Georgia Death Race

I almost talked myself out of running the Georgia Death Race.


I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about who I am now as a runner, a reevaluation sparked by my recent knee issues.  In the fourteen months following the surgery, my running slowly progressed.  But, as I discussed in my previous post, the last four months had been more of a setback.  Any athlete who has had a serious injury knows that the hardest part of rehab is not knowing if you'll ever be capable of doing what you used to do.  By the time I reached the start line of the Death Race, I had convinced myself that my days of running the really tough, technical stuff might be over and I needed to focus on different goals.  However, here I was, with four weeks of training, getting ready to do something really stupid.  Nineteen hours later, laying face down in the dirt, I had no regrets.  Except for maybe not seeing that root.

The Georgia Death Race is a 64 mile point to point run in the North Georgia mountains.  It starts at Vogel State Park near Blairsville and ends at Amicalola Falls near Dawsonville.  The first half of the run follows the ridgeline on single track and by the time you are finished, you have endured over 30,000 feet of elevation change.  This seems almost impossible in Georgia, but much like with the Bartram  Trail, the original trail designer must have believed that switchbacks are for sissies.  If there is a mountain, you go over it, not around.

Created by Cary Stephens (not the full course)

This was the inaugural race and everything seemed to come off well organized and well planned.  The website and handbook were informative and any questions were answered quickly on the race's Facebook page.  The race director, Sean Blanton, was enthusiastic and easy to communicate with.  The start and finish venues were ideal, with lodging, camping and ample parking.  There were a couple of facets of the race I didn't personally like, but it is the race director's prerogative and I am fine with following his rules.  One is the 4:00 a.m. start.  It's hard to get any sleep, but I did appreciate being done before midnight.  The other is the mandatory gear list.  Even Hellgate, which dishes out frozen corneas and frostbite, doesn't have one.  With the gear I had to carry on a 70 degree day, I didn't have enough room for things I actually could use.  But I knew what I had to carry when I signed up for it and I understand why that requirement was there, so I have no complaints.

The check in and drop bag drop off went smoothly that morning. After a reading from Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities (it was the best of times, it was the worst of times...), the RD sent  the runners off into the night.  After a short run through the campground, runners hit the single track and remained there for the next 28 miles.  Just like any race on single track, there was a long conga line, but I ended up somewhere in the middle in a pack that was moving at the pace I wanted to.  After an initial steep climb, a long downhill gave everyone a chance to spread out before the big, steep 2000 foot climb to come.  The views of the lights in the valley down below were a nice reward as you continued the climb.

Photo by John McBrayer

After finally topping out, you ran on some gentle rolling trail for a short time.  I think that was the last time there was any gentle, rolling terrain for the rest of the race.  From there it was straight down the mountain on rough, muddy, canted trail.  A failure to control your slide would have resulted in a tumble over the edge and then you would have appreciated all the mandatory gear you had in your pack. And then the pattern began. Hit the gap at the bottom and start a steep crawl over the next peak.  I learned not to look up and see where I had to go; it was too demoralizing.  I focused on the trail in front of me and just kept plugging along.  The views from the ridgelines were exceptionally nice since there were not any leaves on the trees and the 4 a.m. start did give you a beautiful sunrise.

The heat became a major issue as the day wore on.  Without any leaves, there was no shade, and although there was a nice wind, the climbs became tougher and tougher.  Around 20 miles, you drop down a couple miles to an aid station.  It is an out and back and I could tell by looking at the runners coming up the hill that it was going to be tough getting back up that hill.  It was not as steep as the other climbs, just longer and hotter.  By the time we hit the next aid station, the heat had really cranked up.  This was the first really warm weekend of the year and most of us were not acclimated.  This is what I was doing two weeks before (yes, my hair is frozen) :

 Anyway, my body tends to handle heat and cold well and I didn't have major issues.  Some other runners were not so lucky and the heat ended their race.

At mile 28, there was a short, easy road section, followed by a a nice swinging bridge and then a cruel surprise- another long steep climb.  This turned into a seven mile section of single track with more steep climbs and descents. People were really starting to suffer from the heat here.

At the end of this section, however, it was all forest road to the end.  Unfortunately, the roads were gravel and at times rough, beating up your feet pretty badly.  Luckily, I ended up running with a couple of other runners whose pace kept me moving decently and conversation distracted me from the monotony of road.

There was a particularly pretty section of paved road that went through some farm land.  Everything was green, the daffodils were blooming and the people were friendly.  When the road turned back to gravel, a never-ending climb to next aid station began.  It wasn't steep, but after a long, hot day, it was just tiring.  The mileage was off in some parts of the course and I'm hoping this was one of the sections. It sure felt longer than seven miles.

Once you reach the final aid station at the top, you have a nice easy run downhill to Amicalola Falls State Park.  Once in the park, you finish by running down a steep, rocky road, and then down a final, rooty section of trail to the finish.  About 500 yards from the finish, I took my only spill of the day and it was a good one. One moment I was upright and the next minute face down in the dirt.  Literally.  I skinned my forehead and my nose. I landed on my bad knee. After laying there briefly, laughing at my stupidity, I got up and assessed the damage.  I was afraid Tony would see me  at the finish with blood streaming down my face, so I rinsed it with my water and waited for two runners who came up behind me to make sure it didn't look too bad.   A few minutes later, I had my spike in my hand, a nice finish to over nineteen hours of running.

 So, my day....

My knee didn't hurt.  The moment I decided it couldn't handle the tough runs, it proved me wrong.  I have no explanation for that.  I was hurting just sitting the day before. Eight hours on similar terrain on the Bartram made me limp.  But today, nineteen hours of steep controlled slides, mud, off camber trails, rocks, and uneven gravel didn't bother it.  I did take some ibuprofen to keep inflammation down, but not much. When I fell at the end of  the race, I scraped and bruised the knee, but it still works fine.  I didn't feel the imbalance in my legs that I had been feeling, so my visits to the weight room have paid off.  I guess I'll know for sure when I go for a run on it in a day or two. My big problem, though, was my asthma. I already had some chest congestion before the race started.  Being stuck in the dust of other runners made it worse and my lungs ached most of the day.

I did not expect to go under 20 hours.  Even though I did not try to push my pace at any point and was careful to run as gently as I could, I finished at least five hours faster than I predicted.  I was in a good mood all day, very thankful that my knee was working, that I was capable of doing this race, and I was just happy to be out there.

The race was well done.  The terrain was extremely challenging and beautiful. The aid stations workers and radio operators were all friendly and helpful.  The course was exceptionally well marked and whenever I started to worry if I was in the right place I found a marker.  I wish there had been more real food at the aid stations later in the day, but that is a problem at many races. Apparently there had been some, but it was gone when I came through and a couple of aid stations had run out of coke. The bacon aid station, however, did not disappoint!  The drop bag return was a bit problematic, but the race director quickly contacted me and is mailing what I was missing.

It was nice to see many friends from NC, SC and GA at the race, both running and crewing. The Foothills crowd was well represented (Psyche and Charles, Byron, the Lundblads).  And congratulations to Mark Lundblad who won the race tearing it up in 11:40!

ACL Update at 18 Months

If you are looking for a running post, I'll save you some time. This post about ACL pain over a year post-op.  I couldn't find a lot of information when I googled it, so thought I should post an update.

After Pinhoti 100 in November, I had a lot of bad runs.  My knee would start aching, I would compensate with the other leg and by the end of any run over 8 miles, I just hurt from the hips down.  I also noticed that my muscle strength was still out of balance, so I started doing some rehab again. (Once I got my weekly mileage up, I had stopped rehabbing, mistakenly thinking that the hills and trails would suffice).

Around Christmas, my long incision scar started to feel painfully tight when I ran, and then the next weekend,  I rolled my right ankle a little, which yanked on my left (bad) knee.  It hurt, but then I finished the run out no problem.  After that run, the top of my scar swelled up and whenever I tried to run for the next couple of weeks, it hurt too much.  The pain emanated from the scar, but it also felt like things were digging into the kneecap above the scar.  I got very frustrated because this was the first time since surgery that it hurt too much to run.  After a couple weeks of rest, ice and massage, the swelling and pain subsided to the point where I could run again. I did two back to back eight mile runs with what I now consider normal pain: where I can run, but the knee reminds me constantly that it still isn't 100%.

I  went to see my surgeon to make sure there wasn't something bad going on inside.  He was a little concerned that I might be having issues with the screw, but X-rays showed everything intact.  He said I probably did something to it when I rolled my ankle and in the future, whenever it started giving me trouble, to back off and get on the bike for a little while.  Ice, three advil three times a day and if it doesn't respond to ice, try heat.  He also said there's a bursa in there that might get irritated.

Since then (the end of January), I have been in the gym twice a week working my legs hard. Interestingly, my "bad" leg was stronger in some ways than my "good" leg.  After a month, I don't see a big difference in my legs anymore.  I have been stretching a lot and I have slowly worked my mileage up.  It still hurts, more on some days than others, but it is not pain that causes me to limp or compensate. Some days it feels like I have a sharp rock behind my kneecap, other times it is more patellar tendon pain, where it connects to the kneecap.

As of early March, I have run a 28 mile trail run in the snow with little problem. I yanked the knee initially on a rocky trail and it hurt for a couple hours, but subsided.  I ran a 24 mile extremely steep run and it hurt pretty bad on the downhills by the end of the day.  This weekend I run the Georgia Death Race, a 60 mile steep run and that will be the big test.

Best Run of the Year

Normally I don't write about my weekend long runs, but my last run of 2012 was pretty special.  Trail running in the snow is my favorite thing to do and I had missed all of last winter with my ACL. So when it dusted snow at my house in the valley this weekend, I decided to head up to Standing Indian to see what I could find .

The plan was to run a 24 miles loop, up Kimsey Creek, north on the AT over Standing Indian and back to the car on Long Branch.  Since Pinhoti, I haven't had a good long run.  My knee ends up hurting and I compensate with my other leg, which then also ends up hurting.  After stopping at 50K at One Epic Run, I decided to refocus on rehabbing and to try different shoes in hopes of getting more cushion.  I ordered the Glycerins and they have felt good on the short runs I have done.  (Three years ago, I switched from the Cascadias to road shoes, Ravennas, even on the most technical trails, like the Massanutten, with much success.) So this would be a test run.

There was snow on Kimsey Creek and the temperature was still at freezing, despite my 11 a.m. start time. Kimsey Creek is very rocky and wet, but the Glycerins did well, with the exception of trying to cross the ice coated rocks at the edge of these little falls. But nothing would have done well on that!
 

As I got higher in elevation, I also moved into ice-covered trees. Closer to Deep Gap, I passed through a tunnel of ice covered bushed and trees. With the sunlight behind it, it was spectacular, but the pictures don't capture the scene.

  On the AT, there was more snow, not more than a couple inches except where it had drifted.  It was exceptionally cold, as always, on the back side of Standing Indian, well below freezing with a brisk wind.  Past the shelter, the trail became more treacherous, with a thick coating of ice under the snow.  Luckily, I had brought my Kahtoolas, hoping I would get to use them.  (It's always a good run when you get to strap on the microspikes).

 

The scenery became even more spectacular as I climbed, with the combination of ice, snow and rime ice.

I decided to take the side trail to the to top of Standing Indian and found only one other set of footprints up top.  I had passed a family on the way up and I felt very lucky to be one of the few people to see this view that day.

  
When I continued on the AT south of Standing Indian, there were no other footprints in the snow, and I was again thankful for being able to be on the trail that day.  The rhododendrons were coated in ice and when you brushed by them as you ran, it sounded like pieces of glass tinkling.

 

 

I ended up shortening my run to about 16 miles because I had spent so much time taking pictures. During the run, I had wrenched my knee a little (looking up at the ice instead of down at the rocks), but other than that, my body felt good for the first time in awhile.  The Glycerins were very comfortable, even with the Kahtoolahs strapped on.


So 2012 came to an end with this spectacular run.  I've had a long road back this year and still have obstacles to overcome, but I sure am thankful to be able to run through these mountains again.

 Best moments of 2012

1.  After eight months of no running after tearing my ACL, being allowed to start running in March.

2.  My first run back on the trails.

3.  Running in the fall leaves and running in the snow.

4.  Running 93 miles on the one year anniversary of the surgery.

5.  Running Pinhoti 100 two months later.

 2013 Goals

1.  Getting my knee and leg back to 100%.
2.  March:  Georgia Death Race
3.  July:  Vermont 100
4.  Fall:  Running the Bartram Trail (110 miles) northbound (because southbound didn't hurt enough?)

One Epic Run (well, not too epic for me)

Alan and I had both signed up for One Epic 24 hour Run, but I told him the week before that I had not done a long run since Pinhoti that didn't hurt.  We agreed that we wouldn't run the full 24 hours and would either do 50 miles or 100K.

The race was held at Croft State Park near Spartanburg, S.C., less than three hours from home.  The race director reserved a loop of the campground so runners could camp (for free) during the race and have access to the restrooms and hot showers.  Alan and I, however, opted to drive up that morning since we weren't staying the full 24 hours.

Check-in was well organized, runners received a beanie rather than a t-shirt, and after a short race briefing, we were off.  The run is on a single-track 3 mile loop.  You first head downhill to cross a scenic river (on a bridge) and then gradually uphill through the woods until you hit the combat zone.  (To the left of the trail was a 20 foot bank and directly behind that was a firing range.  Judging from the constant barrage of gunfire, this was a very popular firing range.  And oddly, and this may be a remnant instinct from my law enforcement days, every time I passed by, I had a strange urge to crawl on my belly up that bank and peek over to see what they were firing.  Of course, I also had an urge to go take a nap in the car, but I resisted both). 

Anyway, back to the run.  A lot of the course was nicely groomed, but there were some technical areas with roots and uneven ground, along with a small stream crossing on a log.  There were some hills, but it was all runnable. You continued clockwise, heading back towards the river on a long flat section, back over the bridge and up to the aid station to check-in.  This was a great aid station:  jerky, sandwiches, potatoes, sweets, pretzels, gels, pizza in the afternoon, and a lot of other food that I didn't try. The volunteers were super friendly and helpful and the race felt like a reunion of area runners. You were almost always around someone you knew.

Unfortunately, my run continued the pattern of hurting since Pinhoti.  My knee felt stiff and sore and I was doing some weird compensating with my other leg.  Pretty soon my uneven gait made everything hurt and I quit having fun.   I decided to stop at 50K and Alan agreed to as well.  After a hot shower, I left a 24 hour race for the first time ever before dark.  It was actually kind of nice.

I was disappointed, not so much with only running 50K, but with the problems I was having with my legs.  Tony, who has done the whole ACL thing and more, on more than one occasion, says that despite what the doctors say, it will be a year and a half to two years before everything is normal.  So, I am back to serious rehabbing, trying to build up my weaker leg more, and not a whole lot of running since the race. I don't have any major runs for a while, so I am just going to be patient, have fun, and do whatever my legs feel like doing.

Pinhoti 100

The Ultrasignup Click

I signed up for the Pinhoti 100 mile race on a whim.  I usually can't run a race on the first weekend of  November because that is the date of the State Cross Country Championships.  This year, though, I knew my young team would not be ready for state.  So an impulse click  later, I was registered.

Post-click remorse set in immediately.  Running 100 miles on trail would be a true test of the knee.  I had run 93 miles on it on the one year anniversary of the ACL surgery, but that was on a flat, crushed gravel course.  Pinhoti was only two months later.  Maybe I needed more time, more training, more strength before I attempted that. If I tried and failed because of my knee, that would be a major mental setback.

So, I put in some tough miles in October and felt relatively hopeful that the knee would hold up.  What I became very unsure of,  though, was if I could make the cutoffs.  I'm still rebuilding.  I am slower and much more cautious on downhills and technical terrain. Because of these doubts, I felt no excitement about the upcoming race, just a sense of foreboding. I procrastinated on planning and spent no time reading anything about the race other than what was necessary.  I decided I would just show up and run.

The Course

The course is point-to-point from Heflin, Alabama to Sylacauga in the Talladega National Forest. It is eighty miles of single track, with some twenty miles of jeep road and pavement thrown in.

The race starts in Pine Glen Campground at 6 a.m., which means you run the first 40 minutes or so in the dark.  It also immediately goes to single track, so you have to be careful where you put yourself so you aren't stuck in the line of a couple hundred people going too fast or too slow.  I opted to take the too slow option so I didn't wear myself out at the start  and was pleasantly surprised that we were running a perfect pace until the sun came up.  Then someone up front put the brakes on and we started doing a lot of walking.  It was really hard to pass because of the terrain, but I eventually got frustrated and just did it.  I spent a little while in solitude, caught between the faster group and slower group, grateful that I wasn't breathing a bunch of dust and happy to run my own pace.

It didn't take too long for the process of passing and being passed started.  As the sun rose higher, a combination of the heat, the dust aggravating my asthma, and the incessantly rolling terrain began to take a toll on me.  I was now being passed on a regular basis.  I tried to keep up, but couldn't comfortably move any faster and I had to keep reminding myself to be patient and do my own thing.  It really wore down my morale, though, since I already had major doubts about my competence.  I couldn't tell if I was moving too slowly or if I was doing okay.

The terrain of the first thirty miles or so was tough for me.  I'm used to big climbs and descents, but at Pinhoti, it's very rolling, with lots of 50-100 yard climbs and descents.  I eventually started walking the little hills, not because I needed to, but because the terrain wasn't providing any natural walk breaks.  And I continued to be passed and my morale continued to drop.  Then my calf and shins on my "bad" leg started to hurt pretty badly and my right quad felt trashed from compensating. I was not having fun.  After a mere thirteen miles, I began to wonder how I could continue to do this for another 87 miles?

Finally, I stopped and  loosened my shoe and the shin splints went away.  The crowds had thinned out on the trail and I was running my own pace without worrying about being too slow.  When I met Tony at an aid station and told him I wanted to quit but he couldn't let me,  he told me I was better in the last 50 miles and it would get better. I was still being hard on myself at the aid station at mile 34 as I realized how much I was slowing down.  Then the long, steep climb up Bald Rock started.  And that's when things began to get a lot better.

This is More Like It

That climb was more like what I was used to and my legs seemed to recognize it.  My energy spiked and I began alternating between power walking hard and running,  passing people along the way.  This feeling lasted for the next 40 miles. I wasn't burning up the trail, but I felt good at a point when a lot of people were feeling bad.  From about 3 in the afternoon to 2 in the morning, the only person who passed me out on the trail (although some may have got out of aid stations faster) was Jason Sullivan, who had also experienced a resurgence. My mind got right again and I felt stronger and stronger as I passed people. I didn't know if the feeling would last a few minutes or a few hours, so I just went with it.  I used what I had when I had it. 

The heat took its toll on a lot of people, but somehow (despite running in the snow earlier in the week), I adjusted to it.  (The race had a 56% finishing rate). Instead of doing everything on schedule, this time I just listened to my body.  Whenever a muscle started to hurt, I popped another s-cap.  When I started to feel a little pang of hunger or a drop in energy,  I ate even if I had just eaten 15 minutes before.  I didn't push water just because I though I ought to. As a result, despite the heat and the climbs, I felt okay.  

Back to the Course 

That long climb up Bald Rock felt so much more like home and the view from the rooftop of Alabama was beautiful.  What was even more beautiful was seeing Tony up top holding a Chick Fillet bag.  One spicy chicken sandwich and change of clothes later, I was heading down Blue Hell, a super steep rocky, slippery, leaf covered descent.  I had changed out of sweaty tops, but I think I sweat more in that one section just trying to work my way down it than I had in the heat of the day.  Once I hit the bottom, I came into an area with brilliant maples glowing in the late afternoon sun, a really nice pick me up. The leaves were beautiful throughout the course, but the backlighting here made them even more special

The next section had some pavement  and gravel roads. A lot of people were walking, but I wanted to make some time, so I ran most of it.  The aid station came quickly and would be the last one in the daylight.  On to thirteen hours of darkness. And speaking of aid stations,the aid station volunteers throughout the course were outstanding.  They filled my bottle, offered me food, helped me find the trail and were always so encouraging.   I was a little disappointed to find that several aid stations were out of things like coke and sandwiches when I came through and I wasn't even at the back of the pack. I've learned not to depend on aid stations too much,though, and I carry what I need.  

Back to the Course Again

As the miles wore on, a lot of the trail became pretty monotonous and I'm sure the 13 hours of darkness contributed to that.  It seemed like you were just constantly doing little ups and downs and switchbacks in the woods.  There were some old jeep roads, which broke things up, but for the most part it all looked the same.  There was one more big climb, preceded by a couple miles of the aforesaid monotony, and it was there that some people started passing me.  I saw their headlamps behind me at every switchback and as the climb started, they gained on me and passed me, once again dropping my morale back down.  Then the rocky terrain up top should have been my strong point, but I found myself being very cautious, picking my footing carefully because my legs were so fatigued. 

Sit Down and Cry

The last 15 miles were horrible.  It was predominantly gravel road and all I could think about was the pace I was moving at and how long it would take me to finish. The aid station workers assured me that I had plenty of time to finish, but they didn't know how I felt at that point.  Fifteen minute miles should have been easy, but they weren't.  The road was rolling, but there were not many long descents to help with momentum.  My legs were dead and hurt badly,  something that hadn't happened to that degree before. I have always been able to still do some running at the end,  but I walked a lot of those 15 miles. And the last miles were the worst. Perfectly straight pavement . You could see tiny dots of people far up the road, giving you a visual reminder of just how far you had left.  Only one person in sight at that point was doing any running and although I tried a little shuffle now and then, I resigned myself to join the death march.

At several points along those last fifteen miles I really wanted to quit.  I kept hearing Tony say what he said when he paced me at my first 100, "What are you going to do, sit down in the middle of the trail and cry?"    Yes, actually, that would be nice.   But that would just prolong how long I was out there and I was more than ready to be done.  And I had something to prove to myself.  I know that I may never be 100%.  My knee will still give me some problems.  But fourteen months after surgery, if it could undergo a hundred mile pounding and twisting on rough terrain, I would be able to quit worrying about it and get on with my running.

Finally. A turn off the road, a hundred meters or so on the track at Sylacauga and done.  Tony there, making me smile as always. A pretty new buckle to add to the Virginian ones.    192 starters.  108 finishers.  85th overall.  28:42.  Much more than I expected.

Postscript

This race was a huge mental challenge.  I recognized all along what my negativity was doing to me but was powerless to stop the thoughts from coming.  What finally helped was distracting myself by singing along to my iPod (and I apologize to anyone within hearing distance).  Ironically, both "Stronger" and "If I Die Young" came up frequently.  And having some short conversations with other runners was also a good distraction.  One of the best parts of ultrarunning is meeting other people who help you along, whether or not they realize it.

There were many beautiful aspects of this course.  The fall colors were brilliant.  The view from Bald Rock was outstanding.  The areas of cushy pine needles were a welcome break. The moonrise and an accompanying shooting star on the dark trail was one of those special moments most people won't experience.  The colorful sunrise and all the good things that a rising sun portends in a ultra, accompanied by the cheers from an aid station that you had desperately wanted to reach a happy bonus.  And that red rubberized track was the most welcome sight of all.

Thanks to Scott Hodukavich, Vikena Yutz, pinhoit100.com and Tony for the pics.  And thanks to my surgeon and physical therapist for making this possible again. : )

Merrill's Mile 2012

 

Location

Camp Frank D. Merrill, an active Army Ranger base.

Course Description

A one mile crushed gravel loop.  Flat, except for 10 feet of gain. (And after awhile, you knew exactly where that ten feet of gain was).

Objective

Run the one mile loop as many times as possible in a 24 hour period. Which leads to the obvious question....

Why?

1.  I hate flat. I hate nice crushed gravel paths.  I can't think of anything more mentally challenging than running in a one mile circle for 24 hours.  And there you have it.

2.  The race was on the one year anniversary of my ACL surgery.  It would be a nice way to thank my surgeon.

3.  Willy Syndram knows how to con people into running his races.  He put that darn donkey on the t-shirt.  And plus he's a nice guy who puts on good races.

My race

There's not a whole lot to describe, as my race consisted of running 93 laps around the one mile track.   So I'll break it down into Bad Things and Good Things

The Bad

• The repetitive motion of running in flat loops trashed my quads.  I hurt pretty bad at 20 miles.  At 50, I was upset, not knowing how I could go much further and thinking I would go home with less mileage than I made at BMM three months earlier with my knee still hurting.  After a long visit to the chiropractic tent (what a luxury) I was able to shuffle along.  Two more visits in the night kept me going.                                          

• It was 88 in the shade with high humidity.  We were not in the shade.  We ran in full sun most of the day.  A thermometer sitting on a chair along the course registered 100.  I was soaking wet all day. I couldn't use my iPod because there was nowhere dry to put it.  Eventually I stuck it in a plastic bag and stuck it in my sports bra.  Great.  Another place chafed.

• Blisters under each of my big toenails.  Enough said.

• Porta-potties in the full sun at the hottest part of the day.  Not a welcome sauna.

The Good

• The aforementioned chiropractors, without whom I couldn't have finished.

• The well organized race, encouraging race director, and extremely helpful and patient volunteers, especially those who kept up with my laps.

• Running most of the night with just the light of the full moon.

• After a bad year with my knee, hitting the 90 mile mark and trying not to cry because my knee didn't hurt.

• Finishing with 93 miles, 2nd female, 3rd overall and a nice pair of Leki trekking poles, perfect for my next adventure.

• Raising over $1100 for the Butterfly Fund.

• Having the perfect crew member take care of me.

Here's a video of the start

How do you run 24 hours?

I have had many questions about how you go about running one of these races.  So here's my own how-to manual.
 
Step 1:  Set up camp.  There are rules about setting up camp.

1.  It cannot be comfortable if you plan to run all 24 hours.

2.  Spend hours contemplating everything you might need and pack it. Then spend a long time worrying that you didn't pack the right things.

3.  Camp cannot be complicated because you have to break it back down and carry it to the vehicle after running 24 hours. Unless you do Step #2.
 

Step 2:  Marry the perfect crew member.

      At the hottest part of the day, Tony went to town and bought a mister to spray me down to cool me off.  He  brought me a hamburger and listened to me complain. He brought ice cold Pepsi's and root beers.  (Well, those were supposed to be for him, but they were so good.) He videotaped me so I could see my progression from a straight up strider to a crumpled shuffler in the the heat of the day.  And he broke down camp for me.

Step 3:  Make sure there are activities nearby to entertain your crew member or they will get bored and  no longer be a perfect crew member.

Step 4:  Annoy the lap counters by double checking them every other lap.  It turns out that these lap counters were spot on , but there have been issues at other races.  The last thing you want is to have a lap or two missed.  I've even had to correct one who had given me an extra lap.  (Yes, that was a real moral dilemma).

Step 5:  Figure out what your stomach will handle.  In the extreme heat, my stomach likes GUs, pudding, my new favorite Honey Stinger waffles and pickle juice.

Step 6:  Put one foot in front of the other and don't ever think about how far you have gone or how much farther you have to go.  "Yay!  I've run 12 hours" is immediately followed by "Oh, I have to do that again." In fact, when people ask me what I think about when I run that far, I really don't have an answer.  I think hard about not thinking.  I think about if I need to eat.  Or take a Succeed.  Or if I am drinking enough.  Or too little.  Or why I haven't needed to use the restroom.  Or what is off enough in my system to make my fingers swell some.  Or if I should change shoes.  Or "Ow, that hurts." Or where did Tony go?

Step 7:  Send your crew member to a hotel at night so there is no chance of you getting in the vehicle and quitting. Make him promise not to take you back to the hotel even if you really want to go.

And that's it.  Pretty easy, in theory.

Laurel Valley #8

I signed up for Laurel Valley a few months ago, but as the time drew closer, I began to have second thoughts about the wisdom of running it when my ACL wasn't yet 100%.

First:  If you've ever had any knee issues, you know that stairs are not your friends.  There's A LOT of stairs at LV.  Has anyone ever counted the stairs?  There's no way to describe all the sets of stairs, their steepness, narrowness, slickness, never-endingness.  Pictures don't do them justice, but here's some from fellow LV runner, Chris Knodel:

Second:  I push myself a lot at LV.  I made the mistake once of running 7:52 and so I think that I can do that again (which I haven't).  If I was stubborn and pushed it this year, I would only get frustrated with the fact that I can't run like I did a year ago (or especially the year of the 7:52).

Luckily for me, the very wise Bill Keane invited me to hang out with him as he ran with Claude Sinclair at a more enjoyable pace.  I would be going easy on the stairs and not pushing myself too hard.

But, the day did not go quite as planned.  Claude took a really bad fall and was forced to turn back, so Bill accompanied him while I was given the job of helping sweep.  That was probably the best thing that I could have done.  I relaxed and enjoyed the day, met new friends, caught up with old, stopped and looked at the scenery and generally felt terrific.  At an easier pace, I felt strong and fresh and really enjoyed being helpful, rather than just running for myself.  Instead of coming out of LV demoralized, I felt confident for the first time in over a year.

This is Emily.  I spent most of the day with her and enjoyed the experience of running with someone, rather than solo as I usually do.

Bill came back in towards the end (with a surprise hamburger) and for the first time ever, those stairs climbing up Whitewater Falls did not seem all that bad.  Okay, they were bad.

But the knee did not hurt.  And that's a milestone (or 35.7 of them).