Bury My Guaranteed Barkley Entry at Wounded Knee

Wow! So I really don't even know where to begin.

 

I'm going to have to start with a long round of Thanks:

• To my wife, for allowing me to disappear for 6 days while juggling care of the kids and your demanding teaching responsibilities, I couldn't have done this without you and your continued support and belief in me.
• To my mom, thank you for coming in and looking after the kids for a couple days
• To my crew chief Jack, well, words can't adequately describe just how grateful I am to call you a friend and to have had you by my side during this race.
• To Katie and Andrew, I wouldn't have made it far into the 4th day if y'all hadn't come around to help out with the crewing, because, man, I definitely needed all hands on deck in those exhausting hours. I mean, honestly, how incredible is this community, where folks you never really knew before are suddenly, selflessly committing themselves to a fellow runner, to massage their legs, to shovel food down their throat, to support them and look after them.
• To my fellow runners, thank you for letting me share some miles with you. And thanks for putting up with my snark and sarcasm … it can be endearing once you get used to it, at least that's what I tell myself.
• To Laz and Sandra, thank you for sharing your home, errr … yard, and for providing a stage that allowed me to achieve far more than I could have ever dreamed.

 

 

 

 

Let's jump right into the fray, when things got dicey!

 

Night 3 at Big's, the World Championship for the Backyard Ultra race format. Over 60 hours of running already complete. That's where things got … interesting.

 

After a few hours of night running, my right knee started to feel weird. A couple hours later I had stabbing pains around the MCL with every footfall. It got to the point that I could no longer run more than a few strides at a time without wanting to collapse in pain. So I started power walking the road course, which was fast enough to get me through each loop with a few minutes to spare. But then around hour 66, even power walking was too painful. So I had to devise a new method of dragging my body down the road.

I realized that as long as my right knee was fully locked, I had no pain, there was just a very dull ache from ground contact rather than a knife being stabbed into my knee. So I spent the next few hours working through various iterations of a sideways straight-legged skip-hop-thing. To get into an upbeat frame of mind around this time I ran with headphones for my first and only loop, jamming out to Dua Lipa's Future Nostalgia album. It was exactly what I needed to maintain focus as I worked out the kinks in my new "running" form.

I would forcefully use my good left leg and arm to propel my body up and forward, and while in the air I would swing my dead right leg forward to prepare for a straight-leg landing, then I would rock my body forward again while balancing on the straight-leg and proceed to the next stride. Sometimes my body was facing almost forward, other times I was facing nearly perpendicular to my direction of travel. It was a crazy amount of effort to drag my body down the road and I was barely making it back in time for the 3-minute warning bell.

Going into the race I had a few goals, one of which was to time out and not quit. It was a pretty big goal for me to write down because it implies a more competitive spirit than I'm typically comfortable assuming during a race. Basically, I wanted to keep going until my body quit on me. That goal was at the forefront of my mind during this 8+ hour dead-knee period of the race. Not once did I consider quitting. It was more about finding a way to survive to the next hour. I was hyper-focused the whole time. And going through a 3rd night without adequate sleep, I was surprisingly lucid and didn't even need caffeine.

That said, I knew with absolute certainty that my knee would not get me through the day loop, the trail was just too rocky and slow. So, by killing myself to get to dawn, I could effectively "give up" without giving up -- by taking what would likely become a 70-90minute stroll through the woods on the 73rd loop and timing out with my head held high.

 

When I finished Hour 72, I came into camp and a flurry of folks helped Jack tape and wrap my knee, and then push me back out to the corral. The first half mile of the day loop is a road out-and-back and man did it hurt. I limped back through camp to start the trail section, with Harvey and Mori out of sight. I was appreciative of everyone's effort to get my knee in shape, but fully aware of the fact that I was 100% screwed. Just outside of camp I fell for the first time all race. It was a hard fall. I saw stars. My knee exploded in pain. I got back up and could hardly drag my leg through a rock-hopping section of the course. I slowly hiked the first hill and tried to manage the following descent. I lost control again and slammed hard into a tree.

And then, magically, I pushed off of my dead right leg and the stabbing knee pain was replaced with a manageably uncomfortable ache. As I hobble-jogged into a flatter, straighter section of the course, I started pushing the effort, madly swinging my good left leg and arm to propel me, and gingerly pushing off with my dead right leg. As I found that I could start bending my right knee and pushing off of that leg, I transitioned from sad, pathetic, injured walk-jogger into a rabid animal. Quite simply, I said "Fuck it, I'm finishing this loop!" Instead of hiking the uphills I sprinted them, sometimes even clawing with my hands. My pace felt absolutely uncontrollable. I was redlining, hard.

And then, towards the end of the loop, at the base of the final hill, I saw Harvey and Mori off in the distance. And I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I was back in the game. Never before in a race have I felt so utterly overwhelmed, both physically and emotionally. That hour of running was a whirl of pain and emotion and struggle that I can barely remember, but that I will also never forget. I don't know what the future holds for me in this sport, and I may never achieve anything as big as the record-breaking Assist at Big's ever again, but the 7am hour to start the 4th day at Big's in 2021 feels like an inflection point, a phase shift in how I view myself as a runner and what I believe I am capable of. It was the most rewarding hour of running I have ever experienced.

 

That's it. That's the obligatory poetic, inspirational blog post.

 

 

…But if you care for some more details about the race, here they are…

 

The Leadup:

I qualified for Big's with an at-large slot from my 56 hours at Capital back in May. My downfall then was a combination of sleep deprivation and caffeine mismanagement. So this time around I had a formulated plan for how to handle each.

For sleep, I had a cot and a zero-gravity chair, I had headphones and a sleep sounds app, I had an eye mask, I had plenty of blankets and even a weighted blanket to make me feel instantly cozy.

For caffeine I had 50mg dissolvable strips that I could carry with me and drop the moment I got cloudy or sleepy.

All the rest of my planning remained much the same as with Capital, but I felt the focus on sleep and caffeine would pay dividends. Despite most of the international qualifiers not being able to make it to the race, there was enough talent in the starting field to take the race well into Day 4, and possibly even into Day 5. Now, I don't consider myself an elite runner -- my training and mileage are crap, I don't have a single notable win on my resume -- but I'm pretty good at staying level-headed and I don't mind the grind of longer races, so I fully expected myself to be mixing it up with the big kids right up to the end.

I drove down from STL and picked up my crew chief, Jack, at the Nashville airport before continuing on to Bell Buckle to set up our tent. Then it was a low-key dinner of delicious McAlister's Deli and early to bed. I tossed and turned all night, only getting a few hours of sleep despite downing what felt like dozens of melatonin. In the morning, while I wasn't rested, I felt ready to tackle a few days of running. NBD.

Did I bring enough crap?!

Prepping the tent, and wearing my obligatory pre-race t-shirt.

Using a secret incantation to bless my pillow for successful catnaps in the days to come.

Team kits?

This is gonna be fun, right?

 

Day 1:

The first 24 hours were super low key. I ran comfortably, I chit-chatted other runners, and I introduced some runners to my obnoxious sarcasm.

I stayed calm between loops with breathing techniques, and made sure I was on top of my calories. I started out trying to take in 200 calories of my Long Haul drink each hour and then supplementing with 100 calories of gels, chews, or some kind of quick snack. I think I wore an old pair of Altra Timps for the trail and Altra Torins for the road.

Most importantly in this first day, I built up the courage to have a couple of random conversations with Maggie and Courtney. Did the words coming out of my mouth make any sense or was it incoherent jibberish … who's to say?! But I was running and chatting alongside two "famous athletes" I look up to more than anyone else in the sport. So, yeah, it was a good day!

Proof that Maggie and Courtney are my new BFFs.

I ran into some frustrating troubles that could never be resolved fully over the succeeding days -- despite having repeatedly tested my new headphones which I'd primarily planned to use for rain sounds to help me sleep, we had connection problems with my phone and one of the buds straight-up had no charge and never charged up throughout the race. Turns out, the rubber/foam attachment was too big and was popping the bud off the charging pins … despite the fact the attachments were made by the same company. So a good number of overnight hours were spent trying to figure out the best way to get me my Pavlovian rain sounds response and also effectively block out the rest of the noise going on in the camp. Run of the mill running problems, right?!

Running is soooo hard.

 

Day 2:

Physically, Day 2 was a breeze. Another great day to be out on the trails with perfect fall weather. Hours 25-35 made it clear to me which runners out there came prepared with trail legs and which ones did not. The transition from overnight road miles to the sometimes-technical daytime trail miles looked very uncomfortable to some. But I found it to be a great opportunity to change up muscle groups and get into a relaxed running groove.

Acid reflux reared its head, something I had never experienced before Capital. And while I kind of expected it to happen at some point, my nutrition plan was woefully inadequate to properly accommodate the new problem. I knew that temporarily shifting to water instead of Long Haul would help, but the hundreds of dollars of food I'd brought along were not very useful -- lots of chocolate, salt, and baked goods (baking soda/powder). Even something as bland as a banana was often too acidic for my throat. We mustered through, but it got a bit testy at times, with me unable to effectively articulate how much I now thoroughly despised every single piece of food in my tent, and with my crew chief unable to do much of anything about it. I dreamed of the blandest foods imaginable -- unflavored oatmeal, white rice, cream of wheat. Luckily, I snagged a bag of rice from Steve Slaby, and while it was absurdly over-salted for my taste, it went a long way to helping me keep my nutrition on track.

In the overnight hours on Day 2 I finally figured out the most comfortable way for me to lay down. I'm a stomach/side sleeper and the cot was just not working out how I'd hoped, but my body was finally tired enough to pass out laying back in the zero-gravity chair … that is, once I yelled at the neighboring tent in the middle of the night to shut the heck up cuz I could hear them through my noise cancelling headphones.

Me failing at passing out on the cot. And yeah, that's a superhero cartoon duvet for my weighted blanket. Again ... running ... hard stuff.

I believe I started dosing caffeine in the overnight hours of Day 2. I'd originally planned to keep at 50mg/hour once I started, but I quickly found that a 50mg pick-up was gentle enough to not overwhelm me but also enough to support 3-4 hours of alert running.

The biggest problem with the overnight hours came from my shoes. Since 2015, about 90% of my mileage comes from Altra shoes. I love them. They fit great, the work great. But lately their shoe design has been, well, spotty. For years I could take any pair of Altras and wear them right out of the box, no break-in necessary. I thought 20 miles of pre-race running in a brand new pair of Torins would've been more than enough, but I quickly found on Night 2 that the tongue is atrociously designed. The tongue is too short and also too stiff, and it continually jabbed into the bend in my foot with every single stride. I likened it to the feeling of a credit card edge being jammed into my foot non-stop for 12 hours. It was so frustrating that I had to abandon those shoes for Night 3, and at the start of Night 4 I even took to hacking the tongue off altogether, literally the first time in my life I've had to make alterations to a shoe. So yeah, I dunno, Altra, maybe you can work on that and lemme know when you fix the problem. K Thanks!

 

Day 3:

I'd wanted to go with a brand new pair of Altra Lone Peaks for Day 3. Like the Torins, I'd put 20miles on the new Lone Peaks to break them in, but they felt wildly different than the previous model. The structure of the toe box was both rigid and flimsy, the material kept rippling into a U-shape that receded into the toe box space and would put pressure on my toes, and the stitching area that formed the toe box felt rigid and stiff and was rubbing my big toe like crazy. This was the first time in 6 years I'd donned a pair of Lone Peaks and didn't enjoy them. So after the first loop, I had to rip them off in a panic and abandon them for a pair of Altra Timps, which felt fantastic.

After a few hours of daytime running, the hallucinations started. The accumulated sleep I'd bagged the past 2 days certainly helped here because my mind was strong enough to write off the hallucinations for what they were rather than freak out like I did at Capital. It started off with a gorgeous multi-million-dollar cabin in the woods that I'd somehow never noticed before. Tucked away in the trees, it was tall and boxy with dark green metal siding and tall, narrow windows, and there were a couple of small balconies on the second floor. It was the kind of modern aesthetic you might see profiled in Architectural Digest. After rounding a turn and still being able to see it, I stopped momentarily and walked briefly into the woods to get a better look, but it kept disappearing on me. It was then I realized it was a figment of my imagination. I hollered back to Harvey, who was right behind me, to confirm that what I was seeing was not, in fact, real, and he happily let me know I was losing my mind.

A couple laps later I saw a mint-condition early 90s black Mercedes sedan abandoned in the woods … it was just a big rock.

And throughout the day and into Day 4, I continued to see more houses and cabins.

Deep into the Night of the Fucked Up Knee.

 

Day 4:

After my miracle hour, I settled into a groove. I was hitting decent splits on the course, my knee was mildly cooperative, and I was getting pampered like crazy in camp. Each time I came in, Jack was toweling me off and prepping an ice bandana; Andrew Moore had come over to shovel food down my face and torture me with a percussive massage gun; and Katie Wright, fresh off her own 28 hour effort at Big's, helped prep nutrition for the next hour and tended to my knee. It was absolutely unbelievable. I mean, in the moment, I was sometimes incoherent, sometimes a sassy pain in the ass, and sometimes uncomfortably silent, but after the race was over, I was able to wrap my head around the fact that people I didn't really even know had come over to prop me up and keep me going for over 12 hours. "Grateful" doesn't even begin to describe how tremendously indebted I feel to Andrew and Katie for their assistance.

Mid-race action shots ... eat, foot care, eat some more.

Honestly, much of Day 4 felt pretty routine. But then, in the last few daytime hours, starting around 79 or 80, my knee started getting iffy again. I had to be very careful about placement. The right leg wasn't allowed to be the lead leg for any turns or to get around any obstacles, and I was spending more and more time at the start of each loop trying to warm the knee back up. Every few minutes of sitting down between loops would cause stabbing pains in the knee at the outset of the next loop.

As night approached, I wasn't sure how long my knee would be able to hold out on the road. For our first night lap, I high-tailed it so I could get into camp early and take care of my feet, which had been in an old pair of Torins for 100 straight miles now, and the odd side-skipping action I was doing earlier had both torn up the shoes and caused a slew of blisters. My knee wrap was also proving problematic and needed to be readjusted.

I hopped out of the chair with new socks and shoes and a newly wrapped knee, ready to tackle the 85th hour. But from the first steps, I could tell my knee was toast. I gingerly walked a quarter mile to the bottom of the hill and I just knew that I was done. I'd already spent an entire night hobble-jogging and side-skipping, and I had absolutely no confidence that I'd be able to make it to the turn around in under 30 minutes. And most importantly, with the resurgent stabbing pains, I had no idea if I was just suffering from some run-of-the-mill overuse injury or if I was causing real structural damage to my knee. And while I had the goal of timing out, my wife and I always have an understanding that I will listen to my body, and my body had made it painfully clear that my right knee was toast long ago and that I'd been running on borrowed time. So, I turned around to hand in my timing chip and happily accept The Assist.

No caption required.

Me, Jack, and Laz. 

Post-op:

I didn't go to a doctor to check out my knee, but it took 7 days post-race to be able to walk without pain. Inflammation finally went down after a few days, but there was still a lingering heat coming from my MCL after 10+ days and the wrong motions while walking or navigating stairs sometimes produced moderate pain. 14 days post-race and things were finally feeling "normal" enough to go for a short, easy jog.

 

I lost 2 toenails, in what was the easiest toenail removal process I've ever dealt with as a runner. Blisters formed under each nail and grew so big that the nail literally rested on top of the blister. Once I popped those suckers, the nails practically fell off my toes. So yeah, if anyone out there has problems with damaged toenails during ultras, I highly recommend just extending your run for a couple hundred more miles to make the removal process a piece of cake!

The world's easiest toenail removal!

 

I temporarily held a share of the Backyard world record for 3 hours. That's insane! That's something I could not have fathomed even a year ago, when I wondered if my body could go much more than 48 hours. So I feel like I definitely earned a few weeks off from running, the first extended break I've had in years.

 

As for what's next with this race format … well, my ultimate goal with Backyards has been to explore my limits of fatigue and sleep deprivation to better prepare myself for whenever I'm gifted with the opportunity to start Barkley. With this last effort, I've gained the confidence I was looking for to know that I can handle the potential mental and sleep-deprivation effects of running Barkley. So, technically, I don't think Backyards have much of anything left to offer me when it comes to my Primary Running Objective. But I'm guessing my 84 hour effort will be enough to qualify me for Team USA at the World Team Championships in 2022. And while it's not quite the same as, say, an official USATF kit for the 24Hour national team, it'd be an honor to represent the United States at next year's Big's. So, expect to see me there, with tons of other incredible athletes, seeking out Day 5 and Hour 100. Let's just hope my knee holds up for the next go around!

 

Gear List:

Shoes: Altra Torins, Timps, and Lone Peaks

Clothing: Patagonia Strider Pros (every run, every race, for ever), and random shirts

Lube: Squirrel's Nut Butter, which worked like a charm for 84 hours straight

Socks: Injini (every run, every race, for ever)

Caffeine: I found some caffeine strips on Amazon -- 50mg caffeine, 25mg theanine. They worked like a friggin charm.

Nutrition: Long Haul sports drink, SIS gels, Clif blocks, and a bunch of random food.

Sleep: cot, zero-gravity chair, blankets, eye mask, earphones and ear plugs, weighted blanket

Confidence: love and support from family and friends.

Random Photos:

Taking a knife to a poorly designed tongue that literally bruised my foot.

The Night 3 side-skip-hop demolished my shoes.

Post-race feet and ankles so swollen they couldn't slide into my amazing, glittery sandals.

Tent city at Big Dog's Backyard Ultra.

Action Shot ... to prove I did more than eat and sleep and lounge around for 3.5 days.

Hell is a 4 mile long stretch of flat pavement that you're forced to run over and over again.

Post-race interview? That was weird.

Got stuck in bad traffic on the drive home. Pulled over to nap. Forgot to turn off my lights. Oops! Ended up doubling my 5hr drive home.

Me dressed up as the Backyard World Champion for Halloween. I think I won the Most Obscure Costume award for my neighborhood this year.

And finally, here are some more boomerangs of the side-skip-hop-thing in action:

Capital Backyard Ultra Prologue

Friends Don't Let Friends Run Ultras: A Cautionary Tale

 

Here's the thing. You don't talk about taking a dump in normal daily life. It's basically taboo. But get some ultrarunners together and it's a Top Ten topic of conversation, guaranteed. We run for a long time. At some point you just gotta poop. It's part of the sport.

This race report "prologue" is about going Number Two. If you're not mature enough to handle an honest discussion of human shit, then, I dunno, go read something else.

 

We'd been running for something like 45 hours straight by now. Steve and I were all that remained of a starting field of 40+ runners. It was dark and cold and rainy. I had to poop. We were half-way through our 4.167 mile loop for the hour and had just passed a Port-a-potty. But we couldn't use it. A few hours early it was discovered that some person / rabid animal had previously dropped a turd *on* the toilet. ON, not IN. There was no way any human could sit on that crapper without also getting a giant smear of someone else's poop all down the back of their leg. And so, I continued on to find a nice place to poop in the woods.

Steve stopped first, saying he had to pee -- the cold weather and low effort level made peeing an all too common occurrence during the race. I decided it was a great time to finally take that dump I'd forgotten to take care of during the "interyardal" time last hour. I ran another 20 yards down the trail, then hollered to Steve that I was gonna take a shit and that I'd catch back up soon. His response: "I decided to take a shit, too." So, there we were, just two normal run-of-the-mill running bros, doing what running bros do: take dumps in the woods within earshot of one another mid-race. Memories!

After so many hours of running, I'd already fully utilized my supply of TP that I always carry in a baggie in my pocket. So, time to start selecting premium quality leaves I suppose! But, there was a problem. The ground was soaking wet so all of the leaves were damp and dirty. And to top it off, I'd managed to select a poop spot with a rather large supply of holly leaves. Sometimes you just gotta work with what you got. I did the best I could, then hopped back onto the trail around the same time Steve did. A variety of words were thrown around: "not ideal", "insufficient", etc.

Finishing out the yard / loop, my first order of business was to sprint to my tent, grab a new pair of shorts, and dart off to the Port-a-potty to complete the cleanup task that no amount of soggy leaves would have ever been able to handle. Thus far I've been trying to avoid direct mention, but there's no sense in making you read between the lines … there was smeared shit in my shorts and my butt crack, and it needed to be taken care of.

I tried mightily to resolve the situation with copious amounts of single-ply TP, but that stuff just wasn't up to the task. Wet wipes would've been great, but I didn't have any on hand. At this point, I need to mention, again, that I'd been running for 45 hours straight. Mental faculties weren't exactly in tip-top shape. I scanned the Port-a-potty for options. There was a mounted container of hand sanitizer. I contemplated using that 80% alcohol liquid mixture, but ultimately chickened out. I was not willing to subject myself to that amount of pain. Then, the solution presented itself! To the side of the toilet, on the wall, was a collection of condensation. Eureka! I'll MacGyver the hell out of this situation and blot up the condensation with a wad of TP for a homemade wet wipe! Lemme tell ya, it worked like a charm. My ass was clean and ready for endless hours of superawesomefuntimes!

Except. Well. Okay. Here's the deal. Hindsight is 20/20. I'm 99% sure I was sopping up your everyday ordinary atmospheric condensation. However … it pains me to say this … but ... there is a very small but non-zero chance I cleaned my ass mid-race with a wad of someone else's sopped-up urine. There it is. There. It. Is.

The real race report will be along shortly ...

2020 COVID-gate 100K

Dear John Andersen,

Did you beat me this year? Yes.
Did you crush my spirits in the Forever Section? Absolutely.
Is your Hellgate PR now better than mine? Sigh…yes.

So … I dunno, congrats or whatever.

I hate you so much, John Andersen. (PC: Becca)

But there are some things I need you to understand.

This summer I was in the best running shape of my life. I had low-16 5K fitness. I could knock out 3K of vert day after day. I'm only 35 and you're, what, 50? I could've crushed you in a race and barely broken a sweat. These are facts.

But then I (probably) got the 'Rona and missed out on nearly 7 weeks of prime training. Still, I knew I had a good base of fitness to rely upon. And the weather was going to be great. And you were getting older. I don't care how well you've been training. Honestly, how much longer can you expect to be able to run as well as the Miracle Year of 2018? Race Plan: Bearwallow by 8am, cruise to a sub-11:30 finish, handedly beat my nemesis. Simple.

Except, we know that's not what happened.

How did it come to this? How in the hell did I end up losing out on a podium position to you? How on earth did you beat me by 10 minutes?! TEN MINUTES!

John, have you forgotten that I no longer live in DC? I had to drive over 700 miles to get to Camp Bethel. I had to sleep in the back of my SUV at a random rest area off I-64 in Eastern Kentucky. Have you ever run Hellgate after a poor night's sleep, huddled under blankets in the back of an automobile, semis whizzing past, parking lot lights flooding your car's interior? I didn't think so.

You criticized me for going out too fast. But I arrived at Camping Gap only 1 minute faster than in 2018. I'm in better shape than I was back then. And this year, the running felt so effortless. You know that half my annual vert is on a treadmill, right? Smooth, constant climbing. What's that sound like to you? Yup. The Petite's and Camping climbs! And I didn't even have a watch, so it's not like I was chasing times or anything. Where were you? Were you walking? Yes, I was running with two people who would go on to break the course record, but the pace felt so easy. And when they started doing their thing on the Reverse Promise Land Section, I didn't chase. I wasn't being stupid! I was calm, cool, collected. I had no idea what pace I was running, but I had this feeling that something as crazy as 11:15 might be possible if I didn't run into any major problems. You'd roll into Bearwallow, struggling to beat the 8am time goal, asking about me, and then spiral into the depths of despair after learning just how far ahead of you I was. Someone would snap a picture of your sorrow. It would be incredible.

But here's the thing I failed to realize until it was too late. I've been living in Missouri for over a year now and I never do sustained descents. The biggest hill in my area isn't even 400 feet high. And I've been too scared to prop up the rear of my fancy new treadmill for fear of obliterating it like I did with my previous one. I thought my legs were strong and durable, but by the time I started dropping down off Onion Mountain to Overstreet on that stupid, technical stretch of bullshit trail, I knew something wasn't right. My legs were heavy and my footfalls were clunky. It hadn't taken more than a few miles of early race descending to ruin my legs for the day. And if that weren't enough, my stomach suddenly went haywire with aches and stabbing pains. Going to the bathroom didn't help at all. So I lumbered down to Overstreet at a snail's pace and slow jogged my way over to Headforemost/Floyd's.

Apparently I said I felt "good" at Mile 24. That was a lie. (PC: Ridge RUNers)

You caught me not long thereafter. I was squatting in the woods, trying to resolve my gut issues, again, to no avail. But I was secretly glad you showed up, because I always run down to Jennings just a little bit faster when you're leading the charge. I left Jennings knowing my legs had betrayed me. My prerace plan was to attack the two climbs up to Little Cove, but we'd barely gotten started and you were already out of sight. The first climb was slow and pathetic. The subsequent descent was clunky and had no flow. We spotted each other's headlamps. I counted strides. Around 400. Over 2 minutes. Starting the climb up to the aid station, I figured you were nearly 4 minutes ahead of me. I chased you … slowly. On the approach to the aid station -- that long bend that takes 5 or 6 minutes to run -- I never once saw your headlamp. Either it was off, or you were way ahead by now. My spirits were crushed. I wasn't sure I'd be able to make it to Bearwallow by 8:15am, much less 8:00am. I was the most pathetic runner in the world.

But after a quick stop-off at Little Cove, and a much needed pre-packaged nutella crepe (seriously, the most amazing thing I've ever seen at an aid station in my life), I was ready for miles of smooth running on the approach to the Devil Trail. I never saw your headlamp -- maybe I saw it once, but maybe not, I can't say for sure. My legs felt heavy. And I was easily running 20-30 seconds per mile slower just trying to keep my quads from failing. But I could sense that I was gaining on you. When dawn came, I could tell by my location on the course that I was actually ahead of Bearwallow-By-Eight pace. Catching you was inevitable. I finally spotted you on a switchback. I shouted. You shouted. I counted my paces. 150 strides. Less than one minute! Hell yes! But then you disappeared. And I worked harder and harder. And everything hurt more and more. Why did you do that to me?

I rolled into Bearwallow, and you were still there chit-chatting Horton. Apparently the rule is if you make it in before 8am, there's no rush to leave? My dead legs somehow bridged the gap. I was elated! But then a drop bag snafu had you leaving seconds ahead of me. If only I could just catch up to you and let you pull me along. But no. You wouldn't allow it, because you're a dick. I just spent three damn hours, feeling like shit, trying to catch back up to you. And this is how you repay me? I thought we were friends!

Running is stupid. (PC: Ridge RUNers)

My climbing wasn't terrible, but my muscles were toast. 10lb weights strapped to each quad. I kept counting my strides, keeping you within sight. I knew that if I maintained contact by the top of the climb, I'd catch up by Bobblets. The Pretty Trail is my jam. The In-and-Outs are where I crush people's hopes and dreams! Except, not today. As the trail flattened out I tried to pick up my pace, and multiple muscle groups revolted in stabbing pains and cramps. I was ready to crush you, but my legs wouldn't let me.

I found you at Bobblets. How many damn times have we been in this exact same situation?! Except it's usually me casually waiting for you. This time, you darted off without waiting. God, what an asshole! I had to fucking sprint … SPRINT … to catch up. Do you have any idea how much that hurt? Two years ago we entered the Forever Section together, with so much pocketed time that our Sub-12 goal was a foregone conclusion. This year we were even better off. Last time around your gut betrayed you. You had to go scratch in the woods, and you never caught back up to me. I reigned victorious and all was right with the universe. As we made our way down to the Forever Trail this time, a thought entered my mind: if I can just maintain contact to the Parkway, there's no way he can beat me today. The Running Gods read my mind and immediately punished me for my cockiness. The gut pains that had subsided hours ago immediately came back in full force. There was no way I'd be able to ignore a jacked up stomach, spasming muscles, AND keep up with you. So, with circumstances reversed, I took a calculated risk and jumped off trail for one final poop … watching you dart off into the distance.

In the middle of the 2nd Forever Hill, I spotted you. 270 strides. 90 seconds. A glimmer of hope remained. Then I heard a terrifyingly loud shotgun blast. As I rounded the corner I saw four hunters standing on the trail. I fully expected to see them staring down at your lifeless body … ensuring my victory. But no dice. Soon after, my legs totally crapped out. 2% rocky grades might as well have been minefields. Before I got to Day Creek I knew it was over. You put in just enough effort in the Forever Section to break me. Fuck.

I estimated you were 3-4 minutes up on me when I rolled into Day Creek. Just far enough ahead to be out of sight. If my legs were in good shape, I would have attacked and ran you down in the final mile. It would have been glorious. The aid station volunteers said it was 10:33 as I left. With good legs sub-11:30 and a new PR was a guarantee, with an outside chance of catching you. But my legs had felt like crap for 7 hours straight. So, instead, I lazy hiked my way up the final climb to save whatever was left in my legs for a descent that wouldn't completely suck. I love that descent. I needed a good descent to console me. My climb may have been a train wreck, but my descent might still have been faster than yours. We'll never know since I didn't have a watch. But that's what I choose to believe, and it makes me feel a little better. You put 10 minutes on me in those final miles. Brutal. Call it 2 minutes from pooping. Another 2 minutes on the back half of the Forever Trail. And a solid 6 minutes on the final climb.

It's depressing. I'm depressed, John. How did it end up like this? I want to be happy for you, I do. But your PR is 8 minutes ahead of mine now, and you ran sub-11:30, and you podiumed, and you made me look downright silly at the end. And now I have 52 damn weeks to stew over this. I hate you so much.

But I am consoled by a few irrefutable facts:

• I ran those first 21 miles faster than ever before, and it felt downright effortless. You were nowhere in sight.
• My time from Jennings to Little Cove was probably around 6 minutes slower than 2018. I could tell. I could feel it. That won't happen next time around.
• In 2018 we crushed Little Cove to Bearwallow in 1:33. This year I felt like I was giving up 20-30 seconds per mile … and I probably covered that ground in 1:28-1:30. This is where I crush your spirits next time around.
• I ran Bearwallow to Bobletts 2 minutes faster than ever before, with cramping legs. Imagine what will happen when I'm feeling good. This is where you completely give up next time around.
• The Forever Section felt like a bumbling trainwreck, but when you adjust for the poop break, I ran it as fast as ever before. You'll never be able to catch me next time around.
• My legs won't be shot next time around. I will attack that final climb and descend to the finish faster than you could ever possibly hope to run. You don't stand a chance against me.
• I'm flying in next year. A full night's rest in a climate controlled room with a comfy bed.

Your Nemesis,
--Chris Roberts

P.S.: Next Sissygate, I'm breaking 11:15, maybe even 11:00. You're on notice.

Ode to Becca's Rain Jacket

So I could go on and on and on and on about the joys of this year's Hellgate, but instead, I'll just give you a few random bullets and jump straight into a poem.

• I had part of my big toenail surgically removed earlier in the week.
• I had to drive 11 hours to get to Camp Bethel, and slept overnight at a Kentucky rest stop.
• I inadvertently switched my contacts right before the race, throwing me into a low-grade migraine. I didn't solve that riddle until 2 days later.
• Mountain-Forecast.com failed me.
• It was miserable.
• I didn't die.

Ode to Becca's Rain Jacket

Camp Bethel for the fifth time,

The Eagle Year!

I've known heat, frozen bottles, snow,

And even a Sissygate.

But never a Watergate.

You know the kind,

Torrential, freezing rains,

Hell on Earth!

My will is stronger than other runners,

My last long run confirmed as much.

30 knot daggers of freezing rain to the face,

Sopping wet for hours,

Then bone chilling cold.

That's what I wanted.

That's what I prayed for.

Hubris? Sorry, I'm not familiar with the word.

Mountain-Forecast.com,

A godsend most days.

But not this day!

Light rain?

Temps barely under 40?

Piece of cake!

I'll don my Houdini and be on my way.

Swishy-swish rain jackets are for suckers.

Along Onion to Overstreet, reality sets in.

I strip down and upend my drop bag.

New shirts, new gloves, new beanie, new jacket.

No, not a rain jacket.

Patagonia Wind Shield Hybrid Soft Shell, Grecian Blue.

But it's dry and warm

…for now

If the rain picks up, I'm screwed.

Down to Jennings I go.

Hubris rains down upon me,

With an inversion layer to boot.

Soaked to the bone,

Low heart rate.

Frozen torso,

Cold and alone.

I'm screwed!

At Jennings I hide under a canopy,

Shell-shocked.

Dan arrives, he says he's okay.

But his voice betrays him -- please end my misery!

John is there, too, in and out like a pro.

I hitch my ride to his rain-jacket-covered carriage,

Hoping companionship will fight off the cold.

It doesn't.

At Little Cove, Helen hands me a grocery bag,

It's all she has.

I contemplate an homage to John Kelly,

But I could never pull off such an iconic look.

John stays behind.

I'm alone in the dark now,

So cold and so terribly alone.

How the hell am I going to make it to Bearwallow?

I arrive!

Sound the trumpets,

Raise the banners.

I'm demoralized, dejected, defeated.

Soaking wet, freezing cold, numb,

Starving and thirsty.

Barely able to eat or drink.

How much farther to Camp Bethel?

And then, the Hellgate Miracle!

Hark the Hellgate angles sing,

Glory to Becca Weast!

And her 20,000 HH Inov8 Stormshell Jacket.

Lightweight, waterproof, taped seams.

Now, if only I could use my frozen fingers.

Becca, would you be so kind as to dress me?

Thanks! That's better, much better!

And just like that, I am off.

Well, technically, after 15 minutes of standing around shivering,

And Horton plying me with soup and broth until I nearly puke.

But yes, I am off,

Off into the cold, wet unknown.

And I am warm and cozy and dry.

Caringly wrapped in a 2.5-layer polyamide Pertex Shield.

I've never known an embrace so loving, so kind, so form-fitting and comfortable.

(Photo Credit: The Lifesaver)

5X Grindstone - More Than a Race

"A million suns won't fill you up if you can't see the wine flowing over your cup." -- Brand New

Look at that sexy elevation profile!

Some races are just that, a race, an event, something you sign up for and then move on from when it's over. Other times they're more, they're something special, something you connect with. For me, the Grindstone 100 is a very special race. The beautiful setting in the mountains of Virginia. Its 23,000' of substantial and varied climbs and descents. Its sections of smooth and runnable trail, and its other sections of rocky hellscape. The unique 6pm start on the first Friday of October that forces some runners to spend 2/3rds of their race running in the dark. There's no other way to put it, Grindstone is an incredible, classic 100 miler.

For me, personally, Grindstone is also something much, much more. It's family, it's coming home after an extended absence, it's a weekend I look forward to all year long. Grindstone is the race that made me fall in love with ultra running. It was my very first 100 miler, and for the fifth year in a row I'd be towing the line. This time was different, though. 5-timing at Grindstone awards you a big honkin' buckle, something I was very much looking forward to finally earning; in a way, it would signify I'd become a veteran, an elder of a race that had come to define much of who I am as a runner. I intend to keep running Grindstone in the future, but I knew coming into it this year that it'd be my last time starting for a while -- there were other fall 100s to experience, and I wanted to start spending time volunteering at Grindstone and helping other runners achieve their goals. Moreover, after moving from DC to St. Louis a few months prior, the mountains of Virginia were no longer in my backyard, and I was very much looking forward to seeing them again. In a way, too, I was coming to Grindstone this year not just to run it, but to say good-bye to trails that I'd come to know and love, trails I was unlikely to run again for some time.

Grindstone weekend was everything that I hoped it could be, and more.  After Summer had been stubbornly over-wearing its welcome, Fall finally rolled in mere hours before the race start, and runners were blessed with undeniably perfect race conditions. The daytime was sunny and warm, but not too warm. Humidity was low. The mountain peaks and ridgelines embraced runners with crisp, light breezes and the rustling of leaves. The nighttime was cool and clear and pleasant. This was not a year of soupy humidity or never-ending downpours, it was a year for PRs and a high finisher rate.

I'm Number One!

As one of the more experienced and accomplished returning runners, Clark Zealand -- the RD -- honored me with my first-ever Number One seed. I viewed it mostly as a joke, but I was nonetheless moved and appreciative of the distinction. There was good, healthy competition at the front of the field, particularly for the men. Positioning for the Top 5 runners was still being decided coming into the final aid stations. And due to some nearly unfortunate luck on the part of this year's winner, I was mere minutes away from stealing the victory. Despite taking a wrong turn on an unmarked section of trail after the final aid station, Paul Jacobs corrected his mistake in the nick of time and secured the overall victory.

There's a 19 on that clock! Photo Credit: No Clue.

Apart from running, I soaked up my Grindstone weekend chatting with old running friends and enjoying their company before and after the race. I was grateful to see many friendly faces volunteering at the aid stations. I shared tales of the trail. I cheered on other runners. I soaked in the atmosphere of one of my favorite weekends of the year. And then, after I received my 5X buckle, I said my good-byes, and began my 700 mile trek home from Camp Shenandoah. On the way, I reflected on the weekend, finding myself nearly in tears, but also earnestly looking forward to spending a long weekend next year manning aid stations and helping other runners achieve their lofty dreams.

The infamous Wicked Good Grindstone cookie. The real reason we sign up for this race.

Here is a more detailed accounting of my race for anyone interested:

My race was, all around, a fantastic experience. After coming so close to breaking 20 hours in 2017, I was laser-focused on achieving that goal this time around. Moreover, I wanted to make amends for my disappointing 6th place slog-fest last year and hopefully break into the Top 3. While my training leading into Grindstone was nothing to write home about, I felt that after 5 years of running I finally had a reliable base to hold me up in longer races.

For the first 100K, I diligently adhered to splits that would secure a 20 hour finish, and my effort always felt calm and controlled. I unexpectedly moved into first place around Mile 17, only realizing it after repeatedly being gifted with spiderwebs to the face. But it didn't last long because I got swallowed up by a hole soon thereafter -- sinking waist-deep into a leaf-filled depression on the edge of the trail formed by a recently upended tree. I was going downhill and travelling fast, so the experience was rather jarring. I laid there, momentarily dazed, and a gaggle of runners flew by. Next thing I knew, I'd ceded 7 or 8 places. After regaining my composure, I kept at it, maintaining my own effort, and not worrying about the seemingly unsustainable pace of those front runners.

Around Mile 30, along the rocky, technical descent into North River Gap, my mind flowed into a state of utter upheaval.  Usually, it takes more than 80 miles before I'm overcome with emotions, sobbing while fast-hiking up an absurdly steep mountain trail. This time was different. I had begun to reflect on how much Grindstone meant to me, on how great it was to see so many of my East Coast running friends, on how this was my final time racing Grindstone for a while and that it felt like I was somehow, along every single mile of the course, saying good-bye to a close friend. It became too much to bear. The emotions were too high. It was nearly impossible to properly focus on my running. Despite being perfectly positioned for a great race, I gave up all competitive aspirations. I'd be happy to just phone it in the next 70 miles, taking it easy, enjoying saying my good-byes to every stretch of trail along the way.

Accurate representation of me running down Lookout Mountain.

I thought about how Horton would've called me a sissy and that I'd need to suck it up and run, but I didn't care. Trying to cast aside those powerful emotions would be to discredit them. I wanted my 5th Grindstone to be a "meaningful experience", but how could I ever achieve that if I were to stubbornly suppress all of those feelings that were welling up inside me? How could I expect to look back fondly on this day if I spent the bulk of it fighting off emotions that powerful? So there I was, stumbling down the trail, in the dark, ugly crying like Claire Danes. It took everything I had to resist the urge to just sit down and let it all out. After nearly an hour of this headspace, I rolled into North River Gap, and at one point I just stood there, blankly staring off at the drop bags, choking back tears. I found Clark, muttered something about being a little emotionally overwhelmed, then reached for a handshake as I fought off the urge to give him a hug and bawl onto his shoulder.

For the first miles of the nearly 2 hour climb out of North River Gap, I was still an emotional wreck. But then, in an instant, something changed. Just after the top of Grindstone Mountain, I stopped and closed my eyes, focusing on the feeling of the crisp autumn breeze against my face and the mesmerizing sound of shaking leaves in the surrounding trees. I experienced a freeing fullness of being. I was a part of the trail, and the trail a part of me. I was grounded, focused. I didn't need to cast aside my emotions, I could embrace them and still run with purpose. And, perhaps, too, I now fully understood Spinoza. But no time to add philosophical musings to the fray, I had to get back to running!

I calmly rolled into the Turnaround, feeling fresh and collected. I made note of how far ahead the other runners were, but stayed the course and felt no urgency to attack. I was on 20-flat pace and there was no way more than a couple of those runners would be able to keep it up. Instead of frantically bombing the 3000' descent back into North River Gap at Mile 65 like I did two years ago, I took my time and took care of my legs. And just before the aid station, after more than 30 miles of solitude, I finally overtook a runner. I made quick work of the aid station just before the break of dawn and energetically climbed the technical trail back up Lookout Mountain. In years past, this section of the course had always, without fail, crushed my spirits. But my legs felt great this time around and I just floated along. Lyrics from Brand New and Janelle Monae danced in my head and put a pep in my step. I went back and forth with 5th place for a bit, before he flew down the next descent to Dowell's Draft at Mile 80, clearly at an unsustainable pace. I didn't panic because I knew those legs would be trashed by the time he got to the final miles. I rolled along, doing my own thing. And ... I felt amazing! Suddenly, Alicia Keys was blaring inside my head -- This Girl Is On Fiyaaaahhh!

I overtook another runner. Then I calmly cruised up and down Crawford Mountain and stumbled upon two more runners at the Dry Branch Gap aid station at Mile 88. Less than a mile into the final four mile climb, I made my move and blew past them. Despite the steep, rocky sections up Elliott's Knob, and the fact that I was 90 miles into the race, I never stopped to hike. I was flying. I went from dancing right on 20-flat pace to suddenly being 10 minutes ahead of pace. As I turned off the top of Elliott's, I could see 2nd place -- the presumptive dead legs guy -- no more than one minute ahead of me. I descended with purpose, but remain controlled. I blew through the final aid station with 5 miles to go and knew without any shadow of a doubt that I was finally going to break 20 hours at Grindstone. Now, I wanted to see how much lower I could go.

I kept on charging, soon working my way into 2nd place. I didn't let up, all the way to the final mile of the course. I normally run this section as hard and fast as I can, but the way I was running was putting my old efforts to shame. Then, as I turned onto the dam, mere minutes from the finish, I heard something odd: cheering. I didn't know what to make of it since I was in 2nd place and only two aid stations prior I was told the leader was 30-40 minutes up and looking good. I rolled into the finishing chute at 19:47 elapsed. The emotions of the day came bubbling up, but somehow I held off the tears, shook Clark's hand, took my buckle, and had a well-deserved seat just off the finish line.

Paul Jacobs was there, having finished literally 3 minutes ahead of me. I was 3 friggin minutes away from a victory at my favorite 100 Miler! Oh well! It didn't matter. I was over the moon. I ran a perfect race, negative-split the course like a beast, had an absolute blast, PR'd, demolished my sub-20 goal, and secured 2nd place by passing three runners in the final 10 miles. I could not have asked for a better race. It was the perfect end to my 5 consecutive years at Grindstone. I will cherish the memories of this weekend for the rest of my life.

My cup runneth over…

It's okay, you can be jealous of my amazing buckle.

Top Finisher handshake!

Muchos Gracias:

An especially big THANK YOU to my wife and in-laws for letting me disappear for 4 days straight and for looking after my kiddos. I really missed having my wife and daughter crew me this year, but was so thankful to now live nearby Mimi and Poppy, who willingly shouldered some of the parenting responsibilities in my absence.

Thank you to all of the volunteers at Grindstone! This race wouldn't be possible without you. I am so excited to start volunteering alongside y'all next year.

And thank you to Clark, for always putting on a great race, hosting an incredible weekend, and giving hundreds of us runners memories that will last a lifetime.

Post Script:

As of last year, the Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries disallowed trail markers on a 3 mile stretch of the course. Despite having run the course 4 previous times, I missed a critical turn off of a gravel road at Mile 4. It was badly overgrown and did not look like the picture I had in my head of the turn ... and Horton wasn't there like usual to help everyone out. So, really, it's like 50% VA DGIF's fault and 50% Horton's fault, with no remaining fault allocated to myself or my fellow runners! After a few minutes I convinced myself we'd missed the turn and I rounded up the front pack to retrace our steps. Along with another 2 or 3 groups of runners we picked up on the way back, I'd say 50+ people missed that turn. Ouch! All told, it cost the front of the pack 12 minutes, but had zero impact on the top finishers since all of us made the mistake together.

I negative-split the course in 10:02/9:45.

I was the only runner to go under 10 hours on the back half of the course.

I was the only runner to run the "Final 50K" from NRG under 7 hours (6:46).

This is totally not a thing, but I seem to now hold the record for fastest 5x finishes: 107:40:35 (21:32:07 average). The previous best looks to have been Keith Knipling with 111:11:41 (22:14:20 average). Who's gonna step up and better that mark?!

Me and fellow 5X-ers, Nelson Hernandez and Brian Hulbert.

After a couple years suffering through palate fatigue with my Huma gels, I had zero problems with Science In Sport gels. I probably had 14 of those, along with 2 Huma gels early on, and a few Clif Blocks. The rest of my nutrition came from a steady supply of Tailwind, aid station potatoes, and strategically placed Starbucks Frappuccinos in my drop bags.

As always, I did my best Jeff Browning impersonation, dressing in Patagonia gear and sporting Altra Lone Peaks. And I rocked a sweet pair of knee-high Injinji stars and stripes socks, cuz 'Mericuh!

Also, I drove a total of 23 hours to and from the race ... the sub-20 hour race. Ugh.

And finally, here's a homemade Flyby chart showing how, according to Horton, I "should have run faster!"

Race FlyBy.