I do not run on trails very often. Primary reason? I’m not good at it. I roll my ankles left and right (literally), I trip, I sprawl in the leaves and dirt. Some of the worst running injuries I’ve ever had have come as the result of trail running. So how’d I end up running five- hours worth of rocky, root-snarled singletrack and doubletrack trail Saturday? Glad you asked. When my good friend and training partner Curt asked me to run pace with him for the second half of his first 50-mile ultramarathon, I couldn’t say no. We’re friends, after all. And I was impressed (if slightly baffled) that he wanted to make such a huge effort so soon after the Baystate Marathon, in which we both ran PRs in just three weeks ago, and I figured it’d be an honor to run support his madness for the last 25 miles. It would also give a first-hand look at an ultramarathon, and satisfy some of my own curiosity about these strange, longer-than-marathon-distance events.
The race was the Stone Cat 50 Mile in Ipswich, Mass. It left Doyon Elementary School at a very cold 6:15 a.m. on Saturday, Nov. 7, and proceeded on four 12.5-mile loops through the Willowdale State Forest. I can’t tell you anything about the start or the first two loops, because I slept in and drove down later, arriving around 9:45 to get ready to pick Curt up and run pace with him as he started his third loop.
In this ultramarathon, my role as pacer wasn’t exactly setting the pace for the runner, the way a pacer does in a marathon. Since this was Curt’s first ultra, his primary goal was to finish, and he needed to set his own pace based on how he was feeling. I was there for moral support, to provide distracting conversation over the long miles of the second half, to carry stuff, and apparently, to amuse the field with my unintentional physical comedy antics. I would have also been there to encourage him to keep going if he seemed in danger of despair, which never even came close to happening.
It was sometime after 10 a.m., sunny and still pretty chilly at just over 40 F, when Curt and another friend, Gary, came in from their second loop, grabbed a few bites of food at the aide station and headed back out, this time with me along for the ride. We ran along some beautiful doubletrack trail, passing many other runners coming in the other direction where the loop converged. There had been a simultaneous marathon event and many runners were finishing that. Curt was running strongly, I thought, especially considering he’d already gone 25 miles. We angled onto a steep singletrack climb and we all shifted into fast walking. That was the strategy, run when you could, walk the ascents and descents that were too
rocky or root-tangled to run at faster than walking pace anyway. Eventually, Curt and Gary found they needed to run in slightly different gears. At this point, I noticed the race really seemed spread out – each ultra-runner needed to find his or her own pace. Curt pulled away and I followed him. We didn’t see Gary again until the end.
I should note that by this point I’d already rolled my right ankle for the first time. A short mile and half into the thing. I remember I’d just gotten done thinking how good my legs felt, and how great it felt to be out running along with friends in this amazing forest, and that maybe my fear of trail running was unfounded, when roll, I ganked my right ankle hard enough so that I heard those little cartilage flexing sounds that send chills down the spine any veteran ankle sprainer. Some pacer, I thought. I’m going to have to quit after a mile and half. I stumbled, got up on it and ran a couple of hundred yards, caught up to Curt and realized that it was going to be sore, but it wasn’t sprained and I could certainly run on it. Just don’t do it again, I admonished myself. Stay focused. Fat chance.
Curt ran strong through the end of the third lap. We’ve trained together enough so that I could tell he was tired, but his spirits were good he kept his form together. I told bad jokes and old stories that came to mind as we ran. I also tried to stay aware of when he wanted to talk and when he needed me to be quiet so he could focus. Sometimes the rustle of dried leaves that blanketed the trail inches deep in places seemed loud and strange.
It would have been mystical to be completely alone with that sound for so long, but maybe a bit scary, too.
Back at the school, Curt tossed me his water bottle and I filled it with Gatorade for him. He grabbed something to eat while he ran and set out again. I filled my bottles, stuffed some food in my own mouth and filled the pockets of my jacket with bananas for Curt. Then I doubletimed it to catch up with him as he slipped back into the forest.
The hours wore away and the light changed among the trees. It was strange for me to be out there for as long as I was; I can only imagine what it was like for the ultra runners who’d been out since dawn. We stopped for a few seconds at mile 40 so I could take Curt’s picture – he wanted a triumphal shot to acknowledge the milestone. At 3:19:26 I noted my own milestone – I was officially into new territory in terms of time running. I’d run farther (26.2 miles) than I would run pacing Curt that day, but I’d never run longer than 3:19:26, my slowest marathon finishing time. On into the unknown!
Curt loves running on trails and it shows. Even after running 45, 46, 47 miles, he’d catch a toe here and stumble, but that was all. He didn’t fall, didn’t twist his ankle, didn’t run headfirst into a tree. (Okay, I didn’t run headfirst into a tree either, but I might have.) On the other hand, it seemed like every time I got into a groove where I began to think, wow, I’m really getting a sense of the flow of trail running, sweet, I’d roll my ankle. First one. Then the other. Then I’d catch a toe and splat, face down, full sprawl. At which point I’d hope that my occasional grunts and oaths of pain were an amusing distraction for the runner who’d charged me with delivering him to the finish. I’d leap back to feet after a face plant. All good, yes, nothing to see, don’t break your stride, and go bounding forward to catch up. Funny, yes, like John Cleese in a Monty Python sketch? (For anyone interested in actual numbers, I managed two full falls and five solid ankle rolls over the first 22 or so miles. Last few miles were uneventful.)
I continued to attend to my duties. I calculated splits (sort of), I called Curt’s wife as we ran and let her know what time he expected to finish. I handed him chunks of banana (which must have been awfully linty from my pockets). I told him that big knot in his quad would go away, and was then relieved when it actually did.
At each aid station we slowed down, Curt drank something, ate a bit, had some broth at one point, got his bottle refilled. I was amazed at how supportive the volunteers were. They were energetic and kind, and made sure that I knew as a pacer that I should eat and drink as well (which I’d wondered about before the race).
Towards the end, with about two miles to go, Curt observed that the pain (not the earlier quad pain, but the general pain) did not seem to be going away. I said I didn’t think it would at this point. But that he was too close for it to matter. We had a conversation about redemptive suffering. (Or I should say, I rambled on about redemptive suffering and he once never screamed, SHUTUP, SHUTUP, so I kept going with it.)
And then we were rounding the corner, off the trail and into the field where the finish was. I sprinted up ahead and stopped a couple hundred feet short of the finish so I could get a few pictures as Curt passed me. His daughter Caroline broke from the waiting family and ran out to greet him and they ran on to cross the line together, about 9 hours and 28 minutes after he’d started. His first ultramarthon; check.
We waited for Gary to come in, and watched the other runners come in, and Curt’s wife and kids gathered around him and helped him change into warmer clothes; it was getting cold again and he was beginning to shiver. You could see that it was a deeply emotional thing for the runners finishing, they looked raw, like all their emotions were up on top of their skin; I’d felt that way at the end of my first marathon, having wrung every last bit of strength out of my body by mile 21 running too far too fast, and then running another 5.1 miles on nothing but stubbornness.
So I thought I had a bit of a sense of how these men and women were feeling. And with that sense, an understanding of why they were doing this. There isn’t a long run that ends for me where I don’t have mixed emotions, deeply grateful it’s over, but sorry too. Because the longer those efforts stretch out, the harder they are, the more places inside yourself and beyond yourself you get to explore; you bore deep into soul, and soar high into spirit. And if 16 miles, 20 miles, 25, 26.2 miles is good for this, how much more might there be in 50K, or 50 miles, or 60, or a 100?
“Next year, I’ll pace you on the 50,” Curt said as he and his family were getting ready to leave. “Nah,” I said. “I’m good with marathons.” But I’m not sure if I was sure when I said it, or if I’m sure now. Not saying I’m rushing out to sign up for an ultra any time soon, but I get I why people do, and that’s always where these kinds of things start. Congratulations Curt!
Check out a few more pics on my Flickr page…
And here’s a race report with the winners (course records were broken) over at Competitor Running.
Tags: curt, extreme, marathon, Running, ultramarathon
