Western States Endurance Run (for Dummies like Me)

Seven (as well as nine) years ago today I was in Squaw Valley, totally out of my element.  I was on the starting line of the Western States Endurance Run. 

Some of you may not be familiar, so let me refer to the event’s website to explain: 

The Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run is the world’s oldest and most prestigious 100-mile trail race.

Starting in Squaw Valley, California near the site of the 1960 Winter Olympics and ending 100.2 miles later in Auburn, California, Western States, in the decades since its inception in 1974, has come to represent one of the ultimate endurance tests in the world.

The only word you need to focus on is ‘trail,’ because if you’re natural running environment is asphalt (that being the case with me), running a race of any distance—let alone 100 miles—on trails can be quite the challenge.

Western States is not just any trail.  For almost the first five miles of the race the route takes the runners directly up a mountain.  Not just any mountain: the initial climb of 2,550 vertical feet up to Emigrant Pass at an elevation of 8,750 feet leaves you breathless and a with a sudden case of ‘sausage fingers,’ a phrase that is hard to explain but easy to understand when you see it in action (the extreme altitude and exertion causes your fingers to swell to the size of a rather large sausage link—scary shit if you’re not used to it, which I’m not).

My first attempt running Western States in 2004 was a dismal failure.  Although I was well ahead of the pace required to complete the race within the 30-hour time limit, my knees had absorbed such a pounding from running up and down and up and down and up and up and up (and down) that I was forced to surrender after 62 miles.  Ironically, from what I was led to believe by the veterans of the event, the heavy lifting was over once you reached the 62-mile mark.  The last 38 miles were ‘gravy.’

Two years later I would return, only to discover for myself that those veterans had been lying to me.

At the very least the final 38 miles were just as difficult as the first 62.  At least I believe they were; it was a little hard to tell for sure because I ran a great portion of them in the dark.  At Western States you’re allowed to utilize a pacer (another runner—ideally fresh and rested who can run with you and make sure you don’t do anything stupid like fall off the side of a mountain) after 55 miles if you reach that point after the sun goes down (which I did).  Danielle did an outstanding job keeping me on pace, on course and on track to finish under 30 hours.  Western States has a series of checkpoints along the course that you must reach within a certain time limit; if you don’t you are unceremoniously removed from the race.  Although I was barely dodging bullets (hitting the checkpoints with only a minute or two to spare) throughout the night and into the morning, I was still in fact dodging each and every bullet!   After 38 miles of watching over me, Danielle’s problem with her foot forced her to turn the pacing duties over to Susan for the final seven miles.  After reaching the 94-mile checkpoint in time, I ran my a** off for the next three miles and hit the 97-mile checkpoint with a 15-minute cushion.  That was the good news.

The bad news: I was totally exhausted.

The good news: Once you reach the 97-mile checkpoint within the allotted time, you can take as much time as you want/like/need to get to the finish line.

The bad news: I did.

The good news: I still had enough gas in the tank to run the last 300 yards to the finish line banner on the high school track in Auburn and received a rousing ovation for being the absolute last finisher of the race.  My time?  30:16:58.

After having a finisher’s medal placed around my neck, reporters from several local television stations interviewed me.  Although I didn’t attend the awards ceremony, a friend of mine did and when I woke up from the nap I took in my hotel room literally minutes after my interviews, I found a framed print lying on my chest, the award given for my position in the race.  Apparently finishing in last place at Western States is a pretty prestigious thing.

Knowing what I went through to get there, it damn well should be.

Just ask everyone who didn’t make it.  

I want YOUR comments in my next book!!!

Hello everyone, 

I would love to contributions from all of you for my next book, My Life has been everything but BUY THE BOOK (working title).  You may have seen some of the stories that will be included in the book on this very blog; if not now is a good time to familiarize yourself to a few of them.  All that being said, you should have an idea of what you should expect to find in the book. 

SO, if you would like to contribute a comment, a review, an opinion, etc. about the book please do.  I will select those appropriate (i.e. IF I LIKE THEM!) for the book and include them, and I'll make sure you (the contributor) gets the recognition for them (so make sure you spell your name correctly...and NO ALIASES!). 

• If I get a FEW I'll include them on the back cover.

• If I get a LOT I'll dedicate several pages at the beginning of the book to them.

• If I don't get ANY I'll simply make up a few of my own.

Either way, EVERYONE WINS!   

I'll need your comments, etc. no later than midnight on the 4th of July.  I look forward to hearing from you all (except you, Roman) soon!!!  Look immediately below this entry--you'll see where to send me your submissions!


Thanks to all!

LSD (Another free sample from the upcoming BUY THE BOOK)

(Please note that this will be the last free sample.  With a little luck the book will be available later this summer so you can get your own copy and quit trolling this blog for freebies!)

1982.  It was the year my first son Justin was born.  It was the year I started running in the morning as opposed to the afternoon.  It was the year my life changed forever.  It was the year I fell prey…to LSD.

It wasn’t long before I started showing signs of being heavily into LSD.  Falling asleep before 9 p.m.  Passing out in the lounge chair when I got home from work.  Nodding off in meetings during the day.  Waking up well before the roosters to take care of my running addiction. (What?  You thought I was going to say lysergic acid diethylamide?  Heck, I just told you one paragraph ago what I was doing in the mornings!  Do I have to s-p-e-l-l-i-t-o-u-t-f-o-r-y-o-u?)  LSD.  Long-term Sleep Deprivation. 

Ever since I started setting my alarm for 3:30 a.m. (for a two-year period in the late ‘80’s I was setting my alarm an hour earlier than that) I haven’t been much for late nights.  In fact my normal bedtime is now 9:30.  On a good night that gives me a full six hours of sleep.  Having done that for the past three decades, six hours has become my equivalent of eight hours and 43 minutes.  (I read that’s how much sleep   the average American gets a night.  I can tell you right now I don’t know any average Americans.)  On weekends I stay up all the way until 10 p.m., seeing as I get to sleep in on weekends until 4 a.m.  I average two days a year of (again, my equivalent) of really sleeping in: the day after Thanksgiving and one other random day during the year (usually when my body is on the brink of exhaustion).  On those days I might not wake up until 6:30 or so, only to feel like my body has a touch of rigor mortis from being asleep so long (usually a little over seven hours). 

I don’t like Eastern Daylight Time as I’m very capable of going to bed before the sun goes down (and conversely I love it when the time changes and it’s dark before 6 p.m.).  My boys used to tuck me in when they were small.  I can’t sit on a chair or a couch in a reclining position for fear (read: guarantee) of falling asleep (Note: It doesn’t have to be my chair or couch, as I’ve been known to take my show on the road).  A catnap of three minutes has proven to rejuvenate me.  If I wake up before the alarm goes off I can fall back asleep—even if I wake up, look over at the clock and realize I only have one more minute until it sounds.  Yes, all symptoms of LSD.  However, I prefer to call it my gift.  I can virtually sleep on command.  One time in the middle of an intense workout on the track I stopped for water, lied down on my back and promptly fell asleep.  Another time I finished a 24-hour run and within 30 seconds after the gun sounded signifying the end of the event I lied down on the course and promptly fell asleep.  I fell asleep during a parent-teacher conference with Justin's third grade teacher (not to worry--Cindy stayed awake).  One time lying next to Cindy in bed I told her I could fall asleep before she got to the end of the next sentence she was about to say to me; I did.  Like I said, a gift. 

I’ve got to be honest and tell you that sleep is precious to me.  Six hours is a lotttt so when I have the opportunity to squeeze in a nap or two during the day—even if it’s only for a couple of minutes each time well, every little bit helps. 

There are not many things for which I would sacrifice sleep.  In fact, here’s a complete list with the most likely thing I would sacrifice sleep for listed first and everything else listed in descending order:

·      My grandson

·      Natural disasters

·      *Any medical emergency involving Cindy that would preclude her from driving herself to the hospital

·      My job/My daily run

·      University of Florida football game

·      Survivor finale

·      University of Florida basketball game (NCAA tournament game only)

·      Sex

*Just kidding.  I would actually wake up and call for an ambulance.

December 6, 2008 - A Cold Day in Hell

(A very brief excerpt from Distance Memories)

On the drive home I noticed on the car’s thermometer that the temperature was a robust 20 degrees, and the wind was howling.  I was glad to be inside the car, with the heater blowing and maintaining a comfortable 74 degrees—very comfortable in a windbreaker.

As we drove through the tiny town of Tyrone, a few miles north of our home in Peachtree City, Cindy reminded me how the local police have a propensity for ticketing those who would dare drive above the speed limit of 55 on the four-lane through their fair town.  Seconds later I saw blue lights flashing up ahead on the right side of the road.  As it was early on a Sunday morning, there wasn’t any traffic, but there was another police car sitting in the median of the road to my left.  As I approached the flashing light on the right side of the road, I started to move from the right-hand lane to the left-hand lane (state law: if there is an emergency vehicle on the side of any road with more than one lane, you are required to move completely over to another lane if you’re able).    

As I was gradually moving over one lane—away from the flashing blue lights, Cindy said something about a car to my left.  I thought she meant there was a car rapidly approaching me from behind in the lane I was about to move into, so I held my ground, essentially ‘straddling’ the white lane in the middle of the two southbound lanes.  She was actually referring to the police vehicle sitting in the median off to the left. 

About 30 seconds later there was another set of flashing blue lights—directly in my rear view mirror.  Cindy noticed the blue lights as well, and asked if I was doing the speed limit.  I looked at my dashboard—I was doing 54 miles an hour, it was 18 degrees outside, and it was 1:28 a.m. in the morning.  I pulled off to the right side of the road, the police car pulling in right behind me.  The blue lights were still flashing.

I rolled down my window.  One of Tyrone’s finest asked for my license, registration and insurance.  He also asked if I had been drinking.  I said I had the equivalent of one beer almost four hours ago.  It went downhill from there.

Intrigued?  I hope so.  You know how to get the rest of the story!!!

BUY THE BOOK and SUPPORT THE AMERICAN CANCER SOCIETY

and THE AMERICAN HEART ASSOCIATION as all royalties from the sale

of the book are divided between these two organizations.    

  

Peachtree, OCD and Me

(From Distance Memories: Reflections of a Life on the Run)

My shirts hang in my closet divided into two distinct sections: one for long-sleeved shirts and one for short-sleeved shirts.  These two sections are then arranged according to color.

My compact disc collection is alphabetized.  One of these days I’ll sub-divide my CD’s according to genre (rock and roll, alternative, disco…hey, I’m being serious here!).  I’m currently listening to every single one of my CD’s in alphabetical order (by artist) from start to finish, only because one day my wife told me ‘You’ll never listen to all those CD’s.’   (I started in April 2008 and am currently on ‘Pearl Jam’) 

My DVD’s?  Alphabetized as well--by title.  Then by genre (horror, action, drama and comedy, in case you’re interested). 

I’ve logged every mile I’ve ever run, always to the nearest tenth of a mile.  I’ve also logged the start time of each run, rounded to the nearest five-minute increment (4:35 a.m.—not 4:33 or 4:36).  Unless it’s a race in which someone else dictates the actual start time, I make sure I actually begin my run ‘on the five.’

Speaking of running, I’ve now run every single day for 30 years, seven months and five days. 

I mention all of this to explain why this morning I am running in the 6.2 mile Peachtree Road Race.  After all, I’ve run in the race every year since 1979, the year I moved to Atlanta, and it would be an absolute shame to mess up a good dose of obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) after three decades.

As I find myself lined up in the corral with other runners (like myself) wearing bibs in the 30,000 range (It seems like yesterday I had a three-digit number.  Ever since I destroyed my body at Western States in 2004, the memories of ever having any semblance of speed are now just that: memories), I can think of a million places I’d rather be.  Home in bed.  Running safely on the trails in my neighborhood.  Watching television.  Getting a root canal.    

The lady in front of me can’t be taller than four foot nine, sporting more cellulite in her legs than I’ve seen on an entire season of Nip/Tuck. 

There are a few runners sporting more gear—camelback drinking systems, fuel belts, MP3 players, gels—than I’ve seen on runners preparing to run a 100 mile adventure run.  Solo.

A heavyset young man (approximately 280 pounds and 32 years of age, respectively) is pressing forward while barking out ‘pregnant lady behind me’ in hopes that the runners in front of him will part and allow him to pass towards the front of the corral.  Surprisingly so, the runners did part, and 20 other ‘pregnant ladies’ followed right behind him and made their way to the front. 

I overhear one young man telling an older woman that he has a friend who ran an entire marathon’ which, if she didn’t know was ’26 miles and 385 yards.’  Capitalizing on the amazed expression on the older woman’s face, the young man added ‘heck, I even have a hard time with 5K, which is three miles and 385 yards.’  Trying to impress the young man, the older woman said she knew of ‘a race in Peachtree City in October that is nine miles, which I think is doable.’  Stimulating conversation, for sure.

As recent as seven years ago I was lining up ten feet behind the front-running Kenyans.  Hell, now I’m not even lining up for the Peachtree Road Race on Peachtree Street.  My corral is lined up on Lenox Avenue, for crying out loud.

Why am I here?  Like I said, I’m running Peachtree for the 31^st consecutive time.  I’m blaming it on my OCD.  It’s the only explanation that remotely makes any sense.

The race begins promptly at 7:30 a.m.  For the first wave of runners, that is.  Lord knows what wave I’m actually about to be a part of.

I soon find out my group’s ‘official’ starting time is 7:47, about the time the frontrunners will be well past the three-mile split on Heartbreak Hill.

Once we begin, I find myself walking and running (mostly walking) for a mile or so.  I’m dodging men dressed as Chippendale dancers.  (Their costumes look great, by the way.  But please don’t ask me about their bodies.)  There is the usual assortment of guys carrying American flags.  I angle my body sideways to squeeze between a pair of 300 pounders and find some open space in which to run.  Again, I wonder ‘why am I here?’

Remembering why (OCD, remember?), I decide that next year I will make it my mission to have a qualifying time to ensure I will be starting my Peachtree Road Race on Peachtree Street…not freakin’ Lenox Avenue.

I recall it takes a sub-50 minute 10K qualifier to be seeded in a time group corral at Peachtree.  Knowing that Peachtree is the only 10K I run during the year at this point in my life, I realize after my opening 10-minute mile I’ve got to pick up the pace a bit the remaining five miles to have a chance of finishing under 50 minutes.

I meander in and out of countless runners and walkers; walkers with numbers in the 80,000’s and 90,000’s who apparently started their Peachtree well before 7:30 a.m.  Several runners spot an aid station on the side of the road and veer directly in front of me towards the aid station to get a cup of water.  You would think by the look of desperation and/or excitement on their faces that it was the last cup of water on the planet; however, a simple glance at the multitude of tables at each aid station made you realize there was enough water to hydrate a small European country (or two, and perhaps even three). 

There are two local eateries on the left side of the road tossing rolled-up T-shirts to the runners, creating countless melees and unwarranted congestion along the course (Moe’s and Chick-Fil-A, I have two questions: (1) What the hell were you thinking?  (2) Did the Atlanta Track Club actually give you permission to create the havoc you caused?

Speaking of the Atlanta Track Club, 30 years ago I believe the entry fee was $5.  There were maybe 8,000 runners.  Today?  $33 and 55,000 runners, which makes me wonder where the (almost) $2 million goes?  But I digress…

After running well over six point two miles meandering in and out of the human obstacle course that has become the Peachtree Road Race, I cross the finish lines a few seconds under 50 minutes.  Halleluiah--Next year I’ll be starting on Peachtree Street.  After having sworn ‘this will be my last Peachtree’ countless times over the past couple of hours, I’m greeted by the smiling faces of the many volunteers strewn all over Piedmont Park.  I’m no longer wishing I was home in bed or getting a root canal.

I’m handed a finisher’s bag and open it, only to find yet another butt-ugly Peachtree Road Race T-shirt (Lord, I miss the days when only a simple peach adorned front of the shirt).

But then I look around—and find I am completely surrounded by others who are spending their Independence Day morning toiling in the hills, heat and humidity of Atlanta and I remember why I love being in here on the 4^th of July. 

I’ll be back next year to run #32.  After all, I’m a little bit OCD, you know. 

Postscript: This was written in 2010.  In a couple weeks I will run my 35th consecutive

 Peachtree Road Race.  With a sub-seeded number, I might add.