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.