The Dark Side – Tales of My First Ultra
By Paul Boyette
Oh yes, as sure as I sit here writing this article, I know in my heart that there is a dark side to running, and I, “Mister 5K Specialist”, have crossed over to it. I always thought it would happen later in life, and to be honest, deep down I hoped it would never happen at all. It’s kind a like playing Texas Hold’em for fun, and after you lose, finding out that the chips you were playing with were real money. It’s a costly lesson no doubt, just like the dark side of running. You see on the dark side, you don’t pay up front. In fact you don’t even know your going to have to pay anything at all, that’s until it’s too late. Believe me when the bill finally does come in, you sit in denial and try as you might, you just can’t figure out where you went wrong. If you could look back to that first day, the day you crossed over to the dark side, and see where you are now, chances are you would’ve never decided to run your first …… Ultra.
You know how these things start. First you see an advertisement, or a race flyer. Then you hear about someone else running the race. You get a gleam in your eye thinking you can handle anything, including an Ultra. It’s only a few more miles than a marathon anyways. If elderly grandmothers and pregnant women can run marathons then why on earth couldn’t you, a seemingly healthy young man, run an Ultra. It sure is funny how the mind works isn’t it? One day you’re sitting in front of your computer drinking a beer, the next day you getting an email saying thanks for entering the “Holiday Lake 50K”. That right there friends, is a very good reason to never drink again. Anyway, as you can tell, I may have finally gotten myself into more than I can handle. To be fair to myself though, I’ll start from the beginning before I tell you where I’m at now.
It all started back in October, after the “Run for the Birds 5k” on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. I’d run over a dozen 5k’s for the year, and you guessed it, decided to find a new challenge. I’ll have to admit, after watching my friend Steve Speirs set a 5k personal best, after training for and competing in an Ironman Triathlon, I got to thinking just how much faster could I run a 5k if I trained for and competed in something like that. You know something big, bigger than I’d ever done before. Here we go back to that, “isn’t it funny how the mind works,” thing again. So I looked around for a long race, and to set the record straight I hate marathons. There I said it. It’s out in the open, and I don’t care what you think about me because of it. To prove how much I hate marathons, I signed up for an Ultra. An Ultra, now come on does that not prove how bad my experiences have been at 26.2 miles? Well, anyway this Ultra was the “Holiday Lake 50K”, 31 miles of trail running. Why Holiday Lake? That’s because John Price, “the ultra running legend”, said he was running it and believe me, if it’s your first time, John Price is the one you want to be running with.
So now I have to decide how to train for such an outing. First thing, I wanted to do it my way, not according to somebody else’s schedule. I wanted to succeed on my own merits, my own skill, hoping the reward would be that much sweeter. I started on October 24th with my first 40 mile week, then 44.5, then 70 miles. My longest run was now up to 14 miles. No aches, no pains just building a great base. The next cycle of mileage consisted of weeks of 42.5, then 47, then 40, and finally 81. By this time I’d moved my long run up to 21 miles. I’d also done back to back 15 milers on Saturday and Sunday. I swear I could feel myself getting stronger, and stronger. In the mean time I’d purchased a small MP3 Player that could hold up to four hours of music, and when I couldn’t meet my running buddies, I had Steely Dan, Little Feat, Tom Waits, and many others to keep me company. You know at this point the dark side didn’t seem so bad, I’ll admit I knew I’d crossed over, but with all the music, mileage, mixing Gatorade and the washing and folding of my running clothes, I had little time to think about what on earth I was doing.
I’d read, in Tim Noakes, Lore of Running, how some ultra-marathoners believed that your highest month of mileage should be the month before your next big race. So I counted backwards from the 12th of February and planned my month of high mileage, with my highest mileage week being between Christmas and New Years. I had a week of vacation coming, and all I planned on doing was to run. My high mileage week had already been 81 miles, with an easy rest week of 42.5 miles the week after that. Now my schedule called for 103 miles for the upcoming week. My previous best was way back in high school when I ran 101 miles. Now before I go any further, I should start to explain how things started to conspire against me. Christmas morning, the day before my planned 103 mile week, I got the present of any runners dream. Yes, my wife gave me a Garmin Forerunner GPS running watch. My eyes lit up like that night in front of the computer when I thought entering a 50K would make me a better runner or something like that. Anyway, now I had a taskmaster, which in hindsight may not have been the best thing.
The first day, Sunday I had planned a long run. However, with all the holiday happenings I’d neglected to look at the weather the day before. All I can remember is the local weather guy saying his snow index was at zero the last time I checked the TV on Friday. If I could reach through that screen today knowing what I do now, I’d strangle him. Anyway, I set out for my long run over an hour before I was to meet my running buddies. With four hours of music, a fuel belt loaded up with water and Gatorade, and enough Gu to feed Kirstie Alley I started out in a slight drizzle of rain. By the time I’d gotten in a few miles it started snowing. After I met my running buddies it got worse, and by the time I’d decide to go home, soaking wet, covered in snow, and freezing cold, I’d run 24.5 miles. Never again in this weather is all I could think.
On Monday, my planned two a days started. In the ice and snow covered ground I ran 6 miles in the a.m. and 7 miles in the p.m. Then the next day, I did 10 miles in the a.m. and 10 miles in the p.m. Then on Wednesday I ran 8 miles in the a.m. and 4.5 miles in the p.m. So far so good I thought, although a few aches and pains started to surface. Thursday started off with a 15 mile run in the morning, but instead of running in the afternoon, injuries to my left knee and right Achilles forced me to rest. Friday morning saw only a 4 mile run, while the afternoon saw ice, heat, massage, and gentle stretching. It was at this point begrudgingly I gave up the thought of a103 mile week. The next day Saturday, the injuries were worse, heel lifts went into the shoes, and depression went into my brain. I could only manage 2 miles running, or limping as it felt to me. I had run 91 miles for the week, but now could barely walk much less run. My thoughts turned to my consecutive day running streak, which was now up to 945 days in a row. Would this be the end of the streak? How could I of been so dumb to get myself in this situation anyway? I started to wonder what caused these injuries in the first place. Was it the running on ice covered roads, or biomechanical issues that surfaced because of the high mileage, or could it of been my running shoes? Whatever the reason was, my wife now had me on a suicide watch. My streak, my training, even the 50K race were now all in jeopardy.
My right Achilles was swollen, my left knee in severe pain, my nerves shot, and my mind raced around searching for the answers to set it all right. Could I find the cure and resume the training before the 50K race? If not, did I dare enter the race unprepared? Even I didn’t know how it would all turn out. It is the most depressing thing when you’re training to simply give up on your goal. It is even a more depressing thing to have to stop running all together. I planned on doing neither. I struggled with the though that maybe just maybe I’d gotten myself in too deep this time. There seemed to be a kind of darkness in my running, a tired weary feeling that injuries and high mileage had caused as if there was no light at the end of the tunnel; just a dark lonely void of running mile after mile. Sometimes, it seems the miles past by so quick, as if I didn’t run at all, other times each footfall registers a haunting memory that will surely last forever. My thoughts have turned to healing and surviving. Two long runs and five easy runs are on my weekly schedule and I’ll be lucky to get through them. The swollen Achilles on my right leg and the sore knee on the left leg have made normal walking a chore. In fact, I think running at this point is easier than walking, so I run on. With five days of two mile runs under my belt I enter a 20k race and cruise along at 7:00 pace to test the injuries. They flare up, but not as bad as I thought they would. With my first week under forty miles in a ten week span, I take the race as a sign to increase my mileage, and do so with my fingers crossed.
My next week calls for 53 miles and a 17 mile long run. I alternate between knee pain and Achilles pain, but keep on running because the 50k race stands like a giant wall in front of me. The only way over it is to just keep running, keep adding up the miles, and try to keep the injuries at bay. I go into the third week of January aiming for 58 miles, and do so by running a 22 mile long run on Saturday. It seems through heel lifts, weights, massage, and ice that I have kept my injuries from becoming worse. In fact the only time they seem to overwhelm me is when I finish a run, or ride in a car. For some reason, every time I drive my knee seems to lock up in pain if I don’t stretch it out. Of course, driving is the least of my worries; the 50k is most of it.
I’m now three weeks out from the race and start to reduce my mileage, still concerned though, that the mileage I have done is not enough to carry me through 31 miles of trail running. I add 4 mile tempo runs into my schedule and run a 25k race as an easy training run. It seems to take nothing out of me, perhaps I’m in better shape than I think, or I’ve rested too much. I’ve run only 47 miles for the week. The next week, while my two injuries linger a new friend visits me. His name is planter fasciitis, although he visits both feet, neither are glad to see him. It’s just another reminder of what the high mileage is doing to my body, a body that’s used to 25 to 30 miles a week. I’m not worried about the new injury I just take it in stride and keep on running. My thoughts now have turned to staying away from sick people, taking lots of vitamin C, and washing my hands as often as possible. With 691.5 miles spent training for this race and two weeks to go, I can not afford to get sick.
With my reduction in mileage also comes doubt. My mind starts to move to other tasks in life and the training for the 50k, that just a few weeks back dominated my every concern, is now relegated to tapering status. As I reduce my mileage to 40 miles, two weeks before the race, the tempo run seems easier, and my 12 mile long run seems to be over faster than it takes to walk to the mailbox at the end of my driveway. To occupy my mind on the last weekend before the race, I pack a drop back for the race. I never needed one of these in a 5k, but then again I’ve never run a 5k that had stream crossings and 31 miles of trails. Of course the Nags Head Woods Run 5k came close one year, but that was more like a flood than a stream crossing.
My drop bag consist of an extra pair of shoes and socks. I put in an extra shirt, jacket, and toboggan. Just in case, I put in a ball cap and extra pair of gloves too. It contains bandaids, Nip Guards, Sportsslick, Bodyglide and a nail repair kit just in case any blisters need to be popped. I put in a few baggies containing toilet paper, it doesn’t seem right, but I know in hind sight it could be the most important item in the bag. I throw in GU, Power Gel, Cliff Bars, Resse’s Snack Barz, and hope I don’t forget to put in bananas on race day. I put in extra Fuel Belt bottles, water, Gatorade, and of course a towel. I might not need all of these items, but I know I’ll need some of them. Either way, I’m ready.
There are two predominate thoughts that enter my mind the last days before the race. The first is whether to run the race to survive, or to race it and compete. I look back on all the hard training I’ve done to get here and decide, it would not be fair to let myself just survive. Even though this is my first Ultra, I decide I’ll race it. The second thought is not to look beyond the race. Too many times people don’t enjoy their big experiences in life. I try to remind myself to enjoy the race, revel in it and take every memory out of it I can. I will not look to the finish, I will not try to survive, I will compete and try to be in the moment, while I’m there. Over 700 miles ago I thought running an Ultra might be fun, now I want to make sure I give it a chance to be. When I get to the race site the day before the race I finally find out what the race flyer meant when it said 50K ++, it’s not 31 miles but instead around 33, hence the plus, plus.
Standing at the starting line in the dark at 6:30am in 28 degree weather I turn on my flashlight and get ready to roll. David Horton, the race director goes over last minute details, and at the same time brings a calming reassurance that it’s going to be a fun day.
The start is uphill until it gets to the trail, an uphill that has many people including myself breathing heavily. Once I get going, John Price moves in behind me and we cruise along in single file, with a string of lighted runners behind us, and the front runners already out of sight. Running on technical trails, in the dark requires sure footing and strict attention to the ground, one false step and down you go. The race has an award for “Best Blood”, and for once in my life someone has come up with an award I do not wish to win. A few miles into the race, I’m feeling not just good, but great. I start to pull away from John Price, and he lets me go. I can’t help but wonder if he thinks I can handle it or if he’s just having a bad day.
Up long hills and down steep embanks, through small streams and across rocky terrain, I bound with incredible ease. I’m feeling so good that I start reeling in other runners that just miles before seemed to be out of sight. I flow and stretch until my stride is eating up ground at a pace that is reminiscent of road running, not trail running. This day seems to be going much better than I ever dreamed, as the first ten miles pass by hardly even noticed. When I approach the beginning of more technical trails it signals that the turn around point will be upon us soon. I use caution now, because these trails are the same as when we started, just on the other side of the lake. As I get closer and closer to the turn around I’m reassured by the fact that the leaders have still not come back past me. Then it happens; I step on a rock that sends my left foot turning over with a violent force. The ankle immediately starts to hurt and my tendons seem to swell as I continue on. I run gingerly on it, and by now the leaders start to come by, first one then a couple more. By the time I approach the turn around, I’ve entertained thoughts of quitting. I’m feeling great, but can I do 16.5 more miles on my sore ankle? I’m in 22nd place overall, and after changing my hat, gloves, and water bottles, I head back out full of hope that everything will be okay.
A few miles into the return trip I pass John Price. I estimate I’m 19:00 ahead of him, I must be running good. To compensate for my sore ankle I’ve slightly changed my stride and because of that now my hamstrings begin to cramp and my calf muscles do too. I finally have to walk my first hill. At the top, I run on, only to cramp up and walk some more. Now it no longer is about finishing good, it turns quickly to survival. I walk, run, and under my breath cuss at my body for betraying me. The first aid station on the way back, takes forever to show up and once it does it becomes an oasis in the woods. I drink soda, Conquest, and water. I talk with the crew as I eat candy, and cookies. My new found energy takes me running out of the aid station and down the trail, only to be stopped a quarter mile later by more cramps. Other runners start to pass me and I don’t care what place I get, I just pray I can make it back. I realize that in a race like this, there comes a time when you just have to put the finish line out of your mind and concentrate on the next aid station. My new goal was the next aid station, nothing more.
As the aid stations slowly come, so do the other the runners. Almost every runner says something encouraging to me as they pass by. Some even slow and talk for a few yards, then wish me luck and go on their way. Counting time in hours is the strangest feeling I can ever recall in a run. The first half of the race went by in 2:24:42. Now on the return trip, I’ve been out over two and a half hours and still have two aid stations to go. It seems like I’m caught in a time wrap, like a hamster on a wheel. I just kept going and going, and the trails seem to have no end. Before I can make it to the next aid station John Price comes running by, he encourages me to continue on, but knows I’m not feeling well and leaves me to my task. I pass by the next aid station and now I’m not only eating and drinking all I can, but also carrying a pocket full of M&M’s with me as I run. I can’t ever recall the need to do that in a race before, but here in this race, it seems perfectly natural. Eventually I make it to the last aid station, alternating walking and running, as much as the cramps will permit. The ankle is now swollen, the hamstrings have cramped so much I expected to see bruises on the back of my legs, but to spite all this, I know I will finish.
The last three miles I start to run stronger. I refused to walk more than a step or two, and then only when I lose my balance from tripping over a root or rock. It dawns on me that I have a chance to break six hours in the race, if I can push it in. Now, I’m not sure what breaking six hours has to do with anything, but at the time it seems to be something I can hang my hat on so to speak. So, I set that as my new goal. After running up a large hill that I vaguely remember from the darkness of the early morning, I bound out of the woods to the road that leads to the finish. I cruise down the hill. I pass two runners and then finally the finish line is within my sights. I do my best to smile and savor the moment then cross the line in 5:54:57, good for 57th place.
As I lay on the ground after the race, cramping, dizzy, feeling sick, and generally miserable, I glow. My first Ultra is over, but the memories have just begun. When I started they said it was a forgiving course, now I know what they were talking about. It was, for-giving me cramps, for-giving me ankle sprains, for-giving me a chance to do something I’d never done before, and for-giving me a lifetime of memories all in the span of less than six hours. I also learned that Ultra runners are a special breed of people, they’re tough, resilient, fun loving and encouraging. I enjoyed being around them, and because of them, I may run another Ultra in the future. As for now though, I can barely move without pain. I don’t care to see any trails, woods, or lakes anytime soon, and I’m dreading the though of running today to keep my streak alive. I’ll run on the track today for sure, because I don’t want my neighbors to confuse me for a duck when I waddle past their house in this post Ultra, shape I’m in. As for the dark side, I’ve seen my way through it. There is light at the end of the tunnel. That light is the glow, the incredibly satisfying glow of a well run ……Ultra.