Epic Exhaustion

Preface:  After months of planning, the Senoia 60 Distance Festival—an event designed to test a runner’s limits by seeing how far they can push themselves over the course of 60 hours—was less than 12 hours away.  I had every volunteer’s assignment meticulously outlined and every detail of the event accounted for.  Everything was ready and I was so confident in my choreography that I would be able to compete in my own event. 

That’s when it dawned on me: The only thing not ready was me.  Not only was I exhausted from the last week of preparation for the event—buying the food and drinks, marking the course, touching base with all the volunteers, assigning bib numbers, etc.—I didn’t have any time to rest or focus on my own personal plan of attack for running for a very long time.    

The night before the Senoia 60 Distance Festival I was asked about my goals between the 6 a.m. Friday start and the 6 p.m. Sunday finish.

Never being the type to broadcast my goals prior to the start of a running event I opted to type them on a piece of paper, fold it in an envelope and ask that it not be opened until after the Senoia 60 had come and gone.  I figured worst case I had plenty of time to come up with some plausible reasons why I was a complete and utter failure and why running for 60 hours was stupid.

Even if running for 60 hours was my idea in the first place.

Then again it’s not like I’ve never done stupid things before. This certainly wasn’t my first rodeo: Running for 60 hours was just the latest in a long litany of really stupid things I’ve tried over the years.  Some turned out pretty well; others left a lot to be desired.  But one thing’s for sure: They’ve all left me with something to remember them by.  Fantastic finishes, beautiful locales and wonderful people, to name a few.

Then there are the numerous scars, occasional aches and lingering pains, to name a few more.  I couldn’t help but wonder what running for 60 hours would add to my resume.  But I was more than ready to find out.

I wanted to see if I could literally run to the point of exhaustion. 

Let’s get this party started

Here are a few things you should do if you’re planning on running in a 60-hour event:

1.     Let someone else be the Race Director

2.     Get a good night’s sleep the night before the race

3.     Be healthy

4.     Be young (optional)

Let’s see how I did.  As I mentioned previously, the race was my idea so it should be no surprise that I was the Race Director.  I woke up at 1:11 a.m. race morning; I had the alarm set for 3:20.  I was in the worst physical shape of my life (more on that later).  The only people who consider me young either voted for JFK or believe I am JFK.  I guess that makes me oh-for-four. 

What the hell was I thinking? 

At least I had Kelly to keep me company for the next 60 hours. 

Friday

I’ve known Kelly for over 20 years.  Her sense of humor and devil-may-care attitude keeps me in stitches, always a good thing.  When we run together her relentless pace also keeps me in stitches, just not the same kind and not always such a good thing.

We ran side-by-side Friday for almost 60 miles, laughing, reminiscing and wondering if we were going to be functional by Sunday.  Keep in mind Kelly is much younger than me, is in much better health, is NOT the Race Director and ‘slept like a baby’ the night before and you can imagine what was going through my brain. Evil thoughts of imminent doom and embarrassing failure in an event I created to test my limits; limits that might be reached well before I thought they would.  I wondered to myself why I couldn’t settle for a more reasonable timed event, like 12 hours or maybe even 24.  I guess I’ve always been an overachiever: Let’s see if I can put my money where my mouth should never have been in the first place. 

We started by running the 8-05-mile loop (there was also a 2.45-mile option) that we ran almost entirely using a flashlight because it was still dark outside.  We noticed the odor of a dead skunk around the two-mile mark and hoped it would be gone the next time we passed through.  It wasn’t.  On our third loop it was still there with one noticeable difference: The skunk raised its head, looked directly at us and had a ‘kill me’ expression on its face.  Apparently the skunk had been struck by a car but didn’t die.  From that point on we opted for the shorter loop so we wouldn’t have to see the skunk suffer because none of us had the stomach for putting the poor creature out of its misery.  Throughout the day we told the other runners we chose the shorter loop ‘because the skunk moved.’     

Kelly called it quits for the day around midnight.  I opted for one more 8.05-mile loop (the skunk somehow managed to crawl off the asphalt road) with Patrick, another runner who stayed with Kelly and I most of the day.  When Patrick hallucinated (blueberry bushes in the middle of the asphalt road!) he decided he needed some sleep when we finished the loop.  Just as I was thinking how I’d never hallucinated in my life I saw two runners in the bushes on the side of the road exchanging gear.  When I did a double-take they were gone.  Bet you can’t guess who else decided they needed some sleep; 67 miles would have to suffice for the first day. 

Saturday

After sleeping for two hours on the concrete floor of the pavilion, realizing it was too cold (50 degrees) to sleep outside and moving to the comfort of my truck for another two hours I woke up around 6 a.m. Saturday morning only to discover I had a blister on the ball of my left foot.  Not having had a blister since a cherry tomato appeared between my toes while running through Death Valley over 12 years ago I wasn’t sure what to do.  I took one of the safety pins off my race number and pierced the blister, but no blood or water came oozing out; only air.  I still couldn’t walk on my left foot.  Then I wrapped my foot in duct tape, something I hadn’t done since shredding my left foot while running in the Sierra Nevada’s (I told you I ran in some beautiful locales!) over nine years ago; that didn’t seem to make a difference either.  Then Ron, who had run with Kelly, Patrick and I quite a few miles on Friday told me he once wore a beer coozie over his sore foot in a race and he was able to make it to the finish line.  Luckily he had one in his van for me to try (along with two dozen wardrobe changes, every medicinal supply you can find in a drug store and enough gadgets to open his own Radio Shack—the man could live in his van if he had to).     

You may laugh, but the coozie worked like a charm.  Here’s how it’s done (clip and save):

·      Remove shoe and sock.

·      Wear the coozie on the end of your foot* as you would a condom on the end of a banana.

·      Put sock and shoe back on. 

·      Run.

*If your foot is wider than the coozie, slit one or two areas of the coozie and then wrap everything in duct tape.  Duct tape fixes everything.

 Everything except size-10 air blisters, apparently.

After running primarily the longer loop on Friday, we opted for the shorter loop on Saturday—it reduced the time between rest breaks by 70%--and ran quite a few of them with Dan, who would go on to win the event with 157 miles. 

For the most part the day was a blur, but I do remember Ron saying he was ‘slapped in the face with exhaustion’ at some point.  Kelly however misinterpreted what he said and wondered where someone found an egg sausage to slap him with and before you knew it all of us were laughing so hard our stomachs hurt more than they already did from running for well over a day and a half.  

I guess what I’m trying to convey is this: We were all getting a bit punch-drunk from being on our feet for so long.

In other words, everything and everyone was flat out hilarious.  It almost made me forget how much pain I was in.

Almost. 

Sunday

Four hours of oft-interrupted sleep in the truck and I was ready to finish the last day with both barrels blazing.  The home stretch…the last hurrah…I wanted to do everything in my power to author an appropriate denouement to my running career.    

Earlier I mentioned I was in the worst physical shape of my life.  What I mean by that is my body as a composite—all of the moving parts from top to bottom—have never been more discombobulated that they are right now.  It would be easier to list the body parts that don’t hurt or ache than those that do:

·      What doesn’t hurt: My nose.

·      What does hurt: Everything else. 

At least my foot coozie was still doing its thing (when all was said and done I ran a total of 85 miles with the coozie on my foot—quick, someone call Guinness).  Kelly ran a personal best 120 miles, all of them with me (prior to that the most I had ever run with one person was 100 miles, so this was a personal best of sorts for me as well).   

I mentioned writing my goals for the event prior to the start and I’ll get to them right after I tell you about another goal I set in my delirium yesterday as I was laughing about Ron getting slapped in the face with an egg sausage: I wanted to run more than 140.6 miles.  Why?  Because that’s the total distance of an Ironman (2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bicycle ride, 26.2-mile run) and I thought it would be neat to design a T-shirt with this on the front:

·      You covered 140.6 miles and for 112 of them you were sitting on your butt?  How cute.

And this on the back:

·      I ran 151.9 miles at the Senoia Distance Festival.  On foot. 

(Sorry if I offended any triathletes.  I just found it funny at the time.  Still do, actually.)

  

I finished the weekend with (as I just mentioned) 151.9 miles, a total that achieved one of my goals: To run farther than I ever have before. 

Another goal I achieved was to get ultras out of my system, once and for all.  After several years of trying, I believe I’ve finally been successful.  I’ve had more than my fair share of ibuprofen, Vaseline, salt tablets and aid station fare for one lifetime. 

Another was to run myself literally to the point of exhaustion.  I’ll admit my mind got there first, but my body wasn’t far behind.  As I write this four days later I’m still in recovery mode (both mind and body), looking forward to when everything returns to being functional. 

Finally, I wanted to go out with a bang as a Race Director.  Based on the post-race comments of those in attendance I believe I was successful.  The Senoia 60 was the perfect three-day running weekend, if I do say so myself.   I wouldn’t change a thing. 

In all probability the Senoia 60 will be the last race I ever direct, the last ultra I ever run and will serve as the perfect denouement to my running career.

 I’m 60 years old.

It was the 60^th race I’ve directed. 

60 hours is the ideal window of time to test one’s limits.  At least for me it was.  I’m exhausted.     

Senoia 60 Running Festival 2015 - Final Results

Runner		Friday	Saturday	Sunday	TOTAL
Dan Dunstan		74.2	47.95	35	157.15
Scott Ludwig		67.9	44.1	39.9	151.9
Ron Clay		49.35	43.05	29.4	121.8
Kelly Murzynsky		59.85	34.3	25.9	120.05
Karen Pearson		48.3	42.7	19.6	110.6
Don Gibson		48.3	42.7	19.6	110.6
Keith Kettrey		45.15	33.95	26.95	106.05
Mike Haviland		50.05	36.75	14.7	101.5
Eric Stanley		45.15	40.25	16.1	101.5
Patrick Garner		67.9	33.25	0	101.15
Don Carpenter		41.65	34.3	24.5	100.45
Bill Miller		40.25	26.6	14.7	81.55
Keith Hedger		26.6	26.6	26.6	79.8
Lisa Grippe		71.4	0	0	71.4
Anne Rentz		34.65	21	10.5	66.15
Adamy Diaz-Carpenter		25.2	24.5	14.7	64.4
Marilou Ledford		62.3	0	0	62.3
Brooke Wood		62.3	0	0	62.3
George Southgate		33.95	27.65	0	61.6
Chris Kettrey		18.55	25.9	7.35	51.8
Kristen Powell		50.75	0	0	50.75
Chris Lowery		0	50.75	0	50.75
Colum Lowery		0	50.75	0	50.75
Lynn Holtam		39.9	7.35	0	47.25
Roscoe Douglas		0	17.15	26.95	44.1
Diane Bolton		0	0	42	42
Dann Fisher		38.15	0	0	38.15
Katrina Parker		0	27.65	0	27.65
Paul Nyholm		0	26.95	0	26.95
Malisa Anderson-Strait		0	12.95	0	12.95

Best Boy Ever

Cancer is a terrible thing.

I’ve known far too many people whose lives have been impacted by this horrible disease.

 Cancer Sucks. 

It was like any other weekday morning.  I woke up early, drank two cups of coffee and headed out to the garage to put on my running shoes.  Just like any other day of the week. 

What made this particular day over 13 years ago different was that Cindy was already awake.  Rarely was she awake when I got back from my morning run, let alone before.  On this day Cindy was awake to warn me that there was something in the garage that hadn’t been there yesterday.  Something our son Justin had found on the side of the road in nearby Brooks the night before.

I saw it the instant I opened the door leading into the garage: The tiniest kitten I’d ever seen with bright blue eyes and fur as white as snow.  As I got a closer look I noticed the kitten was covered with so many fleas I would have believed you if you told me it had fallen into a mound of black pepper.  I’ll admit at first glance I thought it was a white rat—it was that small—but when I realized it was a kitten I immediately wondered how it would get along with our female black lab Magic that up until now had been an ‘only child’ the entire 10 years of her life.  (It was rather obvious to me that Cindy planned on keeping him.  Not that I would have wanted it any other way, mind you.) 

It didn’t take long to see that the kitten—whom we named Maui because we felt certain he had been born while we were taking a family vacation on the island of the same name a few weeks earlier—loved Magic.  Let me back up for a second: At first Maui loved to torment Magic.  Maui swiped his paws at Magic’s tail with his talons fully exposed, jumped on the back of her neck and held on for dear life and made it perfectly clear that Magic was his very own private scratching post.  Maui couldn’t have been more attracted to Magic if she was stuffed with catnip and smelled like tuna. 

But it was soon evident that Maui loved Magic.  It was also clear that it was a two-way street.  They became the best of friends and were practically inseparable.  Watching the two of them together could bring a smile to your face, a tear to your eye and melt your heart.  Sometimes all at the same time.    

Their friendship lasted a little more than four years, up until the day Magic crossed the Rainbow Bridge. But it was abundantly clear that Magic had made quite the impression on Maui.  Many of Maui’s mannerisms bore a strong similarity to those of our late black lab: Sitting patiently while Cindy and/or I ate, hoping yet not necessarily expecting a bite or two; gently holding out a paw, his way of asking us to pet him; or lying silently by my feet as if it was his responsibility and his alone to make sure I was safe and sound.

Cindy and I called Maui by a number of nicknames: The Mau, Mister Mau and Mau-Mau being the top three.  But one thing I called Maui that only I called him was ‘The Best Boy Ever.’  As I think about it now, I couldn’t have been more accurate.  Maui was indeed the perfect cat.  I honestly can’t think of a single time that he did something to annoy me or get under my skin.  I already mentioned Maui—in his (Magic’s?) own way--ASKED for food and ASKED to be petted.  Whatever he did—and he did plenty—he never did anything to get on my bad side.  When he held out his paw and gently tapped my arm I could almost read his mind: ‘I hate to bother you but if you have some time I would really, really appreciate you petting me on my head.  If it’s no trouble, of course.’      

What you may have gathered by now is this: Maui never did any of the irritating things that the other four cats in our house were known for.  Maui never insisted on being on my lap like our second cat Molly does every single time I sit down.  He never went where he didn’t belong—into the garage or inside the dryer like our third cat Millie.  He never bumped the other cats out of the way because he thought I should be petting him and not them, like our fourth cat Moe.  And he never jumped on my lap while I was eating dinner and swished his tail over my mashed potatoes like our fifth cat Morgan does way too often.  I might add that there wouldn’t have been those four other cats in the first (second, third and fourth) place had Maui not opened the door for them.  Actually Maui didn’t open the door; he opened the floodgate.    

Maui spent his time doing things that I can only wish all cats did.  Sitting in his familiar spot at the top of the stairs watching over things to make sure everyone was safe and sound.  Eating all the cat treats so none were left on the floor where someone might accidentally step on them.  Sitting patiently in front of the water bowl, his subtle way of telling me all five cats wanted fresh water.  (It was obvious the other cats looked up to Maui, a testament to his age, wisdom and character.) 

It was also obvious how much Maui loved Cindy.  Whenever Cindy walked into the house Maui would come out from wherever he was (usually behind the recliner at the top of the stairs), walk up to her and look at her with his big blue eyes, then patiently and silently wait for her to reach down and pet him on the head.  I rarely greeted Cindy with a ‘How was your day?’ or ‘What do you want for dinner?’  Rather it was always ‘Talk to the Mau.’  (Ask her if you don’t believe me.)  I just thought Maui deserved that simple acknowledgement because he made it a point to welcome her home; you could call it my testament to his age, wisdom and character. 

As I said in the beginning, cancer is a terrible thing.  I’ve known far too many people whose lives have been impacted by this horrible disease.  Everyone is well aware of the phrase ‘Cancer Sucks.’  But here’s something everyone may not be aware of: Cancer doesn’t just suck for humans.  Cancer sucks for cats as well, even more so when it happens to one of the good ones. 

Like Maui.

A cat doesn’t have the capacity to understand why they suddenly have so much trouble drinking water from the faucet…or using their litter box…or jumping up on the sofa…or breathing.  A cat will never comprehend why they suddenly can’t remember where their meals are served…or where their litter box is…or why they no longer have any appetite for cat treats.

All Maui knew was that he wasn’t well.  Every time he looked at me with those big blue eyes I knew he was asking me to do something to make it all better.  I took him to the finest animal hospital in the area hoping they could determine what was wrong so they could do what Mai and I wished for: To make it all better.

They accomplished the former—it was indeed cancer--but there was no hope for the latter.  Any possibility of ‘making it all better’ would entail an endless series of painful treatment, a litany of unfavorable side effects and absolutely no guarantee of a true cure.  I could tell by the look in the doctors’ eyes they didn’t have a lot of optimism for a good outcome. 

While no decision of this nature is an easy one, Cindy and I made the one we knew to be the right one.

As I remember Maui in the days and weeks ahead I’m not going to remember his labored breathing that could be heard throughout the house, how he wet the basement floor because he could no longer hop into the litter box or that he turned up his nose at his favorite snack of all time.

Rather I’m going to remember the cat that was so difficult to pick up I called him by another of his many nicknames, Mercury Cat, because he was damn near impossible to pick up (try picking up mercury with your fingers sometimes).  I’m going to remember how proud he was when he made his way to the top of the five-foot dresser in the bedroom (although I know he used the chair next to it as a ‘step stool’), showing he was indeed ‘King of the Jungle.’  I’m going to remember the little white kitten who warmed our hearts so many years ago every single time I pet one of our cats because I know that if it weren’t for Maui there would have never been a Millie, Molly, Moe or Morgan.

Most of all I’m going to remember him as the Best Boy Ever. 

Junk Mail*

*Formerly known as Random Thoughts and a FFFYPDK

First, why the name change?  Two reasons: (1) Why not?  (2) No one suggested anything better. 

Next, why is it called junk mail?  Like most junk mail it’s not imperative that you read it, unless you’re into 90-minute timeshare presentations, extending your magazine subscriptions or saving the planet, one dime at a time.  However, if you’re a glutton for punishment, then junk mail is right up your alley (as you’ll soon find out).

·      My grandson (barely two months into first grade) and I were in the yard the other day when he noticed a mushroom growing in a flower pot.  I told him I didn’t remember him planting any mushroom seeds, and he proceeded to tell me about fungus and spores and that there are no such things as mushroom seeds.  I immediately realized my days of making sh*t up when I’m explaining things to my grandson are over.

·      Why isn’t there a merit badge in Boy Scouts for cynicism?  They already give one for golf and it’s almost the same thing.  And by ‘almost the same thing’ I mean ‘equally invaluable.’       

·      A couple phrases I heard lately worth sharing:

I laughed so hard tears ran down my leg.

Eating makeup won’t make you look pretty on the inside.

Stupid should hurt.

·      My dentist said I needed a crown and I was like ‘I know, right?’

·      I always get a kick out of a doctor taking an X-ray of some part of my body and saying ‘as you can clearly see’ while showing me what appears to be a Rorschach test. The only thing I clearly see is that he doesn’t understand I didn’t graduate from medical school.  Hell, I just barely passed the MCAT.  

·      On a similar note, I have the same sense of being lost in space when our IT guy at work explains to me what is wrong with my computer.  Here’s what I literally hear him saying: ‘Blah blah blah blah BLAH blah blah BLAH fixed now BLAH blah blah.’  At some point—usually after the 8^th or 9^th ‘blah’ I click on the mouse, verify the fix is in place and say ‘thank you,’ which he may or not hear depending on whether or not he is finished talking.   

·      My friend’s 89-year old stepfather lives in a bedroom at the back of her house.  The other day she walked in the front door and he met her in the middle of the house brandishing a loaded gun saying ‘next time let me know you’re in the house.’  I told her the next time she needed someone to feed her dogs while she was away to let me know.  I have a long list of people I could send over.

·      If I were President of the United States I would designate the Bull Sh*t Police (BSP).  They would be responsible for literally doling out bitch slaps to anyone engaged in bull sh*t.  Immediately coming to mind are people who don’t use their turn signals, fail to remove their hats during the Pledge of Allegiance at sporting events and/or exceed the limit in the express lane at the supermarket.  Interested in being one of the BSP?  The line starts here. 

·      ___________________________________________________________ (Official BSP signup line)

·      My favorite song changes all the time.  Today it’s Conquistador by Procul Harum.  Last week it was Deep Purple’s Woman from Tokyo.  I blame this conundrum on ear wax.  I blame my use of the word ‘conundrum’ on a desire to appear much smarter than I actually am.  I blame ear wax on Q-tips.     

·      This morning I found a Brussel sprout in my pocket.  It may have been there for a while since it was my back pocket and I don’t have a reason to go there very often other than to check for Brussel sprouts. 

·      I used to carry a rabbit’s foot around for luck.  Actually it was four feet as they were still connected to the rabbit.  Technically it wasn’t a rabbit, but a rat with really long ears and missing a tail.  Long story.  Probably best you forget I mentioned this altogether.   

·      The world would be a better place if no one spoke during a Barry White song.     

·      Does anyone else think when sideline reporters speak during college football telecasts it is the verbal equivalent of ‘tripping over your own d*ck.’  (That would be figuratively speaking, Ron Jeremy.  Not literally.)  As President I would make this Priority One for my newly-created BSP.   

·      It would be cool if every so often the Star Spangled Anthem was replaced by In A Gadda Da Vida.  Not the short version; rather the 17-minute one they play on the satellite stations.

·      When people used to ask me ‘Do you know what I don’t understand?’  I would always say ‘Logarithms?’  I have since replaced ‘logarithms’ with ‘the spread offense.’  It works just as well.  That is to say using the phrase, not the spread offense.  I still lean towards the triple option. 

·      Empire is nothing more than a musical version of Dynasty minus the Moldavian Wedding Massacre.  So far, anyway. 

·      The more I read on WebMD, the sicker I feel.  I have WebMDmentia.

·      Silence, please.  I hear You’re the First, My Last, My Everything playing in the other room.    

·      For those of you confused by ‘I laughed so hard tears ran down my leg,’ give it time.  One day you’ll understand.  Everyone does, eventually. 

·      I heard a rule of thumb when it comes to spring cleaning: If you haven’t worn or used something in a year you should get rid of it.  When I mentioned this to someone they suggested something I should get rid of.  I responded by telling them I still needed it to laugh.