I spent a summer's weekend in the woods of Vermont. I was one of 252 people ranging in ages
from 21 to 76 who lined up at race start 4 a.m. on Saturday, July 18, 1998 for the 10th
running of the Vermont 100 Mile Trail Run.
Since I began ultra-running in August of 1997 the goal has really been to complete one of
the fifteen 100-mile foot races that take place in North America. There is a certain
mystique about the distance. I had been told that in many respects, the effort of running
a 100 mile race is equivalent to three times that of one 50 miles in length. I wondered
about that and needed to feel it myself.
The race I chose to lose my "100 mile virginity" was one deemed relatively
gentle. The course starts and finishes at Smoke Rise Farm, South Woodstock, Vermont. So
it was in the Green Mountains that I found myself running/walking/shuffling for 29 hours
on that Saturday and Sunday morning.
Smoke Rise Farm is a large horse farm and the home of Dina and Steve Rojek who kindly
allow the 100 Mile Endurance runners to camp in their fields. The tents pitched on the
hillsides by many of these runners sporting long hair and beards reminded me of photos
I'd seen of the encampments at Woodstock, NY back in 1969 during those 4 days of Love
and Music.
Most of the course is run on dirt roads or Jeep trails (quite rocky), 2 miles of
pavement (very hot at midday in the sun) with the rest on wood trail (muddy). There was
roughly 14,200 feet of climb and 14,200 feet descent over the distance. The run was held
in conjunction with a 100 mile horse race on the same day and on the same trail.
There were many "firsts" to be experienced that weekend in the New England woods,
beginning with a pre-race physical. No race numbers were dispensed until blood pressure,
pulse and weight were checked and recorded. I saw many people whom I'd come to recognize and
gotten to know after having run a few of these "ultra things." Many of the
"names" in long distance running were there; Ann Trason, the preeminent female
ultra-runner in the world, had entered and led the entire field until around 83 miles where
she faded somewhat, finishing 5th overall. This trip two people I met up with made profound
and lasting impressions on me. The first was a runner from Oklahoma nicknamed "Tulsa
Ross" who is 76 years old and is still a practicing physician from- where else-Tulsa.
Ross can no longer make the time cutoffs (miss these cutoffs and your race is over), but
runs until he is pulled from the course. Then he works his own style of runner support,
coming out to various aid stations with advice and words of support. A seasoned veteran, he
sported the biggest belt buckle I'd ever seen, recognition given only to finishers of the
Western States 100, the premiere ultramarathon in the USA. And I thought that I would like
to still be doing this sort of thing 30 years from now at Ross's age.
The other inspiring person I got to know was Dan Wittemore from New Hampshire, a man who
had offered to help me in my first attempt at the distance, to pace me in from 69 miles to
finish; more about Dan later.
Another "first" was getting up at 3 a.m. for the 4 a.m. start of the race. Getting
up in the morning to run an ultramarathon is like getting up to be hanged...on an empty
stomach. But no matter, we all checked in at a barn, actually an arena for showing horses,
and at 3:55 walked as a group to the race start. Under the cloudless and star-filled summer
sky, with horses in the fields snorting and stomping, in front of the farm's main house, we
prepared for our adventure. The owner of the farm had brought his electric piano out onto
the patio and was playing the theme from "Chariots of Fire" for us. We all counted
down together and began.
My plan was to run no faster than 4 mph and in doing so walk up all the hills. I'd heard
that quads could be "trashed" early on in this race and my plan was to run
conservatively. Since there were 36 aid stations along the course spaced at intervals of
between 2 to 6 miles I ran with just one water bottle and made sure I'd emptied it before
reaching the next station where I'd refill and eat something, anything and everything that
I could tolerate. I've found in ultramarathoning it's most important to eat before you're
hungry, drink before you're thirsty and walk before you're tired, because you are going to
be "out there" for a long time. I knew that here in this arena patience is a virtue.
I'd heard that the first 50 miles are run with the legs, the second 50 miles with the mind. I
found that about right; I remained on pace throughout the day when temperatures reached into
the 80's (no humidity, thank goodness!), but between 6 and 7 o'clock Saturday evening I
noticed that I was slowing down. The day had gone well, very nice scenery and pleasant people
to chat with. I ran with and met a number of others whom I grew to appreciate.
Around 6:30 a.m. that first morning we were first passed by the horses and their riders. What
an inspiring sight! Handsome animals all, many Morgan horses and quite a few mules were there.
Seemed as if ALL the women on these horses were beautiful, something about the view of a female
riding atop a horse, especially if they take the time to speak to me, which all did. These
teams of riders and horses had 24 hours to cover the same distance we were allowed 30 hours to
run. The horses had to check in at various spots along the course, to paddocks where their
vital signs were evaluated and they were rested, fed and watered before moving on after a
timed interval. There were many such "check-ins" for horses, pains were taken that
none of these animals were put in harm's way. As a matter of fact there were more veterinarians
on the course than there were nurses and EMT's for runners. I guess the race directors figured
we knew what we were getting into, and the horses didn't. But you see, I did not really know
what I was getting myself into and today, long after race, I know in my heart of hearts that
90% of ultrarunning is 100% mental.
OK, like I said earlier the "wheels" were starting to come off after 50 miles. I was
definitely noticing the loss in energy. I had wanted to reach the medical check point and aid
station at Camp Ten Bear by dark. (I loved the names of these aid stations; there was Happy
Valley, Lillian's, Queen Elizabeth, Cow Shed, Bill's and Blood Hill to name a few.) There I'd
meet Dan who would begin his task of pacing me in. As it turned out I didn't get to camp until
10:30, having run for 1 1/2 hours in the dark, alone on muddy trail with only a pen light to
illuminate my path. So we started out of camp and into the long night and 31 miles remaining.
I'd met Dan briefly in November after a race, he was introduced as a friend of a friend and I
was truly flattered that he would take the time and effort to help me with my attempt at the
100 mile distance. Dan has run more than 70 of these long races all over the world and he kept
me amused and distracted with stories of his adventures. My pacer did and said all the right
things: He kept me moving forward, at very slow pace sometimes, but with relentless forward
motion nonetheless. I hurt, my legs were tired, I was cold and I attempted to make deals with
my "higher power". I wished and hoped for more energy in the middle of the night as
I grew so very tired and sleepy. A couple of thoughts came to mind and I remembered from some
of my shorter ultras and marathons that at some point it just doesn't get any worse and that
is true: The pain became more of a nuisance than anything else after awhile. And when it came
down to it, compared to what was happening to me and what I was feeling, it was quitting that
was the harder option, not the continuation of the running.
I also remembered what my practical old grandma had said one afternoon when as a child I was
complaining about something, feeling that the world was unfair. Her response to me was,
"If a frog had wings, he wouldn't bump his butt." Ah, so true. No wings on froggy,
he always bumps his butt, but continues to hop. And if I was stronger, more rested, more
experienced, more of this or more of that, then perhaps I wouldn't be feeling so bad, but
then Dan told me that unless I picked up the pace, which as probably around 2 mph at that
point, I wouldn't finish in under the time restraint. He told me that he wished he could help
me, he wished he could take the pain away but couldn't. He knew how I was feeling. He said
that I must decide and decide soon how badly I wanted to complete 100 miles. That if I wanted
to stop that that was OK, it would not be the end of the world, but I must decide, NOW! I can't
say that I wanted to hear those words, but I was wearing a watch and could do the math, I knew
what was going on, knew the completion was "slipping away".
So after Bill's, in the barn at the last medical check at 83 miles, at 3:45 a.m. on Sunday
morning, I decided that I wanted to finish and would try. I ignored the people who had
"dropped" there, who were lying on cots, asleep and snoring, and shuffled out. It
certainly wasn't pretty and Dan led the way, always at least 5 steps ahead of me, sometimes 100
steps on the steeper of the hills. We started to put 20 minute miles in the bank and when he
had me stop to watch my second sunrise of the race (another first), he told me that I was doing
well and that I would accomplish my goal. I did not believe the man until I saw the finish line
at 9:07 Sunday morning with Wittemore bellowing to those waiting, "Look here, here comes
a 100 mile runner!" As I crossed the finish line alone to the cheers of goodwill from
spectators I thought, "stick a fork in me, I'm done" and "thank you Dan Wittemore!"
The length of this report wouldn't show it but I am having trouble describing what this race meant
to me. I now know that rewards are on a level with the effort, and the effort was extreme, but that
despite what seems like the extraordinary nature of these events, in the end they make you even
more human. I've so many memories to cherish from the weekend; the beautiful scenery; the horses
in the pastures watching us run through the night; of Wittemore speaking in the native tongue to
the Japanese runner behind us and having that exhausted and very surprised man smile and reply;
of eating watermelon at dawn and knowing I'd not soon forget.
Why do I run these obscene distances? One reason is so I can write long rambling race reports to
a somewhat captive audience. The real reason is probably because I can. I'd prefer to share the
experience in real life. I would so love to share ultra-running with you on trail. A runner I
know has said this about ultra-running, "The more of us that do it, the harder it is for
them to dismiss us as just a bunch of really weird people. Especially when we otherwise appear
so normal."
So in closing,
"I had a dream
when I was young
to run like the leaves
chased by the wind."
-Albert Orban
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Relentless forward motion...just relentless forward motion...
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