Tracing Steps: Pinhoti 100, Part 2

If it was the falling of darkness that marked the emotional height of my race experience, then it was the heart of darkness that marked the lowest emotional period of the race. Though I kept a smile on when passing through aid stations and seeing other runners, as had been my plan from the start, the race was certainly no longer "fun". I was managing to keep up a decent walking pace, all things considering, but had succumbed to the zombie-like state of existence that infamously befalls most ultramarathoners during the darkest parts of the night. My mind was numbed by the ever present thought of pain and discomfort while my body simply plodded on and on. My spirits would rise and fall with certain songs and elevation changes, as the race director had prophesized at the pre-race meal, but I was generally in a pretty low place overall.



Night falls on the Pinhoti trail.

To make matters worse, I made a critical mistake. Though I had been told numerous times and had known full well that I would not have crew assistance (i.e. see dad/have access to my gear) between miles 67 and 85, and would just have access to staff-only aid stations, when I left the aid station at mile 67 and said goodbye to Dad, I was under the delusional idea that I'd be seeing him next at mile 75, rather than 85. I can't explain why I was thinking that, as I remember in my mind at the time wondering why people had made such a fuss about the stretch of time between crew contact when it was only 8 miles, hardly longer than the otherwise longest gap between aid stations. Maybe it was because we'd all be walking much slower, I thought. Doing the math in my head, which was a feat in itself, I figured I'd see Dad in about three hours or so, as I was averaging about 20 minutes per mile and assumed that my pace would continue to bleed down to 25-30 minutes per mile.

So how did this misunderstanding hurt me? Well by this time, it being around nine o'clock or so, I had just donned a skin-tight long-sleeve layer and was feeling plenty warm. I imagine it was still over fifty, and I felt that my body would do just fine in that single layer for a while yet, certainly for the next two or three hours. Thinking along those lines and figuring that I'd see Dad at mile 75, I decided that I didn't need to pack any extra layers or pants. To add insult to injury, I also ended up failing to pack gloves or a stocking cap - things I had actually been intending to pack when I arrived at the aid station

Off I went into the night then, like a lamb to slaughter, with just my long-sleeve compression top and short running shorts, not having a clue that this would be all the clothes I'd have for the next nine to ten hours, during which I'd face the coldest temps of the night. Please keep in mind, as I mentioned earlier, that my cognitive processes left much to be desired while all of this was occurring, so don't judge me too harshly. It wasn't like I was hallucinating or anything nearly that severe - I still had a sense of humor, could paint a smile on at the aid stations, hold a short conversation, and generally hold myself together - I just couldn't think clearly enough to make sound decisions, couldn't remember anything to save my life, couldn't do basic math, and was generally well distracted by my pain.

Wildly enough, I was oblivious to this impending crisis all the way up until the point at which I crossed the 75 mile mark and realized that I had been wrong about the mileage gap, and wouldn't see Dad until at least the next aid station, which was at mile 79. This sparked an understanding of the vulnerability of my situation, which was certainly disappointing to say the least. The walk to that station was a long one; every step was painful, with more and more steps involving twisted ankles and/or stumbling. At around one o'clock, I first remember the discomfort of cold coming to the forefront of my thoughts, and dealt with chills off and on for the next two and a half hours after that.

So here comes the third and final critical mistake (I count my feet problems as mistake number one - whether due to shoes or some unknown factor). During the last hour of walking before reaching the aid station at mile 79, I came to the conclusion that the only thing that I hadn't tried yet for my feet was rest. I was desperate for a solution, as they were in really bad shape by now. Because I was having to stay off my arches, walking on the outsides of my feet to control the pain, I couldn't seem to keep from rolling my ankles on the rocky path. They were twisting at the rate of once every fifty steps or so, to the point that it didn't even really hurt anymore - it was just really frustrating and getting under my skin. Since I knew that I had a good 90 minutes to rest at the aid station before having to leave in order to stay ahead of the cutoff times, I figured this was the smartest (and really the only) thing I could do to stay in the hunt for a finish.

Arriving at the aid station and seeing a crackling fire ablaze with chairs around it, I felt that my decision to take a break for a while had been divinely affirmed. After checking in and snagging a token piece of bacon from the delicious spread of goodies that the volunteers had so kindly provided (this aid station was apparently the infamous "bacon station", a sure hit among their zombie patrons), I found myself a seat by the fire. The warmth was heavenly and I was able to gather myself together enough to recognize my priorities. Taking care of my feet first, I pulled each one out and massaged them with an analgesic gel. I could see a little swelling at this point, but they really looked far better than they felt. Once the feet were done, I knocked out ten minutes of seated stretching, and then set my alarm for twenty minutes later, when I'd reevaluate the situation and decide for how much longer I should rest.

As it turns out, this rest was probably the worst thing I possibly could've done. While my head rested in my hands and my body rested in that chair, two very unfortunate things were occurring in my body that I had failed to consider. Because I was so wrapped up in getting my feet into functional shape, I was oblivious to the fact that: 1) all the lactic acid which my body had developed over the course of 22 hours of repetitive movement was pooling in my seated muscles, creating the potential for debilitating cramps, and 2) the time I spent resting allowed inflammation to attack my feet, speeding up the process of swelling already occurring. After twenty minutes had gone by and my alarm had sounded, a runner who was seated next to me got up to continue his race, and I was forced to reflect on the status of my own race.

As I shivered from the cold gusts of wind that would occasionally steal the fire's heat from me, it dawned on me that the longer I sat, the colder the night (and I!) was getting. Watching the other runner make his way back to the trail, I felt a "now-or-never" conviction that if I was going to finish this race, I was going to have to dig deep and suck it up, because it would only get worse if I continued to put the moment off.

Easing myself out of the chair, I literally hobbled my way over to the rocky path that I was to follow. My feet were unimaginably painful to walk on, far worse than their state when I had arrived. I don't even know how to describe that pain to you; it just hurt really, really badly. Not even twenty seconds had passed however before I literally doubled over, surprised by the power of the cramp in my right hip to fold my body in half. I let it pass and sort of straightened up, taking another ten steps or so, but each step brought an equal, unsubsiding pain, both in my feet and hips. Of course, violent shivering also began about then from the cold, less than a minute from leaving the fire, and it suddenly struck me that I was done.



I probably looked something like Nicolas Cage here at mile 79.

This is the end of the road for me, I thought. My math skills came flooding back to me as I forced myself to consider continuing on. At slower than a 30 minute/mile, could I actually last for the three hours of walking it would take to get to the next aid station? I realized that there was simply no way I could do it. As hard as it was to stomach that decision right there, I still believe it was the smartest decision I made during the entire race. I honestly don't know what would've happened if I had tried to continue on at that point. I doubt I could've made it a quarter of a mile, but let's say that I had made it a full mile before I simply couldn't take another physical step; I would've been stranded, helpless, dangerously cold (I think it was around 40, and I might as well have been naked, given my outfit), and likely in shock. I would've either had to plead a zombie runner to turn back however far they had come for help, or more than likely I would've had to wait for a couple hours for them to travel the five miles to the next aid station, while I would've rolled into a ball and tried to wait it out somehow. It kind of scares me to think about what could've been if I had decided to force myself onward.

So there you have it. After 79 miles, 22 hours, and almost 16,000 ft of climbing, my Pinhoti 100 attempt ended in a pathetic finale. I turned around and hobbled back to the aid station, and what followed was an ordeal that embarrasses me as much now as it did then, and I don't really desire to elaborate on it. Essentially, I told the aid station volunteers that I was out; they figured out the logistics of getting me back on four-wheeler of questionable mechanical integrity; I was wrapped up in sleeping bag that someone miraculously had brought and was seated side-straddle on the metal rack behind the seat, and clung to my bearded hero as we raced to the aid station at mile 85. The four-wheeler quit on us twice, but we eventually met up with another four-wheeler, which had just taken another runner back, so we swapped out rides and made it to the aid station in good time.

Once there, I required help walking around the aid station area searching for Dad, who was waiting vigilantly among the crowd of crew members who were cheering their runners into the aid station from off the trail. He was undoubtedly surprised at the nature of my arrival, occurring nothing like I'm sure he had been imagining over the last few hours, especially given our light-heartened interaction and my joking around at mile 67, the last time he had seen me. But bless his heart, he got right to work, helping me over and into my truck, covering my shaking and broken body with another sleeping bag, packing all of my gear, and basically assuming the role of dedicated, loving caretaker for the next 24 hours.

The next day brought forth a residual pain unlike the sort I've ever felt before. It felt like I had gotten hit squarely by a truck, to the point that I literally spent all but perhaps an hour of it in bed, constantly dreading the next time I'd have to move an inch of my body. Two weeks later, while nearly all of that pain has resided, most of it within the first three days of recovery, I still remember the Pinhoti many times a day when I walk, thanks to some persistent soreness in those arches. I like to think of them as reminders of lessons learned the hard way though, of which there were many. So what then did I learn? While I wont recount every idea I've gleaned from the experience, nor would you want me to, there are several things that I'll pass on to you.

Firstly, when attempting any seriously physical endeavor, don't aim to beat the minimum when it comes to the essentials, in training or otherwise.  While I figured I was smart enough to make the judgment call that my shoes were good enough, I should have recognized that for the gamble that it was. Feet are to a runner what hands are to the craftsman/craftswoman, so they must be looked after with great care.

Secondly, I would have been well suited to have completed an intermediate race or two, or at least done more and longer "long runs". I was so intent on testing my personal limits with this exact race, that I was under the foolish impression that any real testing I conducted prior would tamper the results of my Pinhoti experiment. Well, I discovered that my limit was 79 miles, which may or may not have been the case if I had decided to complete a 50 miler or 100k race before.

And lastly, since everything good comes in threes, I learned how absolutely essential it is to have someone around to catch you when you fall. This is the lesson that I stand to gain the most from in life, as I tend to be a very independent person by design. I honestly have no clue as to what would've happened had I not had my dad there to save me. I was in absolutely no condition to drive for at least 24 hours after arriving at that aid station, and was essentially helpless during that period. While I figured it would be helpful to have my dad around as a crew member, I had originally planned on running the race solo, without a crew. Looking back on that idea scares me into evaluating in what capacity I am isolating myself in my current and future endeavors, and is something that I will try to keep on my radar for years to come.

This picture says it all. I don't want to know where I'd be without this guy in my life.



To sum everything up, though I know that "Part 2" of this recap likely came across as a pretty dark recounting of my Pinhoti race attempt, I wouldn't give up that experience for all the gold in China (which I'm pretty sure is a lot these days). To prove it, I'll admit that I was already looking online for 100 milers early next year. Though I'm not saying that I'll do one then, the question in my mind is a logistical one rather than one of desire, as I definitely want to knock a 100 out, what with having the Pinhoti stuck in my craw and all. Adding it all up, the time that I got to spend with my dad, the memories we made, the lessons that I learned, and lets not forget the incredible fundraising effort which was always at the heart of it all - the whole ordeal is truly surreal to me in such a deep and beautiful way. Though it ended up looking nothing like I had imagined, in the end, I'd say much good was made.

Tracing Steps: Pinhoti 100, Part 1

Having started this recap a couple days ago, I've had some time to come to a more enlightened perspective on the whole thing. Instead of jumping into the post and talking about what happened here or went wrong there, it has become abundantly clear to me that the most important thing that can be said is that, in total, we have raised over $12,500 for Habitat for Humanity and The Alexander Capelluto Foundation! That's an amazing $2,500 over what I thought was an already lofty goal!

Folks, this is simply incredible. Though I initially felt like having raised these funds made my failure to finish the race all the more difficult to accept, having had time to process it all, I now know that having raised these funds made my race a success no matter how I fared. Finished or not, the race was always a personal experience of little real impact to any beyond those immediately involved, whereas the effects of our fundraising drive will touch the lives of many. So a huge thanks and congratulations goes out to all of you who've helped make this effort become what it is. We've accomplished a great thing, and we deserve to be proud about it!

Now with that said, I must admit that the cynical part of me was tempted to title this post "Pinhoti 100: What Went Wrong." Though I know that that wouldn't be a fair assessment, as most of the race actually went according to plan, with the worst of the residual pain behind me, I feel that it's safe to retrace my steps and give an account of both how the race went and what I've learned from the experience.

Things began two days before the race, with the joyful occasion of picking my Dad up from the airport in Birmingham, Alabama. He had agreed to be my "crew" for the race, which entails racing around to most of the aid stations along the racecourse with all of my gear in tow, making sure that I'm set for the next leg(s) of the race. We were both very excited about the prospects of this father-son experience, and it certainly wound up being one of my favorite aspects of the whole ordeal. Little did I know how essential his presence would be in the coming days though.

Picking up the old man at the airport (haha love you, Dad).

The next day, after getting a morning and afternoon to ourselves, which allowed for some much needed catching up, as well as some gear preparation, we headed off to the registration event. This is where I got my registration number, turned in my drop bags (bags of gear that would be taken to certain aid stations that crew members couldn't access), and enjoyed a wonderful dinner that was ripe with carbohydrates. The race director and another ultrarunner, who was Pinhoti-tested, spoke about the upcoming race, offering much advice and wisdom about how to go about things. Leaving the event, I felt very at peace with where I stood with my race plan and preparation, as it had largely mirrored what had been advised that evening.

Boiled down to the basics, the plan was this: See how long I can keep a smile on. Play the long game (i.e. do whatever it takes, however slow, to get across the finish line). Be tough, but be smart.  Walk the uphills, jog the downhills, and listen to my body on the flats. Remember that this is what I signed up and paid for, and remember that I'm running for a lot more than just myself. As for speed, I intended to stay behind gray hair for the first 50 miles, treat miles 50-75 as a litmus test (46 miles was my longest run prior to the race - everything beyond that was the great beyond), and either crawl or sprint the last 25, depending on how I was feeling at that point.

Well, at 3:00 the next morning, it all began. With everything set out the night before, we ate a little breakfast, downed some coffee, put the gear in my truck, and took off to the starting line, roughly 100 miles away. Sans a single missed turn, we got to the starting line with plenty of time to spare.  (As it so happened, the wrong turn wound up being a hilarious happenstance, as I ended up climbing the major elevation gain between miles 35-40 paired up with the fellow who had been directly behind us when we incorrectly turned off. He was telling me about the truck with the California license plate that had taken the wrong turn, when I informed him that it had been me! It's a small world...) Once at the starting area, I signed myself in, but realized that I hadn't filled my water bottle for the first leg of the race. Doh! Luckily, Dad found a camper who was awake and had water, which was incredible because that ended up being the only water available at the starting area.

Right at 6:00, with all the cold runners huddled together under the Pinhoti 100 banner, the race director hollered from the bed of his truck, "Let's goooo!" and with that we were off!  Having heard that the race quickly transitioned from the campground road to a single-file trail after a couple hundred meters, I made sure to be in the first third of the pack. This proved to be a smart decision, as I heard from so many runners later in the race that they had gotten stuck in a big stand-still pileup right there, forcing them to hoof it early on to stay ahead of the cut-off times. Only a few miles in however, I realized that the group of runners I was with along the single-file trail were aiming for a finishing time of between 20-21 hours. This was much faster than the pace for which I was aiming, so I just hopped off the trail and stretched for a few minutes, waiting for a gap in the winding trail of runners where I could jump back in.

That little stop-and-go routine wound up being a consistent theme for me throughout the whole race - running with a group for a while, but then making the call to listen to my body and drop back/stretch. More often than not, the runners I had been with and the ones that would pass would ask whether I was alright. Early on, then, I developed my little response; "I'm good. Just playing the long game, baby. Keep it up!" This helped me remember my primary goal - stay cool and in the hunt for the finish line.

As the race wore on and the first few aid stations went by, mile after mile, I found myself having the time of my life. While the fall foliage and Alabama hilltop vistas were every bit as stunning as I had hoped they would be, I found myself joyfully captivated and enamored by something entirely unexpected, this being the social aspect of the race. I can only attribute this to the unique combination of the wild personalities and backgrounds of the individuals I met, the free-spirited vibes generated by the communal act of running in nature, and the interesting sort of short-term relationship that develops after everyone has put a marathon under their belt.

The scenery I had the pleasure of passing through.

First, there was Bartholomew (these aren't their real names, by the way), who was a long-time counselor for Upward Bound, and had tons of quality advice for me regarding working with serious juvenile offenders. I can't say I've met anyone else who has volunteered their time to go hiking with and mentor kids as young as 14 who have killed. It was a pretty eye-opening, though also affirming, conversation to say the least. Then there was Dolly, a sustainable farm manager who was moving to the part of N. Carolina I had just left in order to work for a new farm there. Naturally, I was in an uncanny position to advise her on agriculture in the Piedmont region, and our hours of conversation flowed from organic growing and homesteading to religious defection and everywhere in-between. There was Bart, who provided a fun hour of spirited discussion about my football team, the Oakland Raiders, and sports more generally, which was delightfully refreshing. Then I took a jaunt with Darnell for awhile when he came through. He had only participated in twelve 100 mile races this year, with this being the third time he was competing in the Pinhoti 100. He was such a boss, going line for line to Eminem's track, "Lose Yourself," at a small, staff only aid-station early on, downing a handful of candy corn, while giving me the best advice of the day: "Don't let anyone keep you from running your race. You do what you need to do." Did I mention that he was 57? (I told him about my "grey hair plan," which he found hilarious, and said was right on point.) Of course, there was Dusty, the fellow I mentioned who had watched me and my Dad take the wrong turn, and there were many others as well.

Amidst and between these conversations and relationships however, the miles were quietly adding up. At the aid station around the 27 mile mark, I decided to take a slight risk and change into a pair of shoes that Dad had brought. They were the same make and model as the ones I was currently wearing, except that they were about four years newer. Yes, I had been running in a pair of four-year-old shoes. Having spent a good deal of my life as a competitive runner, and having historically amassed a strong knowledge base on running shoes, I felt confident that these shoes had enough mileage left on them to safely handle the majority of the race. I had a pair of newish road shoes that I'd planned on using for the 20 odd miles of dirt road that I'd see, so I thought myself set for the race. By the time that first marathon had passed however, I was starting to second-guess the integrity of my trail shoes and decided to quit being stubborn, averting any potential damage by jumping into Dad's newer trail shoes. Though they hadn't seen many miles, I knew running shoes these days were basically good-to-go out of the box anyways, and since it was essentially the same shoe, I figured it wouldn't be an issue.

I'm giving you the background of the shoe story because I largely blame my feet for my "DNF" (did not finish) of the Pinhoti 100. Though I'll continue to tell my tale and not jump to mile 79, I feel very strongly that if my feet had not been the issue that they were, my body would've handled the 100 miler to the end. Anyways, between miles 35-40, I became mentally aware that my feet were feeling a new kind of sore - a sore I hadn't felt on my previous long run of 46 miles. It certainly wasn't bad, but it also certainly didn't feel very reassuring that I had something new to deal with this early on in the race. Ironically, though I was expecting all sorts of unexpecteds, I just imagined that they'd all come after mile 60 or so - in hindsight, this was truly the unexpected.



Culprit #2 - the new trail shoes. Culprit #1, the old trail shoes, faced an immediate wastebasket execution post-race.

Though I had to look at pictures to be sure, as my memory is kind of fuzzy for certain parts of the race (there are definitely some memories between mile 75-79 that my subconscious has blocked out), I decided to change back into my old trail shoes at the mile 45 aid station. At this point, it was on my mind that my feet would likely be a determining factor in the race, and because I started to feel them acting up after having put on the new shoes, it seemed my older trail shoes were the safest bet. The miles that followed this change were some of the most hopeful, exciting miles of the race for me.

Evening was approaching and I was in the zone. I had been looking forward to the falling of darkness before the race even started, and I was ready for it. All of my longest training runs had gone into the midnight hours, and as these hours had been my favorites by far, I had built up a near giddy anticipation for the strange experience that I knew was in store for me. This excitement was only the greater because I had been hearing from other racers how often the night hours are dreaded by ultrarunners, as mental strength typically falls and later rises with the sun, and I just knew that my alternative training practices had left me unusually well prepared for the challenge. Besides (as I joked with several runners), fresh out of pulling countless all-nighters for papers in college, I was in the best shape of my life, sleep-cycle-wise, for such an ordeal.

In hindsight, I think this excitement for the night helped me not think about my feet as much, which was a welcome mental relief. At that point, they were nagging (the pain was stemming from the arch, especially my left foot, though the pain quickly shot to the whole of both feet after the concrete that was to come), but I was still confident that I'd find my way across the line. By the time I saw Dad at mile 50, I informed him that the feet would basically be our main focus for the remainder of the race. Though I had mentioned them at mile 45, and we'd broken out the Ibuprofen for them, the five miles since then had been downhill and mostly on concrete, which had made things a bit worse.

This is the part of the story where I have to stop and simply state that my dad deserves a Nobel Peace Prize or something. Maybe a Purple Heart would be more fitting, because every time I saw him from mile 50 and onwards, I would give the aid station director my number and then walk directly to my truck, where I'd plop down on the tailgate, pull my feet out of my shoes, and...gulp...have my dad massage them with an analgesic ointment and Vaseline. All I can say is what a trooper that guy is. He didn't even bat an eye, probably because he knew that I wouldn't be asking for it if it wasn't absolutely necessary. As he would work one foot, I'd be loosening the other and then prepping my bag for the next leg of the race.

While I'd been able to jog the downhills up until this point, it was a couple miles past the 50 mile mark that I got the feeling that my running miles were over. I'm proud to admit that, oddly enough, I wasn't really phased at being relegated to walking for the remaining 48 miles of the race. Because I had plenty of time, I knew that finishing within the 30 hour cutoff wasn't going to be an issue; I just would need to focus on getting in and out of the aid stations more efficiently, so as to leave as much time for me to walk as slow a pace as I might have to, if it came down to that at the very end.

To be continued tomorrow...