Trail Troubles

Gary's race report from the 2008 Free State 100k trail ultra

Boy, you think you know a trail.

You lavish hundreds, maybe thousands of running hours on it, in all seasons and weathers, flowery to desolate, muddy to snowy, dry to muddy, muddy to muddy. You pick up the trash. You clean it after races. You photograph it. You brag to all your friends how beautiful the trail is.

And then, in the big race, in front of the people you most want to impress – ultrarunners from across the nation – your lovely little trail beats the snot out of you.

This is my sad story of such a race – the 2008 Free State Trail Ultras and Marathon, held on the scenic, yet perfidious North Shore Trail System at Clinton Lake, Lawrence, Kan., home of the mighty Jayhawks.

 

The Saturday, April 26 event featured concurrent 100K and 40-mile races starting at 7 a.m. I ran the hundred, though not so much toward the end. The marathon began at 8.

The course, a 20-mile-and-change loop, snakes and writhes through old deer-, raccoon- and ‘possum-filled woods. Eagles have been sighted overhead, and legends of a monstrous lake-dwelling ultra-serpent – well, that’s another story.

Forty-milers did two laps. Hundred K ’ers, three.

It began innocently enough. Race Director “Bad” Ben Holmes, of the Kansas City Trail Nerds, said, simply, “on your mark, get set, go,” to the crowd of about 70 two- and three- lappers assembled on a grassy patch right by the woods.

It was clear and the sun was just up, but shivery cold for late April – in the 30s – perhaps an ominous warning from Mother Nature about the cold, fickle heart of the North Shore Trail.

If so, I heeded it not, and plunged into the woods with my fellow members of Tribe Ultrarunner, the greatest tribe this world has ever known.

We ran tightly packed together at first, over rocky, rooty, rolling terrain familiar and comfortable to me as those ragged old jeans you love, that someone in your life always wants you to throw out.

A light green film of newly sprouted leaves filled the forest – background for splendid sprays of redbud, dogwood and other flowering creatures.

Ah, those first ecstatic hours, now galloping through the woods as part of a 20-runner conga line, then alone, then running with friend and fellow Trail Nerd and Kansas Ultrarunner Society member Greg Burger. Greg did the trail markings himself, over several days and nights – a careful and competent job. My beautiful trail was beautifully dressed for company in fluorescent yellow-green ribbons and flags that danced gaily in the sweet Spring breezes.

The first ring of the wake-up call arrived rudely about 7-and-a-half miles into the race. Greg and I were running with 100-K’er Willie Lambert. Willie owns a running store in Topeka – The Great Plains Running Company. He serves all runners – yoga folk, too – but trail and ultrarunners find as good or better a selection of shoes and gear and knowledgeable staff as anywhere on the planet.

Willie and spouse Karen also host the four-race Rock Creek Trail Series, out at Perry Lake, Kan., with two races in the Spring and two in the late summer and Fall, culminating with a 25 and 50k.

What’s more, he’s a Leadville finisher, who just signed up for this year’s Grand Slam of Ultrarunning. His license plate reads “Run 100s.” So, he’s a guy you’re proud to run with. He’s a guy you don’t want to look like a doofus in front of.

Greg, Willie and I ran the trails, blabbing about this race and that. And then, as we slowed down on an incline coming up on a stream crossing, on a part of the trail I’d been on a zillion times and never come close to falling on – down I went, into the mud, like a guy who just met his first trail Tuesday.

Willie gave me a hand up, grinning. So much for “my trail” and not looking like a doofus. Of course, he’d already caught me peeing in an unfortunately exposed part of the woods. The bad part was that he was in a train of maybe a dozen runners, including several women.

“Setting up the old tripod, Gar?” he called out, and there was much merriment, but not a whole lot Gar and the old tripod could do. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

But the trail – my trail -- could have provided a little more cover, in my opinion.

Despite these mishaps, or maybe because of them, I was having a blast. The day had warmed up nicely – 40s, then 50s, then 60s – and I danced across the plentiful rocks and roots, all old friends – or so I thought.

But rock by rock and root by root, my pretty little trail was giving me a beating I wouldn’t even find out about until the third lap.

Meantime, my close encounters with the mud weren’t over. A huge muddy patch lurks in wait on the trail about a half-mile from the mid-point of the 20-mile loop. What makes it tricky is that the trail there is canted downhill in parts. I got through it upright on my first lap. On my second, I resolved to be even more careful.

Stepping slowly, deliberately through the mucky morass, nevertheless, my right foot zipped out from under me and I went down, back first, a classic banana peel pratfall.

Managed to get one arm down in mid-fall to keep myself from being completely immersed in mud, but wrenched my back doing it. Was this my great little trail? You always hurt the ones you love, I’ve heard it said. And that hurt.

But fall twice, get up three times, as another saying sort of goes (sounds good, but I’m not sure bout the math).

Still, I was making good time, at least for me. I’d done the first lap in under four hours. As I trotted into the start-finish before 3 p.m. with 40-plus behind me, I was on track for a 100K, sub-13, a PR.

With two-thirds done, I felt great. Seeing fellow runners Emily Horn and Chris Turner who had just finished their first-ever 40-milers and were loitering about with great huge finisher’s medals dangling from their necks made me feel greater. Had to snap pics.

Saw Beth Hilt, who had run the marathon, and was about to devour a huge burger. Her legs wore coats of dried mud, but she’d taken her shoes off, revealing lovely pink toenails. Somehow the juxtaposition of mud legs and pink toenails spoke to me, and I had to click a pic. And I had to get a pic of Katie Spaeth, who was waiting for significant other Mark Koester, another friend, running his first 100K, and not too far behind me. It was her plan to run the last lap with him, which she did.

With Katie's help, Mark got in DFL, a gutsy, gutsy performance in my book.

One of Bad Ben’s fabulous volunteers, all of whom are charming and personally attractive, helped me fill my hydration pack, and I got back on the trail. I hoped to catch Greg, who was ahead of me, but by how much I didn’t know. I’d caught him earlier on the second loop, after nausea had slowed him down.

He told me later he nearly quit about 24 miles in, he felt so sick. Instead, he swallowed some salt caps, which we heard can sometimes help. They did, and Greg trundled on.

It didn’t appear there would be any catching this time though. All the slipping, sliding, twisting and dancing had taken a toll on this funny little muscle just above my right knee. I was finding uphill and technical both painful. I could run on flat and smooth (who can’t?), but rocks and roots, and inclines and descents had to be strictly walking.

Not that I didn’t try, but every attempt rewarded me with a small, intense white, ringing pain, which I interpreted as my little trail telling me “I’m not your little trail. I have teeth, and I’m wild, and this is what happens if you diss me!”

I saw Greg briefly, where westbound and eastbound trails closely parallel. He was moving strong, and, I judged, about three miles ahead of me.

Well, I guess we know who the trail’s new favorite is now, I thought bitterly. Just because someone comes along and puts a bunch of glitzy ribbons and flags on it – oh, all is vanity!

I limped along on my trail-bitten leg. The trail periodically sent jolts of pain through my knee every time I forgot and tried to run a section I was accustomed to hitting hard on the balls of my feet.

It was as if the trail was saying, “Oh no you don’t. I’ll let you finish, but it’s going to be late, late, late.”

I tried to take my mind off my slow progress by playing mind-games – you know how ultrarunners do – but the reality of the pissed-off trail kept intruding.

Thank goodness for the aid stations!

At Land’s End, about 6 miles into the loop, Stacey Amos, Caleb Chatfield and two other volunteers had set up an oasis of food, drink and the emotional support I sorely needed. Each visit, two per lap, I dined on salted potatoes, watermelon, cookies and coke.

“How’s it going, you look great!” Stacy said as I limped in with about 46 miles behind me.

“The trail’s mad at me for taking it for granted,” I almost said. But something deep in my brain warned me it was a sentiment best held for later. Instead, I just made an animal noise.

“That’s great!” said Stacy (she’s very positive), as she got me some salted potatoes.

Just before leaving, “Kearney Boy” and fellow Trail Nerd John King, came in from the opposite direction. With just 3 ½ miles to go, John was going to be a daylight finisher – and was, with a sub 12 (nearly sub-11) 10th place finish.

Seeing John gave me hope that I wouldn't have another fall in the mud. He appeared to have collected all the mud on the course on him. Seeing John, I thought there might not be any mud left. That's a man who's not scared to plunge on through.

Stacy Sheridan, Randy Albrecht and Theresa Wheeler of the Kansas Ultrarunners Society ran the aid station at the loop’s halfway point. Interestingly, both Stacys had husbands in the race – Kyle Amos, and Phil Sheridan, respectively. I got into the KUS station for the final time around seven-ish.

Even though I was slow, my spirits were high. Because I hadn’t been able to push as hard as I wanted to, I felt great. It was more like a hike than a race, and I love hiking.

On my way in, about three miles from the KUS station, where trails closely paralleled once again, I saw fellow Trail Nerd Rick Mayo pacing in another “Kearney Boy” and Trail Nerd, Gabe Bevan who also was hundreding.

They were moving briskly, about 6 or 7 miles ahead of me. Rick had run the marathon that morning, and finished fourth. Then he came back to make sure Gabe finished. Gabe was grumpy about something, which astonished me, given the beautiful day and course – but maybe the trail wasn’t giving him any love either. I thought that with a little guilty satisfaction. Misery loves company.

At the KUS station, Chef Randy Albrecht barbecued me up a veggie burger, with ketchup. Didn’t know if the stomach could take a whole one, so Randy cut the burger in half for me, with a big knife.

The rapid-fire events of the next minute are kind of a blur, but here’s how I recall them:

1. Veggie burger-half in hand, I turned to Christy Craig. Christy ran the morning marathon, and was at the KUS aid station as crew for Greg, but graciously stayed for me. She had Hammer Gels and salt caps for me.
2. Hundred k’ers Alan Smelser and Adam Monaghan trotted in.
3. I took a bite of the veggie burger-half, and every fiber of my being cried out, “THAT’S GREAT!! MUST HAVE MORE!!”
4. I saw Adam going for the other half of the veggie burger, unprotected on the table.
5. “NOOOOO!!” I yowled and lunged for the other burger-half. Then I saw—
6. Adam had the knife!
7. “Actually, I don’t mind sharing with fellow ultrarunners,” I said.
8. Adam cut the veggie burger-half in half, and we each swallowed down our share of the culinary triumph.

With adrenaline pumping, I got back on the trail, for the last 10-mile section. I was not Mr. Speedy, and Alan and Adam soon caught and passed.

About a mile out from the station, I saw Mark Koester inbound to the station, still on his feet, being paced by S.O. Katie. That part of the trail is near the road, so they had a cheering section of their friends – all gorgeous young women yelling for them as they went by.

They also cheered for everyone else who went by – I’m sure I’m not the only one who, closing in on 50 miles, thought they were like angels from Heaven.

I hobbled on, inbound for my last visit to the Land’s End aid station, which I had come to think of as “Amos Chatfield’s Café Upon the Trail,” and the last 3 ½ miles of the race.

As the sun sank, clouds came up. A soft gray twilight flooded the woods. Some gentle rain swept through, and I was all alone except for a few deer which moved leisurely away as I came through, and the trail that didn’t like me anymore.

It was dark by the time I strolled into Amos Chatfield’s. Stacy, and spouse Kyle, who had finished his hundred – second runner in, sub-10 – were serving up the usual goodies.

Smelling finish, I didn’t stay long. But Stacy and Kyle were out there till after 11, waiting on the last runners, and packing up in rain, cold and wind. I’ve volunteered at a race or two, and am here to tell you – it can be tougher than running the race!

Of course, Kyle does both in the same event, so he gets the full experience.

Onward I trundled, feeling much better than I had any right to expect, because of my enforced slowness. I ran where I could, and tried where I couldn’t, and unfailingly got a zap each time.

I hated to be so slow, but was secretly glad to be out after dark, alone in the spooky woods. Wind washed through the trees, and I heard wood creaking and scraping.

The bad thing was – I wanted to run. I felt good enough to run. But the trail wouldn’t let me! My trail! Oh how it hurt, in a race, feeling great, and can’t run! Aaargh!

I enjoyed the declining moments of the race as best I could, and all too soon was at the finish. It was late, late, late, just like the trail had promised.

Everyone was gone except Jim Wright, another 100K finisher who was waiting for a ride; Bad Ben and spouse Vicky who couldn’t leave, since it was their party, and Greg and Christy, who had waited for me through the dark, rain and cold to see I got in safe. Greg had got in about 90 minutes earlier.

Ben gave me a finisher’s belt buckle, a hearty, manly handshake and a delicious muffin.

I didn’t tell Greg and Christy the trail and I had a falling-out.

But the fact is, I’m not speaking to the trail right now. And I went out just yesterday for Willie and Karen Lambert’s 10K Rock Creek race on the trails at Perry Lake. Perfectly lovely trails, better hills than at Clinton, and very accommodating.

A runner could have a relationship with trails like that.

So you see, North Shore Trail, you’re not the only fish in the wide blue sea.

Greg and Christy were at the Rock Creek race, and asked me if I’d be out Wednesday night for our usual jaunt on the North Shore trails.

“The North Shore trails and I have broken up!” I almost said, defiance in my eyes. Instead I shuffled my feet and looked shamefacedly at the ground.

“I’ll be there,” I whispered.

--Gary Henry, April, 2008 [for more stories from Gary, check out www.ultrastory.com]