My first ultra - Stan Wullschlegar

Two years ago while nearing the 14,168-foot summit of Mt. Shavano in the Colorado Rockies, I stopped to check my map since the fog was particularly heavy that morning and I didn’t want to lose my bearings. As I glanced back down the mountain, two figures were just visible moving on the trail below me. They must be hikers. I could barely make them out at first, but as they got closer it became clear that they were, of all things, running! Now, as an adult-onset athlete I had been proudly running in the suburbs of Knoxville, Tennessee for several years. I had always been careful, however, not to venture too far off the sidewalk since experience teaches us that that’s the best way to twist an ankle. So what were these two doing? Well, as they passed me, I exclaimed how impressed I was with their stamina, and they replied “we do this all the time, you ought to try it!” And bingo, there it was, a challenge I couldn’t refuse.

In the 24 months since that fateful encounter at 13,200 feet my mileage has gone from 20 miles to 55 miles a week, and my long run has gone from 8 to 25 miles. What was a steady regiment of sidewalks and side-roads, has given way to trails, and that one big hill at the entrance to our sub-division has given way to even bigger hills in the mountains of eastern Tennessee. So, as the old saying goes, I tried it, I liked it, and, after carefully considering the cautious words of advice that were offered by my lovely wife Denise, I wanted something more. But what?

And then it came to me, late one night – I could run an ultra! Sure, but which one? After consulting countless ultra web-sites, and reading “race reports” much like this one from previous first-time ultra runners, it was clear that the best choice was going to be the Holiday Lake 50k outside Lynchburg, Virginia. It was reportedly flat for a ultra, the distance matched my level of preparation, it was within 400 miles of home, and well-organized with plenty of aid stations. It was with great excitement that I wrote my check and tossed my application in the mail.

The next few months passed quickly and before I knew it I found myself sitting down for dinner at the Holiday Lake 4-H Educational Center. There were runners everywhere, each wearing a vest, jacket, or hat proudly proclaiming that they had once competed in the JFK, the Promise Land 50k, the MMTR 50-miler, the Rocky Raccoon, or had run 70 miles in the Laurel Highlands. As I piled my plate high with spaghetti topped with marinara sauce I quickly zipped up my jacket so as to conceal my Love Your Libraries 5k race t-shirt.

Now, where to sit? I needed advice so I scanned the crowd for a sympathetic table. I sat down and quickly joined in on the conversation. After about the fifth word out of my month everyone guessed that I was a first-timer. This is where the fun began. Stories flew left and right. In fifteen minutes I learned more about trail running and ultras than I think I wanted, especially given that this was the night before my first race. Tall tales were told of getting lost, chaffing body parts, nipple abrasion, falling down cliffs, thunderstorms, snow and ice, throwing up, dehydration, hallucinations, and only God knows what else. Who ever knew that running would somehow make it hard to hold down a little packet of GU?

Needless to say, I breathed a sigh of relief when I finally had the chance to walk across the camp to the bunkhouse that had been kindly provided for the night. A good nights sleep and I knew that everything would be better. At least that was the idea. Little did I know that all the extras from the movie Animal House were also spending the night in the bunkhouse. It was like I was back in college, except this time I didn’t have any good stories. Once again I was treated to a collection of near-death experiences that my bunkmates had on one trail ultra or another. I was going to be lucky to survive the night, let along the run tomorrow. Goodnight John-boy!

Twelve different alarm clocks went off between 5:00 and 5:30am on Saturday morning, and if that wasn’t enough, we were treated to something that resembled the National Anthem over the camp loudspeaker system. I think it was sung by Rozanne, or maybe it was David Horton, couldn’t tell for sure. A quick cup of coffee, half a bagel, a prayer, and at 6:30am we were asked to step to the starting line. The gun sounded (or someone said go!) and we were off into the darkness. I slyly tucked into the slipstream of about 50 runners hoping to draft for a few miles. It must have worked for we arrived at Aid Station 1 in about 32 minutes, far ahead of my projected time. I should have taken this premature arrival as a warning, but no, I was moving with a fast crowd and they weren’t going to drop me. Aid Station 2 came and I grabbed a banana, Aid Station 3 and I filled my water bottle and downed a handful of M&Ms, and then the long push back to the start-finish line (15.6 miles in 2:38 hours).

It was shortly after the turnaround that I noticed my group was moving quicker than I was, and over the next 4 miles I watched each of them slowly disappear into the distance. Yep, what a bonehead, I went out too fast and now I was going to pay. This wasn’t going to be all that bad since now I would at least have a story to tell. Maybe if I was lucky I’d also fall and hurt myself or see a giant panda in the woods! The low point came between Aid Stations 4 and 5. My energy was waning and my pace slowed to 12 minute miles. It was here that I found the true value of running an ultra, as each runner who passed me offered words of encouragement that in total helped me pick up my pace. Oh, and it was here that I also learned about chocolate chip cookies! Those little things are great. A handful in your pocket and you’re good to go another 5 miles. A dozen cookies after leaving Aid Station 5 and I was back to 9-10 minute miles and I was flying to the finish. Well, maybe not flying, but I was running the downhill sections. And then finally, the finish line. One last kick on the downhill and I had done it – finished my first ultra!

David Horton was there to greet all the runners, and I too stayed at the finish line for an hour just watching and congratulating the runners who trickled in throughout the early afternoon. I know there was a race winner that day, and I congratulate them for running an excellent ultra, but somehow everyone who finished the Holiday Lake 50k seemed pleased to have raced their own race. I know I was, and just as soon as my legs stop hurting I’m going to start training for the my next ultra. By the way, see you at the Promise Land. And just in case you want to introduce yourself, I’ll be proudly wearing my Holiday Lake t-shirt, telling stories about the time I went out too fast, and hording a stash of chocolate chip cookies.

Stan Wullschleger

Knoxville, Tennessee