MMTR 50 Miler

By

In 35 years of running and racing I've never been hugged by a race director at the finish line, not until the MMTR 2004. And I smelled. Bad. Thanks for your energy, your wonderful race, the challenge, and the opportunity to learn more about myself and my relationship with my daughter. The first anything is always the most memorable, and the MMTR, my first ultra, will never be forgotten!

 

You said you liked to get race stories, especially from first timers, so here's mine....and it's very long....

 

About two years ago my next door neighbor started dating Stuart Nelson, an ultra runner. Stuart lives most of the year in Leadville, Colorado, but came to reside next door for the spring and fall, and I felt obliged to serve as his East Lansing Michigan running ambassador.

 

I'd been running for about 33 years --- from club running as a teen, college running at Michigan State University, road races and numerous marathons, five kids and as many orthopedic surgeries. At age 40 I wiped the PR slate clean, buried the bests of my younger years, and was satisfied to win my age group in the local 5K. But I was plagued with injuries and had just discovered trail running when Stuart arrived. Naturally, I felt obliged to show him our Michigan trails. And as we ran, a seed was planted. The tales told by the six-time Leadville 100 finisher were getting under my skin.

 

I realized early on that we were two peas in a pod, two trail nerds who could run and debate for hours the relative worth of eating Oreo cookies versus baked potatoes. We talked for literally hours about his 100 milers. Did he change his clothes and shoes? Did he go to the bathroom? Did he hallucinate? I was mesmerized. I was reeled in. After Stuart's seventh Leadville finish (of seven starts!!!) in '03, I continued to pick his brain. I entered the Stump Jump 50K in TN, which seemed like a good way to start this ultra craziness. But I couldn't give up my shorter races. I worked up to a long run of 23 trail miles midweek, and would run a 5K almost every weekend. It didn't work. I experienced an ankle injury and stayed home from the '03 Stump Jump.

 

But I continued to be facinated by the idea of an ultra. I added Ultrarunner magazine to the list of running publications I received. I was fascinated by the MMTR. It stood out, probably because of the name, but also because of the obvious challenge. While a 50K would have been the logical first ultra, I decided to skip it and just enter the Masochist when I began dreaming about the race in the spring and early summer of '04.

 

At first it was just my little ultra secret. Fear of failure kept me from telling anyone but my closest friends. But then I listened to the advice I give as coach to about 200 runners --- I am employed by a technical footwear and apparel store as their distance program coach --- and knew that to fully commit I had to shout it outloud. I began to tell everyone, and braced myself for some negative reactions. Some wrote me off as just plain nuts, while others embraced the challenge along with me. I repeatedly encountered two questions: How many days do you have to do the 50 miles? AND, What will be your longest run? When I answered the second question with, "I plan on one 30 miler," Everyone said, "How can you do 50 when you've gone only 30 in training?" As a first timer, I didn't have a good answer.

 

It was tough to feel confident when the skepticism was so easy to read on other people's faces. I often questioned my own sanity and wondered if the doubters were right, how could I go 50 (in fact, probably more like 54) when I'd planned on 30 as my longest run?

 

I plugged along on faith in myself, and sought out trails for training. At least once a week I drove an hour each way to the Potowatomi Trail in Hell (yup, really Hell, MI). The 18-mile loop of technical trail and hills (Michigan style hills, not the Virginia kind), served as the backbone of my training. I did the loop forward and backward, added miles by repeating the biggest hills and throwing in smaller loops. Stuart told me to walk ALL the hills. I did as I was told. I practiced eating and drinking and peeing. I worked on making my stops fast. Week after week, I drove there alone, ran alone, and returned home wiped out.

 

I frequently tell "my" runners not to do the math (meaning don't get discouraged when 13 miles feels hard and you think, if 13 is hard, how will I ever do a marathon?) I couldn't help think that 18 x 3 = 54. There were days when the 18-mile loop alone felt almost more than I could take. How could I ever do the equivalent of three loops of Poto? I decided to follow my own advice, and didn't do the math.

 

I increased my long run every other week, from 21, to 23, to 25, to 27, and then finally 28. I never made it to 30 because a few chronic injuries kept threatening. Five weeks before the race I decided that 28 would have to be long enough. The following two weeks I did what had become a measly 18-mile loop. I felt as ready as I could be, without getting injured. My almost 48-year-old body was to be the distance dictator.

 

Then one week before the race something new cropped up. The hamstring attachment behind my right knee began crying for no apparent reason. I was panicked. I decided I'd go to the race anyway, but didn't run for a full week before. I walked a few brisk miles, but even walking hurt. My confidence was at an all time low.

 

My 21-year-old daughter Emily (my crew), and I packed our bags and hoped for the best. We flew from Detroit to Washington, D.C., and then drove for 3 1/2 more hours to Lynchburg. We had just enough time to drop off our bags at the hotel, find rice (I begged a Japanese restaurant that didn't do carry out to sell me a container of rice, my essential pre-race food), and find Heritage High School for the pasta dinner and talk.

 

It was exciting. I was in the midst of a cafeteria full of ultra runners. They wore shirts from other ultras. They talked the talk. They ate mounds of pasta, pizza, and cake. I decided to be optimistic and bought a bumper sticker that says "Mountain Masochistic 'Survivor' Trail 50++ miles." We found seats with two runners and their spouses, and there it began. "What 50s have you done? What ultras have you done? Oh, this is your first one!!! You sure picked a tough one to start with." This was the how the conversation with everyone went. There was disbelief amongst these hard-core runners. My confidence was shot. It was over. I might as well get in the rental and head back to the airport.

 

We listened to a MMTR veteran who sang a ballad he'd written about the "Horton" miles (somewhat longer than the traditional measured mile), and the notorious "loop"  (a taunting portion of the course in the 30-something mile range, where runners are treated to horrendous footing on slippery, leaf-covered rocks.) Then came the thank yous from race director Horton and the pointers for race day.

 

More angst set in. I was hoping someone would tell me that it's not really 54 miles, but 53 miles or even 52 miles. But 54 seemed to be the accepted real deal. 

 

Then came the most amazing part of my three-day weekend. My 21-year-old and I did a role reversal. While she's not a runner (and this statement left everyone she encountered speechless, they couldn't seem to fathom a child of an ultra runner wannabe not even being a casual runner), she stayed focused on her conviction that I could do it. She hugged me, and pounded me with positives.  --- "Mom, if anyone can do this, you can. You're the toughest person I know. Now lets go over everything so I'll know exactly what you want me to do,....and more." She didn't let up. She wasn't deterred. She stayed focused on the FACT that I would finish. There wasn't a crack in her absolutely sincere conviction that I would do it.

 

She made me a believer again.

 

We awoke at 3:50 a.m. This was it. The countdown was in hours, not days. Because of our unfamiliarity with the area, we drove to Heritage High to follow the buses, which, according to Horton, would leave "precisely at 5:00 a.m." And they did. We followed along in the dark to the James River Visitor Center. We parked with all four wheels off the road as instructed, I checked in, and began the potty line wait. Counting in minutes now. I had written the aid station mile marks on my arm, with the cutoff time next to each mile mark. I decided to leave my watch on time of day so that I could calculate the time I had to spare at each aid station.

 

Finally, it was time to shed the extra clothes and gather at the start.  Counting in seconds now...10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1,GO

 

We were off in the darkness, on a day-long adventure known as the 22nd Annual Mountain Masochistic 50+ Trail Run. I hadn't run 1/2 mile when I heard Stuart's voice in my head, "Take walking breaks right from the start." I didn't see anybody walking. I tried to take it easy, and settled into a 9:00 to 10:00 pace, and stayed near someone with a light. Within the first two miles a nagging IT band began to whine. As we doubled back by the start I asked Emily to have my dual action Cho-Pat strap and ice ready at the 5.7-mile aid station. It was way too early to have any kind of pain, but I'd run so little on pavement during my training that my IT band was squawking. 

 

We crossed a the bridge over a dam shortly before aid station number two just as the sun was coming up. It was beautiful. I stopped to adjust the strap and stick ice in the side. And then the trail began. A single track up hill. Everyone walked and I wanted to pass. It seemed too slow. But Stuart's voice kept whispering in my ear, "slow is good."  

 

Shortly before the third aid station at 8.4 we encountered our first water crossing. I've run a race called Dances with Dirt, where water and even waist-deep muck are part of the fun, but no one told me we'd be getting our shoes wet in the Masochist. It was fun.

 

From there, the race blurs into indistinct visions of hills, rocks, mountain streams, leaves, talking with runners back and forth, but always being focused on my arm and the cut off times listed there. Emily brought a mini cooler filled with ice, my chocolate gel, my fresh water bottle, and my backpack filled with every possible thing I could need, to each aid station and we got faster and faster with the exchange, allowing me to almost run right through. Each time I'd get ahead of those who'd been around me, and minutes later they'd catch back up.

 

As I approached the 26.9-mile aid station, where the drop bags were located, I decided it was time to exchange the wet shirt for a dry one, and once again I quickly navigated the aid station, stopping for the first time to check out the goodie table. It was Halloween come early with mini candy bars. Yea!!!

 

On to Buck Mountain. I didn't mind walking. It seemed to be where I did the best relative to other people. I didn't have the guts, or the quads, to run hard down, but on the ups I pretended to be trying to keep up with Stuart (who can walk up hills faster than I can run.) At the top of Buck Mountain I started to figure I had it in the bag. I was over 40 minutes up on the cut off, and feeling okay. Not good. Just okay.

 

I should have taken the ballad more seriously. I thought that since I had trained on a technical trail that the loop would be my strong suit. The notorious loop was worse than I could have imagined. It started out on moss-covered trail and I thought, this is challenging? But the moss quickly changed to rock, and the rock was wet and slippery. There was one spot on the never-ending loop where I let a few people go by me so that I could literally slide down on my butt. The guy in front of me jumped down, fell, and rolled down the hill. I was glad I sat down. The loop was the first leg of the Masochist where I lost time on the 12:00 pace. I went in 43 minutes up and came out with only 37 minutes to spare.

 

Emily told me I looked good, but later said that at that point my face was the color of school paste and my "eyes were sagging." She had to struggle to convince me that I could still do it. I was discouraged, and we both worried that I'd continue to lose six minutes on every segment, and fail to make the 12:00 time limit.

 

I cried a lot around 40 miles. I had written all the names of everyone who'd sent me a good luck e-mail upside down on my shirt so I could read them. There were about 80 names. I tried to envision them along the course cheering and high-fiving me. It wasn't working so well anymore. All I could think of was that "the coach" was going to prove to be a failure. I cried some more. How could I send out the weekly Monday e-mail and report a DNF, and then turn around and tell them that they could do it (with 93 of them doing the Detroit 1/2 marathon or Marathon the following weekend). How could I expect them to believe me anymore if I was a quitter? It weighed so heavily on me. I cried some more.

 

I tried all the tricks. I recited the positive mantra I had rehearsed --- "Relax and go, relax and go,..." I pictured my husband at home, dying to be there with me, but busy with younger children.

 

I noticed my fingers were swollen, and my rings were literally cutting into my finger. I could no longer bend any finger joints. My fingers looked like the naughty children in the movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, who blew up like balloons and floated to the ceiling when they ate the forbidden candy. I found my fingers amusing.

 

I pushed on, figuring at least the worst was over. I was up Buck Mountain, and I'd completed the loop and was still moving. I tried to feel confident, but felt like the marathon bonk was just waiting to pounce.

 

Emily didn't make it to the 41.5 mile mark before I went through. She pulled in and found out I'd gone by 20 minutes earlier. Relief for her. After she'd seen me coming out of the loop looking like paste, she feared I was fading.

 

At the 43.0-mile mark, I continued to check the cut off times on my arm but still didn't feel confident. I could see that 1:10 was allowed for the 4.1 miles from 43.0 to 47.1. By now, I knew that couldn't be good. I'd had enough. I wasn't amused by the hills that went straight up on leaf-covered, rock-strewn trail, in a race that would be over it were really 50 miles. Was this some kind of sick Horton Humor? I was 20 miles over the longest I'd ever run before, and trudging. I had gone back and forth with Deb from Wisconsin since the loop, and while I couldn't hold up my end of the conversation she chatted a bit, and helped me along.

 

I was alone again and looking for the last aid station at 47.1 miles. I kept checking my arm and then my watch. I had no idea how much I had slowed, but knew that people were passing me, and I wasn't passing anyone. That couldn't be good.

 

Finally, the last aid station. For the first time all day I came to a complete stop. I was totally serious when I asked them to tell it to me straight --- 3.1 Horton miles remained, but I wanted the real deal, how many miles were there really? Was it 3.5 or 4.1, or even 4.3? I needed the truth. I must have looked deranged, because they slowly and seriously told me that it was, "really about 3.5, but it was all downhill." I said nothing. Grabbed two Oreos and a Snickers and trudged off, confident for the first time all day that I was going to finish the 22nd Annual Mountain Masochistic 50++ mile trail run!

 

Throughout those last 3.1 or 3.5 or whatever it really was, I began to cry all over again. Only now I was crying because I was going to finish, not because I was worried that someone would tell me I couldn't. The relief was almost more than I could stand.

 

I passed a "1-mile to go" sign. My watch said 5:49 p.m. I had 41 minutes to go the last mile. I saw pavement. I saw a woman I'd seen all day cheering. She told me, "Go left and head toward the cheering." I rounded the curve and saw my daughter --- a grown up woman who could give it back when I needed it. She waved at me. I waved back.

 

I crossed the finish line. I was smothered in hugs by Emily and race director Horton. I smelled. They didn't care. I cried and cried. The relief of finishing was huge. My time was 11:29:28. Just over 30 minutes under the cut off. I don't think I'd ever been at the "back of the pack" in a race, but it felt like a great place to be that day.

 

I was hungry. I spied a Twinkie Box, probably from the volunteers, with one Twinkie left. They let me have it. I don't think I've had a Twinkie in at least 25 years. It was a great Twinkie. We got right in the car before I got cold and I changed my shirt so that I wouldn't freeze on the hour-long ride back to Lynchburg.

 

Emily continued the role reversal by telling me over and over that I was amazing! I felt amazing! I felt like I could do anything. I had just passed the initiation into a secret club. These club members don't necessarily look like anything special, but they've got giant hearts that no one can see. And the hearts allow them to do amazing things. Things that regular people don't believe are possible, or might write off as crazy. But these ultra runners with the big hearts are my kind of people. When I crossed the finish I joined "the club." I was a bonafide ultra runner now. I belonged.

 

For several days I was aglow with my victory. Now, as I write this, six days have passed. I look at the results and I know I could do better. I want more. I want faster. I want to be something other than a conservative first timer. I have found "my people." I'm looking at the Montrail series and trying to decide which races I want to do.

 

Emily has repeatedly told me that she's so glad that she was the one who got to share my first ultra with me. I think back to all the sporting events and dance recitals that I've shared with my five children. I'm so glad I got to share them. I wouldn't trade that sharing for anything. Now my daughter, the non-runner, is encouraging me to do the Vermont 100 and she wants to be my crew.

 

I finished 50+ miles and that's very cool. But what stands out in my mind is the day I watched my daughter give back to me what I've given to her, and then some. What could be cooler than that?