of this year’s course runners were required to go more than 14 miles with only one aid station (and no other access to water). Furthermore they were banned from accepting aid from crews or vehicles during that section. Badwater also ADVERTISES itself as just exactly what it is…a race of survival. Does Mohican need to be a race of survival? Is that the race’s mission? And, if so, is it advertised as such? It is generally described as a very tough but wonderful choice for a first-time 100 mile experience. And as I ran down the hot roads, equipped with a hat filled with ice, 55 ounces of fluid, and a head full of the type of experience that 14 one-hundred miles starts (and several failures) can bring, I wondered how our first-time friends were doing?
Stephen Zeidner was a first timer. He was doing…OK. He should have been doing OK. After all, he was young, strong, fast, well trained, and had a personality ideally suited to this sort of adventure. He finished in the top ten in a prestigious 50K race a few months ago. Furthermore he had respect for the distance. He was running well but not doing anything stupid. The same could be said for his friend, David Huss. Dave finished Mohican last year as did their buddy, Michael Patton. All three were, in a word, ready. I did a training run with all three of them a few months ago on the Mohican course and severely strained my right quadriceps. I didn’t jar it, I didn’t trip, in fact I didn’t do anything to it…other than try to keep up. My connective tissue could not hang with these guys on a short training run. If they are the future of our sport then our sport has a fun, fast, strong future ahead of it. Despite this, by the beginning of the road section Michael was suffering from nausea, and by the end of this section Steve was feeling hints of the same. David had knee surgery in January and the knee was holding up fine. But his OTHER knee was aching a bit. Strange stuff. Rob Powell had more experience but only a bit more success. He could be found along the road, naked except for running shorts, sitting submerged in a drainage culvert trying to cool down.
Others suffered quietly.
According to a volunteer at the Rock Point aid station, the end point of the road section--the 42 mile check in, saw dead-eyed runners slumped in chairs, ill, considering dropping out. The volunteer told me “This was the type of stuff you would expect to see at 3 O’clock AM, not three in the afternoon”.
As for me? I was saved from my own mind by the sudden appearance of a friend who has developed a recent habit of saving me from my own mind. Suzanne Pokorny and I trained together for this race. We were in similar shape and so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that we would run a similar pace on race day. But 100 mile races seldom turn out that way. Runners leap-frog each other. Suzanne and I SPECIFICALLY decided, before the start of the race to NOT run together. Our reasoning was that any agreement to stick together would be a detriment to both of us. If Suzanne stuck with me during my inevitable bad patches, and I did the same for her, then simple math would dictate that we would be slowed by TWICE the number of bad patches. So the deal we made was “no deals”. Harsh but caring; that was our agreement.
Fate stepped in and made our agreement moot for a while. We happened to be moving at the same pace. We each had mini-bad patches and mini-good patches but were within hailing distance of each other for many miles. We tried to ignore the elements and instead challenged each other to name the worst song ever written. There were many candidates but the winner was “We Built This City on Rock and Roll” by Starship. The decision was based more upon the shameless sell out of the artist rather than the quality of the song (Shame on you, Grace Slick! I hope you spent the money on something that produced some good : )). We also talked about life, and past Mohicans. We visited with Roy Heger as he passed by and connected briefly with Ron Ross at an aid station. We learned that Fred Davis was somewhere behind us. We had a wonderfully long visit with Joe Jurczyk. Joe is a past race director of Mohican and the current race director of Burning River. I have known Joe forever and it was uplifting to see him back at his sport, in the event that he helped to make great. I wondered aloud about these legends being way back here in our part of the pack but chalked it up to some sort of wisdom on their part. We wondered how our other friends were faring. Neither of us spoke aloud of our fears that the race was eating its young. We didn’t know for sure and we didn’t want any confirmation if it was true.
Suzanne and I stuck together through the road section and into the green loop, past Rock Point at mile 42, and into South Park at mile 46. The trail into South Park was difficult for me. Suzanne moved out a bit ahead of me. I caught her and then she slowed a bit. Our bad patches were no longer in sync and my heart began to hurt. We would soon spend less time together. We would likely continue to leap frog each other but it would be at increasingly longer intervals. We had both danced this dance before and we knew that we were going to soon be disconnected. Neither of us spoke but, instead, as she passed me on a long downhill after South Park we decided to take five minutes and pretend that we were not in a race of any kind. We decided to be simply two friends walking through the woods on a beautiful summer day. And it was peaceful. And for a few minutes there was no worry. And we allowed ourselves to believe that this is how it would be. But soon the running started again, and then the leap frogging. We were separating and it was lonely. Like George and Lennie in Steinbeck’s ‘Of Mice and Men’ the partnership was the only thing separating us from the other desperate, solitary, individuals around us. And it would end soon. To my absolute amazement it was Suzanne who dropped back first.
I arrived at the Fire Tower and walked into the heart of the Lemke family. They were gathered around Terri. Terri Lemke is the strongest runner I know; mentally the toughest runner I have ever known. And she was cramped and heaving and desperate. She had done nothing at all wrong. Its just how things were. I spoke with her. I wanted to do some good. I failed. I knew that she would recover so I felt empathy, not sympathy. But I also felt fear. If Terri could hurt like this what hope was there for me, really? When would it hit? I also saw the Pokorny family. They were ready to revive Suzanne. That was good. And Suzanne was a much better night-runner than I am. I told myself that she would pass me in the night and that it would be nice. I told myself these and other things. But mainly I just missed my friend.
The Fire Tower and the Covered bridge aid stations brought the first real news in a while and none of it was good. Horror stories were everywhere. So many of my friends were out of the race, others were alive but dying.
The sun was starting to fade and I was alone. It seems I’m always alone when the sun starts to fade. My own brand of nausea began at the 60 mile mark. I was alive but only because I had gone so slowly. And that meant that I had far less cushion than usual on the time cutoffs. The race basically had three types of runner left; the elite runners, the runners who had imploded and were marking time until their DNF, and runners whose conservancy led to time cut-off pressures. I was firmly ensconced somewhere between the latter two types.
And then I began to see ghosts.
And then I wasn’t alone any more.
And then it turned beautiful.
I began to see unexpected appearances of runners who had dropped from the race; individuals who had eschewed a shower and a meal for a bag of ice and a pair of sandals. They began to appear on the course. They cheered. They advised. They walked with the alive but wounded for a while. If the esprit-de-corps at the starting line signaled a solution for all that is wrong with the world then this behavior must be a symptom of everything that is already right in the world.
Runners on the course were caring for each other as well. No one seemed to ever pass anyone else without a solid conversation and a clear commitment from the runner being passed that everything was OK. I saw one runner give ALL of her water to another who was struggling. I saw food change hands. I overheard soothing talks, and uplifting messages from runners who were, themselves, in the depths of despair. Someone produced a piece of lamb’s wool and another produced a pair of scissors to cut it with. Together they fashioned a cushion for a third runner’s blistered foot. I saw Michelle Bischell at the Hickory Ridge Aid Station. She was getting her 2nd wind…or possibly 3rd or 4th wind…of the day. We exchanged encouraging words. Everything that might have been wrong with the race was being corrected by everything that was right about the race.
Running the last couple of miles into the Mohican Adventures aid station at 65 miles I was in dire straits. I was hours behind schedule, night was falling, and I had lost my light. A runner by the name of Karen Ray appeared. She invited me to call her K-Ray, and so I did. She was running powerfully but slowed to my pace and shared good advice, companionship, and a light with me.
My crew was there. I knew they would be. Before the race I told them to meet me at the Bridle Staging Area, another ten miles up the path. They correctly ignored me and made a plan to form a relay to pace me from this point on. Scott Wolf. Casey Clark. Nick Longworth. Holy Cow do I have good friends or what? We stood in the dark for a few minutes and for the first time ever I realized that I can no longer run 100 miles….by myself. I need help. Lots of help. And there’s something very beautiful about that.
We had no time to spare and so we quickly set out. I was too nauseous to eat or drink anything but seven-up and the aid station had run out of that. Nick was dispatched to buy some and meet us at the Bridle Staging area. I saw Mike Patton leaving the aid station as I walked in. He had a look that suggested that thoughts of stopping had invaded his mind. He was, however, accompanied his pacer, Kevin Martin, a recent MMT finisher (!) who wore an equally intense look that seemed to say “No way in hell!” My money was on Mikey buckling. What a tough tough dude. I tried not to listen to news but what I did hear was horrendous. I was informed that Steve was dropping out at the bridge. I also heard that Dave’s knee had locked up. There were conflicting reports about Dave. Some said he had left the aid station and was on his way to the bridge. Some said he was done. But no one seemed to believe that it made any difference. Dave was as tough as they come but he was a dead man walking. And his only real hope, the only person who could possibly motivate him to the finish line was stranded at an airport in Minneapolis.
I’ll post part three in a few days. This is very long but I will like reading it when I’m 70. If anyone is still reading you are welcome to come back. Some of the endings in this story are happy ones. I promise
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Mohican Race Report: Part 1
One hundred mile trail races have defined starting places. They usually start in campgrounds on the edge of a beautiful wilderness. But STORIES of 100 mile trail races can begin anywhere. They can choose to start at the beginning of the run, sharing the physical starting point of the race. They can begin at the moment that a runner stops marveling at the work of others and finds him or herself thinking “What about me? I wonder…what would happen if …? ” The story can start at birth, or rebirth. The story can be one of personal redemption or spiritual seeking. I know of one very accomplished ultra runner whose career started as the result of a bet made in a tavern.
We’ll find a starting place for this story eventually. Sometimes a beginning comes when we are least looking for one.
The Mohican Trail 100 Mile run started in 1990. A small group of runners from the Cleveland area decided to emulate the Western States 100 Mile Endurance run and created their own event, consisting of two 50 mile loops. About one-half of the distance of each loop was comprised of roads. At the time there were only eight 100 mile trail races in the country, and there were only three ultra marathons of any distance in Ohio. The race was an immediate success. The race developed and grew; adding more trail sections and more aid stations and more volunteers…many more. By the time I first ran the race in 1997 the ratio of volunteers to runners was nearly three to one. In the days before Facebook and Blogging Mohican was like a sorely needed family reunion. It was the only time all year that endurance-freak-outliers could reconnect. At least it felt that way.
I was speaking with a runner a few weeks ago who described Mohican as “Everybody’s first ultra”. I agree that more runners in the Midwest in the 1990’s first dipped their toe into the extreme distance waters at Mohican than at any other race. The trails at Mohican seemed to produce miracles. Lifelong love affairs began, dead legs revived for no knowable reason, fantastic back-from-the-dead finishes seemed commonplace. This pattern of unearned blessings, this presence of grace, took on a name of its own. It was called “Mohican Magic” and many a runner depended on it to pull them through when it seemed that training, or toughness, or gummie bears would not be enough.
In 1997 I was struggling with a very sick child. A chat that I had with God on the Mohican Trail during the race provided no answers but it did provide understanding and faith that God has a plan. It also instilled in me a belief that sometimes God’s plan is none of our business. The chat that I had with God that night wasn’t in the form of a still, quiet voice that one reads about in Hollywood scripts. It was a sit-down meeting about how things were and about my role in this world. It changed me. So many runners have so many reasons to love Mohican, and I have mine.
More magic.
Trail running is currently the fastest growing participant sport in the country. Run100s.com, the “Go-to” site for 100 mile race information currently lists 79 different 100 mile runs. There is a flourishing community of ultra marathoners in Ohio. The state’s Ultra-epicenter, Cleveland, hosts the wildly successful Western Reserve Trail Running Grand Prix, a series of ten well organized and prestigious races. If you’d like to run one you had better register early. Nearly all of them fill to capacity several months in advance. And the region isn’t limited by this series. You can now find an ultra marathon within 100 miles of Columbus, Ohio nearly any weekend of the year. These are sophisticated races. Sponsorship money is available and often times a runner will collect enough “swag” to make the entry fee seem like a bargain.
Ohio runners aren’t even limited in terms of 100 mile trail races. The “Burning River 100 Mile Endurance Run” is held six weeks after Mohican. It has been named the USATF National 100 Mile Trail Championship for 2010. This race has sponsorship, hundreds of volunteers, a sophisticated website including live race updates on EVERY runner that operates until the final runner finishes.
Hopefully if you read this blog at all you have come to realize that Mohican is the central event of my year. I love the race like no other. But Mohican has, in many ways, failed to keep up with the times. Burning River is a magnificent race. I ran it last year. I was treated like a king. My father followed the web cast from Colorado and knew the moment I finished. Mohican continues to use walkie-talkies to communicate. The race has no website of its own and one has to search on a website dedicated to mountain bike racing to find the link to the race. Often this link has not been updated to contain current race information. Race results often aren’t posted on this site until long after the race has been completed, and this year the race start/finish and headquarters was moved from its traditional starting place into a different, more crowded, campground.
These words are not meant to be read as a criticism. I can only imagine what a logistical nightmare it must be to keep track of 250 runners, over the course of 50 or 100 miles of trail, utilizing seven separate aid stations, for a duration of thirty hours. Those who host the race, and most especially the volunteers, have a passion for the race and an ethic of care that smooth the rough patches.
The sense of community is there. Mohican is as cool as ever. But…
I heard someone ask a few years ago if Mohican was still as necessary as it was two decades ago. Then last year I heard a few people ask similar questions. The racing schedule is so crowded now. There are so many races in so many places seeking to overwhelm their racers with glitz it might be easy to wonder if Mohican still has it. I even wondered it myself once. Then I put it out of my mind because the thought made me sad. But it has crept back into my head once or twice since.
This year I found my answer. And I wasn’t even looking for the answer when I found it. The answer was sitting in a chair at the covered bridge at midnight, shivering under a discarded towel.
To any of you who might ask if Mohican is still unique, to those of you who wonder if it still connects us, to those of you who wonder if Mohican is still a source of adventure and self-discovery, to those that wonder if Mohican still has its magic…I present to you Mr. Stephen Zeidner.
I don’t want to discuss Steve just yet. For the moment lets leave him as we found him; a twenty-something Mohican rookie who succumbed to the heat and distance and dropped out at the 70 mile mark. Let’s also not discuss his best friend, David Huff, who was concurrently throwing in the towel a few miles further along the trail due to a bum knee.
I think that we have found our starting place for this story. We will start our story with Steve and Dave. But since this blog is a loop course, and since Dave and Steve aren’t going anywhere anyway, let’s get back to them in several pages.
The hour is late and I’ve been tired lately. I’ll write more tomorrow. In the meantime please know that I love Mohican and can’t wait to tell you about it. About us. I hope you come back to read it.
We’ll find a starting place for this story eventually. Sometimes a beginning comes when we are least looking for one.
The Mohican Trail 100 Mile run started in 1990. A small group of runners from the Cleveland area decided to emulate the Western States 100 Mile Endurance run and created their own event, consisting of two 50 mile loops. About one-half of the distance of each loop was comprised of roads. At the time there were only eight 100 mile trail races in the country, and there were only three ultra marathons of any distance in Ohio. The race was an immediate success. The race developed and grew; adding more trail sections and more aid stations and more volunteers…many more. By the time I first ran the race in 1997 the ratio of volunteers to runners was nearly three to one. In the days before Facebook and Blogging Mohican was like a sorely needed family reunion. It was the only time all year that endurance-freak-outliers could reconnect. At least it felt that way.
I was speaking with a runner a few weeks ago who described Mohican as “Everybody’s first ultra”. I agree that more runners in the Midwest in the 1990’s first dipped their toe into the extreme distance waters at Mohican than at any other race. The trails at Mohican seemed to produce miracles. Lifelong love affairs began, dead legs revived for no knowable reason, fantastic back-from-the-dead finishes seemed commonplace. This pattern of unearned blessings, this presence of grace, took on a name of its own. It was called “Mohican Magic” and many a runner depended on it to pull them through when it seemed that training, or toughness, or gummie bears would not be enough.
In 1997 I was struggling with a very sick child. A chat that I had with God on the Mohican Trail during the race provided no answers but it did provide understanding and faith that God has a plan. It also instilled in me a belief that sometimes God’s plan is none of our business. The chat that I had with God that night wasn’t in the form of a still, quiet voice that one reads about in Hollywood scripts. It was a sit-down meeting about how things were and about my role in this world. It changed me. So many runners have so many reasons to love Mohican, and I have mine.
More magic.
Trail running is currently the fastest growing participant sport in the country. Run100s.com, the “Go-to” site for 100 mile race information currently lists 79 different 100 mile runs. There is a flourishing community of ultra marathoners in Ohio. The state’s Ultra-epicenter, Cleveland, hosts the wildly successful Western Reserve Trail Running Grand Prix, a series of ten well organized and prestigious races. If you’d like to run one you had better register early. Nearly all of them fill to capacity several months in advance. And the region isn’t limited by this series. You can now find an ultra marathon within 100 miles of Columbus, Ohio nearly any weekend of the year. These are sophisticated races. Sponsorship money is available and often times a runner will collect enough “swag” to make the entry fee seem like a bargain.
Ohio runners aren’t even limited in terms of 100 mile trail races. The “Burning River 100 Mile Endurance Run” is held six weeks after Mohican. It has been named the USATF National 100 Mile Trail Championship for 2010. This race has sponsorship, hundreds of volunteers, a sophisticated website including live race updates on EVERY runner that operates until the final runner finishes.
Hopefully if you read this blog at all you have come to realize that Mohican is the central event of my year. I love the race like no other. But Mohican has, in many ways, failed to keep up with the times. Burning River is a magnificent race. I ran it last year. I was treated like a king. My father followed the web cast from Colorado and knew the moment I finished. Mohican continues to use walkie-talkies to communicate. The race has no website of its own and one has to search on a website dedicated to mountain bike racing to find the link to the race. Often this link has not been updated to contain current race information. Race results often aren’t posted on this site until long after the race has been completed, and this year the race start/finish and headquarters was moved from its traditional starting place into a different, more crowded, campground.
These words are not meant to be read as a criticism. I can only imagine what a logistical nightmare it must be to keep track of 250 runners, over the course of 50 or 100 miles of trail, utilizing seven separate aid stations, for a duration of thirty hours. Those who host the race, and most especially the volunteers, have a passion for the race and an ethic of care that smooth the rough patches.
The sense of community is there. Mohican is as cool as ever. But…
I heard someone ask a few years ago if Mohican was still as necessary as it was two decades ago. Then last year I heard a few people ask similar questions. The racing schedule is so crowded now. There are so many races in so many places seeking to overwhelm their racers with glitz it might be easy to wonder if Mohican still has it. I even wondered it myself once. Then I put it out of my mind because the thought made me sad. But it has crept back into my head once or twice since.
This year I found my answer. And I wasn’t even looking for the answer when I found it. The answer was sitting in a chair at the covered bridge at midnight, shivering under a discarded towel.
To any of you who might ask if Mohican is still unique, to those of you who wonder if it still connects us, to those of you who wonder if Mohican is still a source of adventure and self-discovery, to those that wonder if Mohican still has its magic…I present to you Mr. Stephen Zeidner.
I don’t want to discuss Steve just yet. For the moment lets leave him as we found him; a twenty-something Mohican rookie who succumbed to the heat and distance and dropped out at the 70 mile mark. Let’s also not discuss his best friend, David Huff, who was concurrently throwing in the towel a few miles further along the trail due to a bum knee.
I think that we have found our starting place for this story. We will start our story with Steve and Dave. But since this blog is a loop course, and since Dave and Steve aren’t going anywhere anyway, let’s get back to them in several pages.
The hour is late and I’ve been tired lately. I’ll write more tomorrow. In the meantime please know that I love Mohican and can’t wait to tell you about it. About us. I hope you come back to read it.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Quick Mohican Result
I ran the Mohican Trail 100 Mile Run on Saturday and finished in 29:26:27. I am very happy about it! This race was one for the ages. I have started Mohican 13 times and I have seen some bad conditions but I have never, ever seen it like this. Not even close. The heat, coupled with a new course configuration that seemed to hit runners with the toughest parts of the course at the toughest times of day yielded a finishing percentage of only 38%. Because of this I had many friends...fine, experienced runners in wonderful condition, who were taken out by the heat. It made the day a sad one in many ways.
I have also never seen such cooperation, teamwork, and comaraderie among the runners. No one seemed to finish on their own. I saw many runners slowing down to help ailing friends and strangers. I saw people with only a few swigs of water left in a bottle offer it freely to someone who needed it worse than they did. It seemed that no one actually had any property or crew of their own. Rather, any resource, renewable or not was freely offered. Many of the runners who succumbed to heat exhaustion remained on the course to assist those still in the race.
It was our community at its best.
As for me: Wonderful friends like Suzanne Pokorny and Joe Jurczyk kept me company during the early miles and Scott Wolf, Casey Clark, and Nick Longworth poked, prodded, encouraged, cajoled, and cared for me in the late night hours. Nick was supposed to run eight miles with me. He ended up running 21 miles with me...and do you know why?
He did it because I needed him to.
It was grace. I mean that literally. It was an unearned blessing, an act of korima. I accepted it because I simply could not have succeeded without it.
Thats the kind of day it was. I will write several thousand words about the race over the next week or two. I'll do it in several installments. As usual I will write it so that I will remember it when I'm 70 years old. But you are welcome to read it if you like. Peace. --Mark
I have also never seen such cooperation, teamwork, and comaraderie among the runners. No one seemed to finish on their own. I saw many runners slowing down to help ailing friends and strangers. I saw people with only a few swigs of water left in a bottle offer it freely to someone who needed it worse than they did. It seemed that no one actually had any property or crew of their own. Rather, any resource, renewable or not was freely offered. Many of the runners who succumbed to heat exhaustion remained on the course to assist those still in the race.
It was our community at its best.
As for me: Wonderful friends like Suzanne Pokorny and Joe Jurczyk kept me company during the early miles and Scott Wolf, Casey Clark, and Nick Longworth poked, prodded, encouraged, cajoled, and cared for me in the late night hours. Nick was supposed to run eight miles with me. He ended up running 21 miles with me...and do you know why?
He did it because I needed him to.
It was grace. I mean that literally. It was an unearned blessing, an act of korima. I accepted it because I simply could not have succeeded without it.
Thats the kind of day it was. I will write several thousand words about the race over the next week or two. I'll do it in several installments. As usual I will write it so that I will remember it when I'm 70 years old. But you are welcome to read it if you like. Peace. --Mark
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Brother Donkey
"I regard my body as I regard brother donkey. I feed him, and I care for him, but I ride on him and he does not ever ride on me". --St. Francis of Assissi
That is my favorite ultra running quote.
Tomorrow I go to my favorite place on earth, to be with some of my favorite people on earth, to do one of my favorite things in life. Why then the stress and fear? I need to remember that this is all a gift. The fact that I'm standing on the starting line of a 100 mile run necessarily means that I have the health, security in life, spare time for growth, and financial means to do so. I need to remember that this is a blessing and I need to be grateful. I also need to remember that a person can go a long long way on a pair of blown legs but will crumble without joy.
Thank you.
Believe, believe, believe.
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