View source for Haliburton 100 2008 Race Report

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*Date:    Sun, 14 Sep 2008 08:24:15 -0400
*From:    Brian Thomas 
*Subject: Haliburton Forest 100 race report


Well, I successfully finished my first 100 miler last week in 28 hours 16 minutes.  It feels awesome!  Check out my race report below if you're interested.
                     

I woke up early Wednesday morning and thought that I was still on some
trail and supposed to be running. Now, the really disturbing thing is
that I was a little disappointed that I was not out on some trail
running through the night. There's an elegant simplicity to a weekend
where all you have to do is run... and run... and run...

After spending the night in London, Ontario and enjoying some nice pasta
at an Outback Steakhouse we hit the road early on Friday. As we headed
north of Toronto I anxiously noted each of the steep and rolling hills
that characterized the drive to Haliburton. I was crazy nervous. I mean
I was nervous like when I was hopping on a plane to spend a year in
China (well, almost). I was so nervous that I didn't want to go directly
to the race start so we stopped at Subway for lunch. It was cool and
misty with some rain predicted for that night so we quickly set up our
tent and listened to other runners arriving as I read a book to keep my
mind off things. Here's one strange lupus connection. The forest also
had a wolf sanctuary so Holli and I took some time to visit the wolves
before going to the pre-race dinner. Between the fundraising and the new
Lupus Runner logo, it gave an almost supernatural feel to the weekend.

The pre-race dinner was initially intimidating, but Holli and I quickly
found a couple veterans of the 100 miler who were more than happy to let
us drill them for advice on the race (thanks Gavin and Rick!). Go slow
in the beginning they emphasized. Everyone was extremely friendly and we
all stood up to introduce ourselves at the end of the dinner. I didn't
sleep much that night.

The morning came quickly and I found comfort in arranging all my gear.
Holli and I had a bagel and coffee at the restaurant and then wandered
around outside waiting for the start. A bagpipe player led us to the
starting line and before I knew it we were off. The first 50 miles were
relatively uneventful. Dark gave way to dawn, I encountered Gavin and
Rick again who warned me against getting sucked into going too fast by
following the 50 mile and 50k racers that also started with us. I'm glad
I took their advice! I had some great conversations with Steve who was
also doing his first 100 mile run and whose pace was similar to mine. We
lost track of each other for a while, but again found ourselves running
and chatting towards the end of the first 50 mile loop. I stuck mostly
to gels and Gatorade (lesson 1 = HEED is kind of nasty tasting stuff)
and switched shoes once (lesson 2=Brooks Adrenaline ASR give me blisters
while Brooks Adrenaline GTS do not). The hills were tough, but not
unmanageable and I finished the first loop with soreness, but no real
problems. First 50 miles were completed in about 12 hours. I was
surprised, dispite my motivation, at how distasteful the idea of heading
out for a second loop was. Luckily, after some encouragement from Holli,
a 15 minute walking break, a few cups of warm soup, and two ibuprofin, I
felt both recovered and motivated. As I the sun began to come down, the
50 milers heading for the finish kept wishing me a good night. What was
I in for?

Night was interesting, to say the least. The first it was peaceful. Then
it was surreal. Then it was lonely. Then it was discouraging. Then it
was over. Holli was a trooper and I confess to a feeling of relief when
she decided to stay up for the first part of the night to see me at aid
stations. I'm glad that I've had a reasonable amount of experience
hiking at night because the rocky and rooty terrain really slowed things
down. I believe the temperature dropped into the 40s and, had I been
able to run without fear of tripping and falling down, I would have been
dressed adequately warmly. At my pace, I was barely dressed adequately
(lesson 3=dress for walking). I ran/walked alone until about 4 AM, which
only made the experience more surreal. The race was small enough that I
rarely saw people during that time and they were all going the other
direction--bobbing headlights that would appear suddenly, followed by a
grunted greeting or word of encouragement, and then I was alone in my
little cone of light. A few times I shut off my headlamp to experience
darkness uncommon in urban and suburban America.

I pulled into aid station 5 around 4 AM. At this point, I just needed to
run home. Rick, who I'd talked with a few times throughout the weekend,
was sitting in front of a campfire and told me that he was dropping
because his quads were shot. He also reminded me that the section
between aid station 5 and 4 was one of the worst sections on the course.
With some reluctance, I stood close to the fire to put on a second shirt
picked up from my drop bag and sipped some soup and coffee cheerfully
provided by dedicated aid station volunteers. It was warm and friendly
there and I had distinct memories of the steep and rocky slopes of the
next section. It was mostly downhill, but at that point downhill was
hurting much worse than uphill. Still, I knew I just had to make it
through 4 more aid stations and I was done. So I headed back out,
slipping on my headphones hoping a little motivational music would help.
Just as I moved into the cold realm away from the campfire, I realized
the batteries in my MP3 player were dead. Seriously?!?! If I was going
to have to fumble with some batteries, I was at least going to stand by
the fire when I was doing so. I headed back to the campfire. Just in
time to see Steve, who I spent hours running with on the first loop,
head out of the dark.

Steve's company was much appreciated and I did not at all mind delaying
my departure while he had something to eat and drink. We chatted and
complained our way through the next sections of the run, informally
competing to see who would site the next aid station first. We had some
low times.

At one point, Steve, who was running behind me, said "Do you see that
outhouse up there?"

I said, "I think so. That must mean we're close to the aid station."

Steve said, "No wait, I think it's some sort of machine. Like a wood
chipper."

I responded, "No, it looks like an outhouse."

Steve asked, "Which side of the trail are you talking about?"

"The right," I said.

"Oh, I was looking on the left."

Of course, there was nothing on either side of the trail and we were
still miles from an aid station. We did a lot of walking and tried to
pick up the pace when the sun came up, but we never could accurately
calculate how long it should take us to reach the next aid station
(lesson 4= learn to convert from km to miles). Holli appeared walking up
a trail before aid station 4, which helped me feel that we were finally
getting close to the end (lesson 5=tell Holli how awesome she is more
frequently).

We were sore. We were tired. We were sick of being on trails. But we
were moving forward. Steve and I calculated finishing times hundreds of
times. With about 9 miles to go, I started getting mad and I started
getting scared. Despite aid station workers assuring me that I had
plenty of time, I just got convinced that I might not make it before the
cut off. And I got mad at the trail. I was just sick of stumbling on
roots and picking my way over rocks. So I told Steve that I need to run
and took off. I felt like I was flying. I was sick and tired of being in
the woods and I was going to finish the race, regardless of how much it
was starting to hurt my legs to take each step. I couldn't run the whole
way and walked when necessary, but each step closer brought some new
energy. Er, at least until I had about 3 miles to go, when my ankle hurt
so bad I couldn't run more than a couple hundred yards. But after some
dirt roads, that felt so short earlier but lasted forever, I was at the
final aid station. "It's 2k, you're about 12 minutes from the finish,"
said the volunteer. "Really?" I thought. After counting the day and
night in hours, I was baffled by the idea of 12 minutes.

My ankle hurt so I walked until the finish line came in sight so it took
me over 20 minutes to cover the distance. There was Holli as I crossed
the finish line.

"What do you need?" she asked.

"To sit down," I said.

I've spent the entire week thinking about the weekend. There was a
mental element to the whole race that, to me, made it fundamentally
different, and more difficult, than the 50 miler last year. However, I'm
not quite sure how to put it into words. Physical endurance is
necessary, of course, but I feel like there are mental elements that I
confronted throughout the night and into the morning. I was never close
to stopping (I think), but there were so many ups and downs as I was
forced to confront and make decisions about my percieved (actual?)
physical limitations. Are my muscles tired or do I just feel tired? Am I
hurting or really hurt? How fast can I go without risking a potentially
dangerous fall? What do I need to pay attention to (like where the trail
goes) and what should I turn over to autopilot (like taking steps)? Why
am I doing this anyway?

I'm not sure that I could have finished with the support of Holli and
the many people who sent me email and wished me well the days before the
race as I thought of them often. I confess though, the experience gets
under your skin. In a complicated world, it almost feels purifying to
spend a weekend with such a simple goal--keep moving forward.

-- 
Fighting lupus one mile at a time.
*[http://www.lupusrunner.org lupusrunner.org]


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