Wisconsin (2013 Ice Age Trail 50k)

05-ICEAGEjpg

The announcer took the microphone and began telling the 50k racers to line up on the wet grass.  I heard him from inside the cabin, where volunteers were managing packet pickup.  Almost comically, the sun burst through the clouds the instant I stepped outside.  Every runner, spectator and volunteer who had been tolerating several hours of intermittent rainfall began cheering for the warmth like angelic choirs.

You’re all welcome, I thought to myself as I scuttled past runners for a precautionary bathroom trip.  Almost ninety races done and I had yet to run in rain; my first ever 50k would not break the streak.

The Start / Finish / Aid Station of the Ice Age Trail 50

The Start / Finish / Aid Station of the Ice Age Trail 50

A few minutes later, I was toward the back of the pack, huddled with Otter, Jeff and Elizabeth.  Everyone was chattering nervously, eagerly anticipating the start of the Ice Age Trail 50k.  The truly unhinged group running the longer distance had been coming into the chute for about an hour, finishing nine miles out of fifty, the first part of a journey that, for most of them, would last between 11 and 14 hours.  Some looked extremely confident, as if they had just stepped out of their cars.  Others emerged from the path like they wanted it to be over, which was tragic considering they had forty-one miles left.

Those of us waiting by the start banner wouldn’t be running as far.  We weren’t many; the entire group could probably have fit in the small cabin where we had picked up our bibs earlier.  But the atmosphere was electric.  Nervous exchanges, loud laughter and shuffling feet came together for the ritualistic dance we were all performing.  But more to the point, the right people were there and their contributions to my exploits in long-distance running were perfectly summed up when I went to introduce my father in law Steve to Jeff.

“Hi,” Jeff said, extending a tattooed arm.  “I’m kind of responsible for getting these guys into running.”
“Wait a minute,” Steve said with a mix of skepticism and light indignation.
“Ultra!” Jeff spat out, immediately noticing his omission.  “For getting them into ultra running.”
“Much better,” Steve pointed with a smile.  “Because I’m pretty sure I got him into running.”

(left to right): Jeff, me, Otter

(left to right): Jeff, me, Otter

He was right about that.  Shortly after that comment, he amended the history to correctly reflect how he strong-armed me into running by signing me up for a distance I had hitherto never run.  When I ended up embracing the sport with an unexpected intensity, he became a mentor.  Then there was Otter, my only Chicago friend with the passion and endurance to run these events with me, whose reaction to reading about Jeff’s first 50-miler was enough to spin more than one twisted cog in his brain.  I’d be lying if I said Jeff’s ultra exploits hadn’t nudged me closer to the law firm of Jurek, Karnazes & Ulrich, but without Otter’s ironclad commitment, I might have tabled this adventure for another year.

Steve and I figuring out the drop bag situation

Steve and I figuring out the drop bag situation

These three gentlemen were instrumental in getting me to this start line, where we continued to quip anxiously.  It had been a long time since I had been overcome with such a profound feeling of uncertainty.  Every marathon I’ve run in the last three years I have started knowing I would finish.  Fast, slow, easily or with bleeding ears, I would eventually finish.  But today I wasn’t so certain.  I had never run that far before, trails tend to beat me up very quickly and my left knee had been pestering me all week.  But here we were, just minutes away from starting with the lush greens of the Kettle Moraine State Forest dripping all around us.  I barely had time to set up my GPS watch before we were off.

The 50k was divided into two sections.  The first consisted of a 13-mile out and back on the Ice Age Trail, a very narrow single-track path that at times was barely wide enough for two people.  With many ups and downs, it was by far the most technical section of the race.  I ran the first 5k with Otter and his friend Elizabeth, who kept the atmosphere light by exchanging funny and colorful stories.  It was nice to run and talk because it momentarily got my mind off what I was doing.

However, Otter and Elizabeth were executing a pretty conservative strategy with the downhills, which I approved for these first few miles.  After a while though, I wanted to do some flying.  So with limbs akimbo, I began my reliable pattern of darting down and slowly pattering back up.  I would see them later on the way back, all smiles.  Before, during and after, I left thousands of footprints on the Ice Age trail, which was anything but consistent.  Very rarely would I ever have time to look up and enjoy the breathtaking forest because it would mean risking a hidden root or a treacherous rock.

We are off (Jeff in the red singlet on the left, me in the blue / grey)

We are off (Jeff in the red singlet on the left, me in the blue / grey)

I locked in behind a group of runners who were matching my stride and up and down we went in a reliable pattern, screaming downhill with our arms waving like windmills and marching up in single-file.  Just when it felt like I could keep this mechanical pattern without trying, I kicked a root going downhill and snapped forward like a mousetrap.  I broke my fall with my hands and water bottle, but still scraped up my left side.  I went for a drink but the nozzle on my water bottle was caked in mud.  I had momentarily lost focus and the trail made sure I paid.  The worst part wasn’t the bruise I got on my palms or the occasional speck of dirt I’d feel in my mouth after a swig.  Instead, it was the fact that I was only at mile 8, with my legs still fresh.

How many times would I fall in the later miles, where it feels like cement has invaded my bloodstream?

My thoughts were quickly reverted to the trail as I stepped on a slick rock and almost lost balance.  I had to focus on every single step, trying hard to not get too close to the person in front of me, whose steps would prevent me from seeing places to put my own feet.

Two hours and ten minutes into the race, I was almost back at the start.  I could hear a furious cowbell ringing and nearby crowds.  One last turn revealed the white circus sheet of the medical tent.  There, in front of everyone else, was Steve.  Twelve hours earlier, we were in Chicago with the rest of the family, watching a production of Oklahoma! at the Lyric Opera.  Despite the show ending late, he drove me out to Wisconsin, where we would only get about four hours of sleep before our race-day alarm sirens would start shrieking.

13 miles down.

13 miles down.

He was likely tired and definitely hungry.  He should have been at a nearby Dog ‘n Suds, but instead stayed rooted at the start with his camera, clearly enjoying himself.  Before the race had even started, he had found people that he knew.  It made me happy knowing he wouldn’t spend the day sleeping in the passenger seat of his Jeep.  I flashed a quick thumbs-up and made my way to the blue tarp, where all of our drop bags were haphazardly strewn about, looking like a wreckage site or an evidence pileup.  Steve joined me seconds afterward and I gave him a brief rundown of how I was feeling.

I threw some Stinger waffles into one pocket, a CLIF bar into another.  Steve prepared a new water bottle and gave me a red bandana to wipe off the dirt and sweat the trail had left on me.  I was probably at the aid station for just a little over two minutes before heading toward the second section of the 50k race: the Nordic Loop.  This 9-mile trail circuit was wide enough for two-way traffic and for the first few miles looked like a meadow.  I couldn’t help but speed up a little, charging happily past slower runners and chewing on oat bars with absolutely no regard for etiquette.

If Steph could see me, I thought, she’d probably file for divorce.  That girl hates mouth noises.

Looking happy so far.

Looking happy so far.

But the peaceful and soothing Nordic loop soon deceived me.  We reached a point where the puffy soft grass spilled into the trees and became hard rocks, as if the trail were a stream that got suddenly rerouted and desiccated.  Once in the woods, I learned that the steepest and longest hills were all here, and not in the first section as I had originally thought.  Down I would go, leaning slightly back, flailing my arms at my side and stomping on the soil, then immediately slowing down and hiking up.

“I’m not looking forward to running these again,” said my temporary running friend with the yellow Camelbak.

Since the Nordic Loop was 9 miles long we’d be running it twice.  I was feeling great during this first attempt, keeping a very reliable pattern of speed spikes, eating my Stingers or oat bars every 30 minutes without much issue.  Though I began to tire around mile 18, I got a surprising burst of energy when we re-entered the tall pines.  Red straw and wet cones had softened the trail to the point where it felt like walking on clouds.  I once again heard the furious rattling of a cowbell and thanked the woman responsible.  I sped up a little and reached the Start in around 3:36, quickly finding Steve at the front of the crowd, checking on my progress.

22 miles down

22 miles down

I felt invigorated by how quickly it seemed like those last nine miles had passed.  I didn’t want to delude myself into thinking the next and final nine would be the same, but I was coasting happily on the endorphin high.  Once again, I found my drop bag, this time opting for just GU gels.  I must have looked like Gollum searching for his lost ring because I felt completely wired, like nothing could stop me.  Steve gave me the thumbs up, told me I had this, and I left the station for the last loop.

It didn’t take long to notice that something wasn’t right.  My legs were fine; turning over without much complaint.  My feet, after striking the uneven, rocky terrain tens of thousands of times, were also performing admirably.  I wasn’t sweating that much because the weather was cool with winds occasionally slicing through the trees.  Every system that matters for shorter runs was working like a champion at mile 24.  But the one that I needed the most for the long haul was beginning to fail me.

Two miles earlier I had eaten a Stinger waffle, a tiny sugar-filled disc that I had eaten several times already.  But this one felt like it didn’t have anywhere to go once I swallowed it.  Steph had once told me that when she was young, she thought food piled up in your stomach until one day it reached the back of your throat and you couldn’t eat anymore.  That’s exactly how I was starting to feel.  Even small drinks of my electrolyte solution felt like they were swishing in my throat above my chest.  This uncomfortable feeling soon turned into frequent burping and reflux, which made it so I couldn’t keep my head up.

At the end of a long stretch of pines I reached the Nordic Loop aid station.  As I approached it, I tried to keep my sight firmly fixed on the tent, but I couldn’t.  My head would stay up for two seconds and then drop, as if the strings holding it up were cut.  I laughed a little when this happened.  How it is possible that I couldn’t even keep a steady forward gaze?

I took a few orange slices, hoping they would help with my digestion issue.  If they did, I didn’t feel the effects.  I kept moving forward, slowly up and quickly down, but all the while with a rod in my throat that wouldn’t dislodge.  My esophagus was full, clogged beyond repair.  There were times when I thought vomiting might make me feel better.  It never came down to that, though I still don’t know if it was for the best.

Drop Bags Central

Drop Bags Central

During this struggle, I remember looking down at my watch to see that I was about to cross 26.2 miles.  That magic number where my pains and aches normally stop would mean nothing today.  My trusty watch, as if under the assumption that I was out here on another routine marathon, died 0.4 miles later.

It wasn’t long before I had returned to the tall pines and red straw path.  The trail was being shared by half marathoners now, many of whom were running faster than me.  I would speed up for short stretches at a time, slowed down by the frogs trying to escape my throat.  I kept up this seesaw pattern over the next mile, where I was soon overcome with many conflicting emotions.

Disappointment was there, with a scowl and slumped shoulders.  He wasn’t upset with me, but with my master plan to keep running on solid foods that didn’t pan out how I wanted.  Fear and concern showed up, wringing their hands under large billiard eyes, wondering how I’d be able to run longer distances in the summer if I was already losing it in perfect conditions.  But then elation and pride crashed through the walls in ATVs, a six-pack of beer in each hand, because they knew I had fewer than two miles to go and were ready to celebrate.

Up and down another hill, left and right around a new turn, my feet refused to stop moving.  I didn’t have the energy from the first Nordic Loop, but I was no less determined to see this race to the finish.  I was giving it all I had, running faster than I had in the last four miles, adrenaline magically fueling this last surge.  Two invisible pins were jabbing themselves into my quads with every lunge forward, but with the finish line so close, I didn’t care.  Up another up, down another down, some almost effortlessly, my central governor acting like a horse that caught sight of its stable.

I recognized the final turn.  The lady with the cowbell had left her post, but Steve had not.  Participating in the sport for over a decade had turned him into the perfect crewman and he didn’t miss a second of my final push.  I stepped over the red timing mats, my name was announced and skyward my hands went for that fleeting moment of victory.  After five hours and sixteen minutes on my feet, I had earned the title of ultramarathoner.

I walked over to my drop bag and pulled out a protein shake.  Finishing the race had given me a sudden headrush of excitement, but that would soon dissipate into a semi-nauseated state of discomfort.  I hadn’t felt this way since the Crazy Horse Marathon, so I knew it would just be a matter of waiting it out.  The organizers had set up a large buffet in the cabin with sausages, meat patties, potato salad and chips.  I served myself some, but couldn’t find the will to eat any of it.  Steve and I went back outside to a large tent where a cover band was crooning Tom Petty covers.  I managed to drink a beer but it wasn’t helping me get back to normal.  I saw Jeff and exchanged a congratulatory high-five with him.  We had very close finishing times, despite never really seeing each other on the Nordic loop.

2013 Ice Age Trail Run 50k Key Chain

2013 Ice Age Trail Run 50k Key Chain

I slumped down on a chair, my plate of food untouched.  I wasn’t dizzy or light-headed, but couldn’t seem to push any food down my system at all.  So I just sat there and watched people finish, some of whom were 50-milers and looked like they were barely hurt.  I got up when I saw Otter’s green singlet dashing up the path on his way to finishing.  He looked like a kid chasing an ice cream truck, the biggest smile on his face and not a single hint of pain or discomfort.  While I was in a strange haze of acceptance when I crossed the timing mats, Otter was in a beehive, bouncing off the walls.  He actually dropped down and did a few push-ups afterward as if to prove he wasn’t done.

In that moment, I realized how differently we tackled our races.  I knew on the course that it might be the only 50k I ever run.  So I was out for blood – to run aggressively and finish knowing I had nothing left to give.  Otter on the other hand, was there for the same reason most trail runners run in the first place: to have fun.  Though I didn’t run the race with him, I could tell that his goal had been to enjoy a prolonged communion with nature and experience the outdoors in the most direct way possible.  I actually felt a little envious seeing how great he felt and how eager he was to wolf down the post-race food spread.  Whether he had a mid-race epiphany is his story to tell, but the biggest lesson that I learned in LaGrange, Wisconsin, was that I have a lot to learn.

With Ice Age behind me, it’s back to the drawing board.  I need to retool my arsenal if I’m serious about running even longer distances in warmer weather.  Though Otter looked like he could have kept going, I was in no shape to continue.  But whatever happened in this race that seemed to stall my food intake (eating too much too soon, perhaps) should not happen later this summer with the right tweaks.  Until then, I need to massage my legs back to life, lest they atrophy too soon before the most intense summer they will ever endure.

After all, I merely joined the ultra club.  I don’t want my membership revoked.

Marathon_Map 041 (WI)

Advertisements

About Dan
Running a marathon in all 50 states because there's no better way to explore the world around you than on your own two feet, for as long as you can, until you hate yourself and everything around you. Then you stop, get a medal, and start over.

25 Responses to Wisconsin (2013 Ice Age Trail 50k)

  1. Pingback: Race Schedule & Results | Dan's Marathon

  2. Pingback: Race Medals | Dan's Marathon

  3. deepblues00 says:

    Great write-up! You’re nuts. 🙂

    Hope these are going into your running memoirs one day.

  4. trexrunner says:

    I am so sorry that you had to deal with that awful feeling and all the reflux…welcome to my pre-surgery life! Quite unpleasant, right? I’m glad you finished and (mostly) enjoyed the experience. The way Otter described it, it was a truly beautiful race and great day. Congratulations!

    • Dan says:

      Definitely unpleasant. Maybe I should have looked for Sprites & Oreos at the aid stations. I’m guessing it was a matter of eating too much too soon into the race. Either that or my salty beverage was too fizzy. Time will tell whether I figure it out.

      Thanks for reading 🙂

  5. tootallfritz says:

    Congrats, Ultra Runner! What a title. Enjoy it. You will figure out the fueling.

  6. Congratulations again, Dan! Great report! Ultra distances are very humbling. I am often reminded of that quote from Badwater found in “Born to Run” where the dude talks about how his ambitions early on are very high and then at some point the only goal is to “not throw up on my shoes”. I think the hardest thing to learn about ultra distances is that slow start — something I still have to work on myself. We’re all an experiment of one so give it some time. And yes, I do think we can all learn from Otter and remember to chase that ice cream truck!

    I’m so happy for you guys and I’m glad I was there to be a part of it. You will have a blast at North Country. Just remember to look at it as “an adventure” above all else.

    • Dan says:

      Thanks Jeff. While I find the re-structuring of one’s priorities funny, I always want to avoid it. My favorite races are the ones where I get stronger and faster with each split, and not the one where I have to scratch off goals because I’m starting to melt down. That said, I didn’t think of that at all during this race. I had no expectations, no goals — just to get through it with everything I had.

      Thanks for showing me some good trails around here and for the continued support. Best of luck this summer!

  7. john says:

    Nice run, and great write up. Congratulations on another milestone!

  8. MedalSlut says:

    I didn’t have a super enthusiastic running buddy, so my ultra plans are firmly shelved until 2014, but part of me is regretting that when I read stuff like this. Well done on running through the unpleasantness – it did not sound great.
    Something else I am jealous of: The fact that you have never been forced to run a race in the rain. I think, in Scotland, you have to get used to the opposite…
    Well done!

    • Dan says:

      It’s quite miraculous, really. Chicago isn’t really known for being very rainy, but it happens and frequently. The fact that I’ve managed to eek out all these runs in dry conditions is insane.

      Anyway, thanks for reading! It was definitely a new experience, one that I know you’ll experience in the near future if your passion for hitting the outdoors is any indication, constant downpour and all.

  9. runnerbydefault says:

    Congrats on your ultra!! Love the medal/keychain.

  10. Otter says:

    “But then elation and pride crashed through the walls in ATVs, a six-pack of beer in each hand, because they knew I had fewer than two miles to go and were ready to celebrate.” — this is a legitimately awesome sentence, and I’m green with envy that you wrote it before I could think up something similar.

    I don’t say this as often as I should, Danny boy, but I’m really proud of you. You picked out a tough race in a bold new discipline, you put in the time to train for it, and while you make the last 1/3 of the race sound like a veritable death march, I’m not going to let you lose sight of the fact that YOU ABSOLUTELY KILLED IT. In your FIRST-EVER ultramarathon, you finished in the Top 25% of all finishers, and this wasn’t no Lakefront 50k.

    It was an honor and a privilege running this sum’bitch with you — remember, I wouldn’t have thought to sign up for this if you hadn’t suggested it in the first place. When I passed Steve at the Start/Finish area as I was passing through Mile 22, I was grinning ear-to-ear when he told me that you had somehow stretched your lead over me to damn near an hour — my slower pace meant that I was going to enjoy myself no matter what, but I was stoked that you were having such a good race (well, up to that point).

    When we signed up for this race back in December, we knew going in that it was all part of a longer-arcing journey toward the 50-miler in August, rather than a destination in and of itself. And yet, Ice Age ended up being a huge milestone for both of us, anyway. I trust that you’ll figure out your nutrition issues in plenty of time to come back bigger and better for the NCR 50, and I have a feeling that you’ll be finding your times improving on the flatlands as a result of all this trail training, too.

  11. Mike says:

    Nice job! With both race and recap. I didn’t think it was possible, but your day in LaGrange sounds even more fun than breathing paint fumes, unpacking boxes and mopping up flooded washing machines. Despite your unfortunate and discomforting digestion issues, I’d agree with Otter that you rocked your first 50K. Your lack of post-race appetite rings all too familiar… my own body similarly rebelled after the Mount Diablo 50K last year, when the heat threw everything out of whack. I’d say we both have a lot to learn, but get there we will my preciousss (oops, I think I just mashed-up Yoda and Gollum…).

    I can relate to running each race like it’s your last… though on the wrong trail, that mindset can quickly become a self-fulfilling prophecy if you get reckless. But that’s the double-edged sword of trail running, since the constant vigilance it demands of its disciples is a big part of its allure. Glad the only wounds you took home were trail-induced stigmata on the palms of your hands.

    Any idea as to the elevation change for the course?

    The upcoming summer heat will pose a serious training challenge, no doubt about it… but I guess that which does not kill you, only makes you appreciate San Francisco in July that much more.

    And kudos to Steve! His kind of unconditional support is hard to come by and even harder to give up… and it makes the actual race much more rewarding. I trust you won’t let him out of your sight anytime soon.

    • Dan says:

      Thanks for reading and the continued support, Mike. It was definitely a new experience, one that I will never forget, despite (or probably because of) the hardship towards the end. I have over three months to tinker with what works so that I can keep going past 26 miles — any and all tips would be appreciated.

      As for the altitude change, I can only tell you what it was at 26.6 when my watch died, which oddly enough was the exact same altitude as the start: 1700 gain, 1700 loss, 3400 change. I’d add an additional 300 of loss and gain for those last 5 miles to leave it at a nice, even 4,000.

  12. Koji Kawano says:

    Nice job, Dan! I hope I can do one of those sometime later in my life. Great to hear you have a good support system going.

  13. Total kudos. Nice job. Mucho impressive!

  14. G-Tang says:

    You know it’s an extreme feat when you can’t even indulge in the buffet table afterwards. Wow. 50K. I think I can fathom a little bit of what that felt like now.

    • Dan says:

      There are a ton of ultras out in California, Sir Tang. I’m surprised you haven’t dominated the circuit yet with your finely tuned machine-like body that adapts to the elements like an apex chameleon. Thanks for reading, bud.

  15. Pingback: Day #411 — The Ice Age 50K (La Grange, WI — 5/11/2013) | I Drank For Miles

  16. Pingback: Marathons, Selective Memory and runskin Giveaway | Dan's Marathon

  17. Pingback: The Catharsis of Ultra | Dan's Marathon

  18. Pingback: End of Year Recap (2013) | Dan's Marathon

  19. Pingback: State 38: Maryland (Maryland Half Marathon) | Dan's Marathon

And then you said ...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: