Dances with Dirt 50 Miler
Hell Michigan
9/6/08
The Start & Pre-race Rituals
Constellation Orion and his two dogs, the brothers Canis, stopped their eternal battle with Taurus the bull to stare down at pre-race antics from a clear and crisp dark Eastern sky. The uber-cool music of Jack Johnson serenading hundreds of head-lamped-humans waiting in lines to use the port-a-potties, disturbed their otherwise docile battle in the stars. The 2008 Dances with Dirt ultra marathon was percolating.
Staring up at the perpetual melee before the early autumn sunrise, something else dawned on me, ripping me from my celestial wander..A cup of 5am Foldgers has peppered my large intestine telling my body the carb caches are full and the by-products need to be exorcized. Port-a-potties and headlamps are simply a good time.
The starting line had a festival-type of feel unlike that of a typical cement road-race. The only thing missing from this field party was a keg of beer and a jacked-up 4x4. People were milling around smiling, laughing, making light of the ultra-endeavor they are about to broach. It was as casual as a jean-day in some corporate setting.
In a culture where words like crazy, freak, idiot, and/or just plain stupid are taken as words of grand complementary stature, I felt right at home toeing the line. The gun went off at 6:15am, releasing two hundred or so crazy fools. Yes, I am proud to say I was/am one of them.
Section A: Awakening (4.75miles)
The sweat pouring off Orion had soaked the grass along the lake and my immediate concern was that my feet might get a little wet before we even hit the trail (after Styx I will retract this memory and never admit to it).
The trail was marked with white blazes, glow sticks, and the occasional blinking red light. There was almost a spooky, Sleepy Hallow, type of vibe along the trail. Looking ahead I witnessed the trail consuming the frontrunners as the distance between headlamps increased. Chasing the front-pack, was a string of Christmas lights slithering through Icabod's domain.
Running with a headlamp is always a joy. The rocks, roots, and little drop-offs are always camouflaged. The result is usually a trip and fall. Over the years a technique of dropping the shoulder and doing a basic combat roll has been the automatic response.
Section B: Limbo (3.70miles>8.45)
The trail meandered through flirting with the established dirt roads until finally dumping onto Monks road. The light fog was lifting, reveling pristine country living and a glorious sunrise. Before I knew it, I rounded a bend and met Gary H, one half of the stellar support crew I had for the day. Food, water, GU exchange and back on the trail. I saw Gary for about 20 seconds. He ran with me while exchanging foods and told me what position I was in. No pain to manage at that point. 8.45 miles down, just like that. All systems go.
Section C & Section D: This Sucks Less & Stripper Pole (4.30miles & 2.95miles>15.70)
Horse trails now, hmmm, perhaps the Headless Horseman analogy wasn't to far off. I briefly searched around for smashed pumpkins or disfigured jack-o-lanterns while trotting o'er the sand. Stepping in one of many "droppings" on the trail, I decided to refocus on the task at hand, getting through C and D. A couple of steep hill climbs and descents were manageable and acceptable.
The big one, aka "the Dirt Ladder", was flat out funny. I laughed out-loud to myself and proceeded towards the menacing climb. Making the approach, I was sure my vision and perception was already starting to wan. The devil himself had pilfered a section of the Rockies, and sewn it right into his living room here in Hell, MI. It was about a 150yrd climb. You could not stand up on this climb, as you would fall over backwards. So a crawl type of run technique was used. I got to the top and screamed "DRAGOOOOooo!" (Rocky props where necessary). The sun had risen in all of its glory and began doing the dew, absorbing it from the ground and getting caffeinated for the day.
On my way out of the Stripper Pole section of trail, I passed my ole buddy heading in; the man, the myth, the ultra-legend, Dick West. We said a quick hello and high five and then went our own ways.
Section E: The River of Styx (3.25miles>18.95)
After seeing G-Man again at the checkpoint, I felt revived at mile 15.70. My next goal was to see Nayles. Within the first mile or so I missed a turn. Up the trail I saw someone starting to slow down. He was panning the trees and then it occurred to me that I hadn't seen a pink blaze in a while.Zach Gingerich kindly inquired, "have you seen a blaze in a while"? I responded by saying, "Nope", but I kept running as if I am confident one will appear. He followed me until we got to a three-way split in the trail. Pink was nowhere to be seen. Laughing and shaking his head, Zach says, "There's no way". and turns around to run back. Stubbornly, I hold my ground and look at the map on Post 33 and realize we were heading back to Hell Creek Ranch (the checkpoint we just came from)CRAP! I can hear Swamp Dog and Trail Dog giggling from behind their gnaw-bones somewhere in the bush.
The panic of "Lost in Race" encouraged me to retrace my steps quickly. I met up back down the trail with Zach again and a third runner. The three of us trotted back and sure enough found the double pink blazes suggesting trail turns. We dumped into it and took off again. The pink blazes escorted us to and fro down rows and rows of pleasant smelling conifers giving the runners a nice tranquil feeling. Then the blazes stopped at the foot of a precarious river. The sun highlighted thousands of bugs flying around above the river taunting the frogs below. I panned to the right and to the left assuming the blazes go either way. But nooooooo, the next one is across, on the other side of the river. As it turns out, this was the first of many river crossings. On the plus side, they cooled the skin and soothed the muscles like a nice ice and mud bath should. At that point I started to feel pampered and looked for some cucumber slices to cover my eyes.
After multiple river crossings, the blazes came to a final river crossing but when I got to the middle of the river there was nothing on the other side. A little confused I looked behind me. Yup, there is one at the foot.looking slowly to my left I saw a slew of pink blazes hanging from limbs and outcrops traveling down the center of the river heading directly into Hell. I have arrived at The River of Styx.
Charon must have not yet returned from taking the first sinners down to Hades. As it was, I did not bring a coin to give him anyway so I began trudging through Styx on my own. In some sections it became waist deep. The river did help cleanse me of mud and sins but I discovered some new muscles when trying to high step through the water.
Section F: Bad out of Hell (2.55miles>21.50)
Escaping Styx and throwing Cerberus three bones, I ran up the river bank to the aid station in Hell where Nayles had a chair, towel, food and drink lined up. I felt like sitting down and having a nice little picnic. All that was missing was Toto. I exchanged my soiled shoes and socks for a nice fresh pair. Ahhhh, fresh as a daisy.
This section was a brief 2.55 miles of mainly trail. It was along this path I would encounter the relay racers and the first stage of pain. It was somewhere along this section I disobeyed my pre-race game plan of walking the steeper hills and trudged on through every climb. "Me and my new dry socks and shoes can do anything!" Mid-stride I felt an acute pain in both calves that was not so cute. I felt the pain of Black Bart as I hosted two well-placed shots from a vigilante Ralphie Parker and his trusty Red Ryder. I was trying to figure out why My brothers and I have watched his movie about five hundred times. Where was the motive? My disobedient calves began to retaliate in the form of cramping or muscle pulling. I returned to my original game plan and began walking the hills.
Section G: Rave Run (3.4miles>24.90)
On a normal trail run this section would be fantastic. It was a nice bastardized loop of the Poto trail, roller after roller after roller. But today this section was the start of my mental challenge and arguments with myself (body vs. mind). I agreed with my body to walk some hills. Just after passing the halfway point of the loop, my mind figured my calves had enough rest and they needed to get over their little cramping issue. At the base of another roller, I barreled through and started charging up the hill. Muscles have a very clear universal language when they don't want to do something, like running up hills. Right calf screamed, "Not ready yet", and balled up in the fetal position just beneath the back of my knee. "OK, ok, ok", I responded aloud to my calf and returned to a healthy walk up the hill.
I started talking to myself aloud at mile twenty-two. Twenty-eight more miles of verbal correspondence with muscles is enough to land a person in Los Straitjacket. This relationship with my calves carried on like a typical marriage for the rest of the day. Manageable and cordial for the most part until I pushed the limits and tried to pull a fast one by sneaking a little jog up a hill. "Just what do you think you're doing." The calves would inquire. "Aaaahh nothing", I'd retort returning to a brisk walk.
Section H: The Poto (6.1miles>31.00)
I came into the aid station and noticed they had Banana's in Dixie cups! Both calves started singing in perfect Harry Belafonte argot, " a beautiful bunch a'ripe BANANA!" If there were a syringe and a blender around, I would have injected potassium rich, Banana Smoothies directly into each calf. I figured Prollo-therapy works; this would work the same way. Alas, the only thing this well stocked aid station did not have was a blender. I loaded up on bananas, pb & J sandwiches, and a splash of coke.
G-Man was spot-on at the aid station with another, on the fly feeding, encouragement, and overall placement details. I was in good position overall, but not happy with my current deteriorating situation.
This particular section was the longest of the bunch, being over six miles. The very small percentage of my brain, which isn't used much, where logic and reason reside, was encouraging me to finish the 50k and call it a day. The last nineteen miles contained more hills, poison ivy, and much, much less cut trail. The rest of my brain had been looking forward to the bushwhacking chaos of the second half.
I didn't seem to lose much ground during the last section. I would get passed on the hills, but reel them back in like Babe Winkleman on a hung-over ESPN Saturday morning. Bowing out was not an option and I was maintaining position while managing the pain.
Arguing with myself while plodding along passed the time and before I knew it I was at the road crossing leading to the thirty-one mile mark. There was a daisy chain of support vehicles leaving Half-Moon to transport relay-team members to various checkpoints. A spirited van with a gigantic monkey on top, full of chicks, yelled and screamed my name.? As it turns out, it was my sister-in-law, Sarah and her team, "Which one of y'all kicked me?". That actually began my rebound, pulling me from my funk.
Section I: Where's the F'n Bridge? (4.65miles>35.65)
Bonging a couple of flat cokes and more bananas' at the aid station, I began out on the western portion of the course. G-Man and Nayles again water bottle exchange and encouragement. I ran out of the aid station and got into the woods, where I then stopped just out of their eyeshot and began walking again. Ignoring the ominous nineteen miles of this, I kept moving. I was trying to escape from the Hurt Locker I was in.
I continued to choke and gag on the power bar G-Man had given me and sternly said, "you must eat this". I knew he was right, so I ate and walked. "When the bar is gone, you need to start running again." I coached myself. About five minutes later, I started running again, things felt pretty good. I could almost feel the food and drink racing towards the muscles. I heard the protein carpenter crews hammering and cutting, repairing damaged tissues. The carbohydrates were getting trucked into the energy stations refilling caches and then sending amino acids out as little Marcinko Navy Seal Team 6 units to rid my body of the lactic acid terrorists. Sure enough I started to feel better and my second wind had picked up. I started to jog, then actually run. The funk from the last ten miles had been dried up from my break through to the other side.
Trails on this section were nonexistent. The pink blazes went from limb to limb and log to log. All I had to do was connect the dots through the swamps, thorns, rivers, and poison ivy. I thought, "man this Head Goat character is a sadistic SOB, I love em!"
The footprints that I was use to seeing in the muddy sections had vanished like phantoms in a vintage Scooby-Doo movie. The blazes kept popping up, so I kept moving.
I came to a rather innocent looking mud section and sure enough, the blazes barreled straight through it. There was a gaggle of little frogs out on recess playing and hopping on the surface and they looked like they were having fun. I fell for that trick before and ended up almost losing my shoes three feet under. This time I noticed a dirty old rope strung between some trees about one foot off the ground. I am no detective but, if I were a gnome cop in the backwoods of Hell, I would be questioning strung out rope man and his business there.
My slack-lining abilities were not up to par so using my Ninja-like skills of balance and sense of danger, I moved to the right and scurried across a few fallen logs like PitFall Harry. The logs sank down about a foot or so into the quick-mud as I crossed. Reaching the other side somewhat unsoiled from that pit, I claimed a small victory and moved on. I got caught in a couple more mud sections of which G-Man had warned me about. He has had intimate experience with it and likes to call it chocolate moose souffl', pronounced in perfect French dialect.
My new wind carried me through the woods and ignored any pain issues I was managing and before I knew it, I was at Bruin Lake to meet up with Nayles and G-Man again. They would inform me that I was in first placethis did not really register at 35miles. I changed shoes, had some food, and kept moving.
Section J:Vertigo: (3.50 miles>39.15miles)
Next thing I new I was on a road running hand in hand with the cornstalks. I was thinking about the scarecrows within. Scarecrows, the mute roadies of Korn. The pink blazes crossed Hadely and dumped into a yet another cornfield. Stalking the eastern side and tripping over Shoeless Joe Jackson's cleats, the blazes took a turn into the woods.
Prospect Hill was the highlight of this section buried somewhere in the thicket. It was a nasty little climb through the pickers and ivy that went up, up, up, then down, down, down. Aptly named, Vertigo.
In the distance behind me, I could hear the occasionally snapping of twigs and branches as if I was being followed. A yeti perhaps. The trail-less section after the big hill was filled with more bushwhacking and more thigh high, shoe devouring, chocolate moose souffl. At that moment, it occurred to me how much I hate all things French.
Joslin Lake Road is where I would meet up with (or get caught by) Zack again. Evidently, a Yeti wasn't following me, it was Zack. He trotted by me like I was standing still. We exchanged quick how-do-ya-do's, and then he was gone into the woods looking like he was just getting warmed up. Baffled, I picked up the pace and kept him in sight for the rest of this lovely section.
Section K: The Stupid Lake (3.90miles>43.05)
Nayles was at the transition area taking some video. Zach had left just as I had run in. I spent another minute or so getting fueled up, water in the bottle, and then I took off after Zach. Within about a mile or so the infamous blazes dumped into the LAKE. Not the shore of the lake, not trails skirting the lake, but the L.A.K.E.
A good quarter mile or more tromping through the water was yet another interesting experience. I passed two "spectators" who were standing in the middle of the lake drinking Budweiser. As I passed I equated the two of them to the pair of secretly drunk, Muppet Show hecklers from the critics box, Statler and Waldorf, who made fun of everything and everybody.
The "fans" had no fishing gear, just beer and questioning words for passing runners. Two dudes, hanging out drinking beer in the middle of lake? I'm sure they thought what we were doing was weird and stupid. Ah well, the majesty of perception! At that moment, seeing their foam cozies tip back, I remembered that I had a couple of Icabod Ale's on ice at the finish line. Perking up again, I exited the water and into the bush in search of the next checkpoint.
Section L: No Better (2.85miles>45.90)
Met up with G-man and his wife Deb at this transition. I ingested what I thought would be my secret weapon to help pick up the pace, Circus Peanuts and a Red Bull. I am pretty certain I will not do that again
On this section, the blazes intersected the Waterloo trail system. In my dilapidated frame of mind, I assumed we would be on this trail until it bisected the Poto trail for the last section called, Dirt's Revenge. That was a bad assumption. My head came back from orbiting with Pigs in Space when I realized I hadn't seen a pink blaze in a while. I was sure that after I climbed a monster hill, crossed an open plane, and dumped back into the woods that I would simply deserve or earn a pink blaze. There was no way I missed another turn, with only five miles to go.Alas I could see the next 200m+ down the trail and no blazes. I stopped and looked up at the clear blue sky. I renamed this section "This Sucks More, Now" and fueled by panic of getting passed, I started running back down the trail retracing my steps in search of a binary set of pink blazes.
Sure enough, I missed a turn. They were there, a little skewed behind some trees, but they were there. At the junction there, I met up with the current third place runner, Zach Mitchell. This was concerning to me. My current physical status was good, as long as there were no hills. My ability to run hills was g-o-n-e. I could not run hills, period. This information could not be exposed. The ominous cloud forming in my head knew the last section very well. I have ridden it hundreds of times over the last few years. It was the hilliest section of the entire 50 miles. With a name like the Hills of Hell and allI immediately picked up the pace and put as much time on him as I could before we would reach the last checkpoint. He appeared to be running well and consistent.
Section M: Dirt's Revenge (4.10miles>50)
This was the last transition. Nayles was there and gave me two bottles of Cytomax goodness. I could hear the excitement in his voice, which pulled me out of a catatonic funk. "Four miles to go!" Zach G. had put some serious time on me the last two sections so my goal was to hold on to second. It was going to hurt, a lot. Zach M. was only a minute or so behind me. The flats I could still motor pretty good with manageable pain, so I took advantage of that to gap the distance from third place.
Finally bisecting the Poto trail I know and love, the end was near. I could smell the pizza permeating from the finish line. I stuck to my game plan and walked the hills. They got steeper and the calves got tighter. I dork-walked up them swinging my arms like a maniac trying to use the momentum to whisk me up them.
During the last major climb, my left leg locked up completely stiff, rigor mortis style. I checked for a pulse. Ok still alive.Less than two miles to go and I could not move my left leg."What the Poto is this?" I asked myself emphasizing Poto as a four-letter word. I've never had the joy of experiencing a full on leg-lock. I felt like a peg-legged Captain Kidd trying to hop around in a rum induced state of disorientation trying to catch his parrot. Nobody was in sight behind me, but hopping the last mile or two would take another hour. I rubbed and massaged it and tried walking backwards up the last section.
Cresting the climb with my reverse beeps going, my leg broke free enough I could bend my knee and begin running again, forward. Each stride I was serenaded by calf muscle strings plucking a song of warning and cramping disaster.
I am convinced I could feel each strand of muscle fiber in my left leg. I started to feel like a stand up bass guitar with really old brittle strings about to snap. The last mile or so wound through some sugar-sand making me crave a big sugar cookie. The anticipation of the finish began to pull rank on most of the pains I was managing, and I was able to run without issue. There was a little dip within about 100yards of the finish line that almost blew up my right calf. It was enough to make me change my stride up and shuffle across the finish line.
Conclusion
This race was testimony to how important a support crew is to any type of endeavor slated as "solo". They keep spirits up, food/water down, positioning details, condition of the competition as the race progressed, lied to me about the appearance of my condition, and finally, sanity to a mind intoxicated by endorphins and general stupidity. Gary and Nick took as much ownership and fortitude in this race as I did. I was beginning to think (around mile 40) that this race was for them and I was merely their entertainment.
Thanks guys for the support, dedication, and genuine interest.
As for me, the experience was everything I hoped it would be; muscle-cramping-mind- bending torture. There were missed turns, river crossings, lake running, a variety of quick-mud pits to sink into, legs shredded by various thorn bushes and stinging nettles boiling just beneath the bloody lashes in the skin. I took a few diggers, dodged a few ticks, and learned/confirmed that Circus Peanuts and Red Bull are not a secret weapon to be used in this battle. The only let down of the race was that I never actually broke out in poison ivy. I will try harder next year to contract the unpleasant itchy acne in order to complete the post race misery and sink to a new all time low during post race depression.