“Aww man, I thought this was all over”. When I raised my head, I saw another runner
cautiously making his way down the hill towards me. When he passed by, all I could do was give
him a nod and a smile. I couldn’t
respond to him. I was too busy trying to
stop myself from sliding backwards down a steep dirt trail with two cramped
legs. Within seconds, he disappeared and
there was not a sound to be heard except for the rumble of thunder in the
distance. I was thirty-nine miles into a
fifty-mile ultramarathon and it had gotten to the point where whenever I ran
downhill, the pressure would immediately trigger a round of excruciating leg
cramps. In an effort to mitigate the
pain, I resorted to crawling down the hill backwards on all fours, stretching
out my legs. After painfully slow
progress, I finally reached the bottom.
I waded through a river crossing and finally, after another ascent and
descent, the trail deposited me onto a back-country road. As I rolled into the aid station I was
greeted with enthusiasm by the volunteers.
“Yay! You conquered the power
lines!” they shouted. We exchanged high
fives and I proceeded to gobble down pickles, chips, and every other salty
snack in sight. I was convinced that the
most treacherous section of the race was now behind me. If only I had known what was waiting for me during
the last few miles of the race.
About two years prior, I had read a book called “Eat and
Run” by legendary ultramarathon runner, Scott Jurek. Scott was born and raised in Proctor,
Minnesota just outside of Duluth, and lived a pretty typical Midwest meat and
potatoes lifestyle during his youth. He
was a talented cross-country skier, did well in school, and initially only ran
to stay in shape for skiing. He later befriended
Dusty Olson, a kid in Duluth who was not only one of the fastest skiers in the
state of Minnesota, but also one of the fastest runners and bike racers. Although they both shared a passion for cross-country
skiing, Scott and Dusty were like night and day by comparison. Scott trained hard, studied a lot, listened
to adults, and generally stayed in line.
Dusty on the other hand, lived a more care free lifestyle, threw
parties, and was always getting into trouble.
According to Scott, he would mouth off to coaches and when he won races,
rather than congratulate the other students, he would taunt them. I later learned that Dusty’s persona in the
book had been exaggerated and he was actually a really nice guy. In July of 1993, Dusty won a fifty-mile trail
race near Duluth called the Minnesota Voyageur.
For the rest of that summer, and into 1994, Scott and Dusty trained
together and after finishing second place in the 1994 Minnesota Voyageur, Scott
abandoned cross-country skiing and went on to become one of the fastest and
most elite ultramarathon runners in the world throughout the 2000’s. Dusty followed him in his journey and served
as his pacer in all of his races during the peak of his career. The Minnesota Voyageur had essentially
jump-started Scott Jurek’s ultrarunning career, and after listening to some
interviews with Dusty and reading about the race, I became intrigued. Despite growing up in Michigan, I had never
visited Minnesota and I decided that a fifty-mile rally through the woods would
be a perfect way to explore the country side near Duluth. So, on the morning of July 28th,
2018 I found myself standing in front of the high school in Carlton, Minnesota
among 400 or so runners, ready to take on the Voyageur. I flew into Minneapolis the day prior and
after driving two and a half hours up to Duluth, I spent most of the day
exploring the city, eating at a local hole-in-the-wall breakfast restaurant and
visiting Austin-Jarrow, a local running store.
Jarrow Wahman, the owner, had known Scott and Dusty when they were teenagers
and had a lot of history with them. What
was especially exciting about this trip was my Dad and Sister were going to be
coming out for support. They left
Birmingham early on Friday morning and made the eleven-and-a-half-hour drive to
Duluth. They coincidentally were
assigned the room right next door to mine at our hotel. Shortly after they arrived in town, we
enjoyed a nice dinner at a brewery in downtown Duluth. I had gotten a surprisingly restful night's sleep and felt calm and collected as I breathed in the cool morning air. I was anxious, but having my Dad and Sister
with me helped put me at ease. My Dad
had a tremendous impact on my love for the outdoors. He was never a runner himself, but he made
sure I spent a lot of time outside as a kid, playing catch and tennis with me,
teaching me how to ride a bike, and taking my sister and I sailing just about
every weekend during the summer months. It
was just a few minutes before the start of the race, and I listened as the
pre-race briefing was in progress.
Dusty’s brother Shane had just recently passed away and several members
of the racing staff were wearing Hawaiian shirts to commemorate him. Running in Hawaiian shirts had been a
trademark of his for quite some time.
Immediately after the briefing, the pack of runners began charging
forward up the road. I hugged my Dad and
Sister and weaved into the crowd, making my way forward. The adventure had begun.
We made our way up a gradual incline on a residential
street, banking left onto a paved bike path, and about a half a mile later,
picking up the single-track trail. The
scene had quickly shifted from residential streets with small houses lining the
way to a dirt trail through a green tunnel with tall trees shading the course. We had been advised that the first few miles
of the course were extremely rocky and chock full of thick tree roots. It was important for us to pay careful
attention to our footing during this section to avoid taking a fall. The temperature was around 57 degrees,
perfect weather for running. I had
monitored the weather forecast closely during the days leading up to the race. It was forecasted to be partly cloudy with
the temperature climbing to around 79 degrees.
The forecast was favorable, however the summer air in Minnesota was much
more humid than what I was used to in California. The humidity level was around 83%. I wish I could say that the weather was my
only concern about this race, but if I did, I would be lying. This course was hilly and had a lot of
climbing. Nothing I wasn’t used to, but In
California, it is not uncommon to hammer through climbs that are between 2,500
and 3,000 feet during an ultra. Most
runners hike up these inclines or alternate between hiking and very slow
running. Most of the climbs on this
course were 300-400 feet. You’d think it
would be easier, but this meant that I was expected hike less and run more. This expectation became more apparent when I
was made aware of the cutoff times at the aid stations. The layout of the course is out and back,
meaning it turns around at the halfway point and travels back the same route. The course turns around at the base of Spirit
Mountain in Duluth near the zoo. There
is a cutoff time to arrive at the turnaround as well as all the aid stations on
the return trip. Every aid station has a
cutoff time, and if I were to arrive even a minute after, I would be forced to
drop, even if I were physically capable of continuing. I was forced to quit the first 100K that I
attempted due to missing the cutoff time at an aid station, so I was adamant to
not let it happen again. I was trying to
balance enjoying the scenery and the company of the other runners with staying focused
and making my way to the turnaround point with plenty of time to spare so that
I wouldn’t have to be worried about making the cutoff times on the way back. Despite the rugged terrain, the setting was
beautiful. The trail ran parallel to the
Saint Louis river, which was flowing through the trees to the left of us. The view got even better when we crossed over
the swinging bridge. After passing
through the first aid station, the course continued down a short, paved path
and gave way to a relatively flat trail that weaved through the woods. There was a lot of local pride in the
air. Several runners were wearing shirts
and hats from other local races such as the Eugene Curnow Trail Marathon, which
is a point to point race held on this same course from Spirit Mountain to
Carlton High School where we started.
One girl, Emily, was wearing a hat from the Birkie Trail Ski Race, which
is a 55K cross country ski race held every year on the American Birkebeiner
trail. Virtually all of the runners I
talked to were from the Minneapolis area or Duluth, with the occasional Chicagoan
here and there. The runners had spread
out since the beginning of the race and after running over some rolling hills
and crossing a highway, I caught up to a small pack of runners who were
chatting amongst themselves. One guy,
Kyle, was running with his mother who was about a mile behind us. He talked about how his mom was always a
solid runner and he ran his first marathon at ten years old and his first 50K
at eleven. “I’ll bet your Phys Ed
teachers couldn’t say anything to you” I joked.
Over the years he had abandoned running to play football and gave up
running for fourteen years. He recently
had reignited his interest in the sport and was doing his first ultramarathon
since he was eleven. The girl in front
of us, Andrea, was sharing crazy stories about her camping adventures over the
years in the Minnesota wilderness. After
rolling through another aid station, we began the notorious “power lines”
section of the race. People had been
talking about this section before and during the race. About how challenging it was and how they
hoped it wouldn’t be too muddy. The
power lines are a series of steep, exposed hills with grass fields, dirt
trails, and very little shade. I had
reached out to Dusty on Facebook to get some advice on the race a couple of
months prior. One of the things he had
warned me about was how steep and difficult the power lines are, especially if
it’s wet outside. Luckily for me, it was
pretty dry out. We made our way up the
steep rolling hills and through the grass fields as a group, telling stories
along the way. Once we’d survived the
power lines, the trail deposited us back into the woods, where most of the
course was shaded by the trees and brush.
The group had spread out again and I soon found myself running alone on
the trail. I came to a junction just
before an incline where I saw a volunteer standing off to the side. As I glided by, he advised me to be careful
on the wooden bridge about a mile ahead.
Apparently, some bees had taken up residence under the bridge and when the runners in front of me crossed, it shook the hive and ticked the bees off a
little. Growing up in the Midwest, I
learned at a very young age (the hard way) to stay the hell away from bee
hives, and if there is any kind of disturbance, you better run your butt off
because if bees are disturbed, they’ll chase down and sting the first person
they see. Over the next couple of miles,
I ran as quickly as I could over all the wooden bridges on the course. Fortunately, no bee stings.
A couple of hours later, I came to the Skyline section of
the course, which was two miles from the turnaround. As we runners came over the top of a slope on
Spirit Mountain, we were treated to an astounding view of downtown Duluth,
Saint Louis Bay, and the Aerial Lift Bridge in the distance. We ran on a grass trail along the mountain underneath
the ski lifts and began heading downhill towards the turnaround. Dusty had also warned me that the climbs on
the way back were tough and the 800-foot climb back up Spirit Mountain after
the turnaround is a doozy. When I
finally arrived, I was greeted with enthusiasm from the volunteers, and took a
seat on a rock near the tent. I gulped
down water and Powerade and wolfed down watermelon, PB&J, and chips as I regrouped. The cutoff for the turnaround was 1:00 PM (7
hours), and I had refused to look at my watch prior to my arrival for fear of psyching
myself out. If I could reach the
turnaround with a big enough time buffer, I wouldn’t have to worry about
busting my ass to make the cutoff times at the aid stations. When I checked out of the turnaround point it
as 11:38 AM so I had plenty of time. I
was relieved and excited that I could have a little more fun on the way back and
I wouldn’t have to constantly worry about being forced to drop. I climbed back up Spirit Mountain with Kyle
and we started chatting with David, a twenty-one-year-old college student from
Minneapolis. He was tall and lean and
hoping that today he would be finishing his first ultra. As we ran underneath the ski lifts, we cheered
on runners making their way to the turnaround.
I recognized Scott Kummer from Ten Junk Miles a Chicago based running
podcast that I had discovered a couple of months prior. Scott looked to be having a tough go at it,
but he had run over fifty trail and ultramarathons all over the country and I
had no doubt that he would finish strong.
I started to feel good as I continued down Sprit Mountain and back into
the woods. I ran with David, Kyle and
Andrea for a few miles at a time before we’d lose each other at aid stations
and catch up with each other again. At
around mile thirty-four the humidity began getting the better of me. I felt dehydrated despite carrying two
handheld water bottles and refilling them at every aid station and my legs were
cramping. After crossing a river in the gorge,
I pulled into an aid station where I scarfed down pickles, chips, and other
salty snacks to help balance my sodium levels.
Next to the pickles was a bowl of boiled potatoes beside a bowl of
salt. The idea was to take the potato,
roll it around in the salt, and wolf it down.
I decided to give it a try. It tasted
pretty awful, but I was desperate to get my sodium levels back up. The temperature was approaching eighty degrees
and my legs continued to cramp as I made my way further down the trail. While I was making my way through the power
lines for the second time, I resorted to crawling down the hill backwards on
all fours. The cramps had gotten so
severe, I couldn’t run forward down the steep hills. Referring to this challenging section, a guy
ran by me while I was on going down the hill and said “Aww man, I thought this
was all over”. When I finally made it to
the bottom of the hill, I heard thunder rumbling and some dark clouds were
rolling over head. I made it through the
power lines and replenished myself at the aid station, trying to regroup. There were a couple of stretches of
back-country road, but when I picked up the single-track trail again, it had gotten
to the point where even running on the flat, gentle trail was making my legs
cramp. I had been battling cramps for
several miles and I finally decided I’d had enough. Having to stop and stretch every hundred
yards was demoralizing. I decided to
pull off to the side of the trail and sit down in the brush to stretch my legs
out. I sat there for a good four minutes
leaning against a rock with my legs out in front of me, trying to alleviate the
pain.
Sitting down and stretching helped for a while and I eventually
came back to life and was able to throw down some faster miles on the flat sections
as I continued on. The rumbling of
thunder continued and suddenly, rain began falling. I wasn’t excepting it to rain but what choice
did I have, really. I still had nine miles left to go. Most of the trail was
still shaded but the rain came down pretty steadily for about an hour and a
half as I lumbered up the climbs and ran through the wilderness. When I came around a corner, I saw a guy bent
over, hands on his knees on the trail side.
I couldn’t tell if he was puking or dry heaving. “Hey man, you okay?” I asked as I pulled up. His name was Siva and he was also part of the
Ten Junk Miles podcast. He explained
that he had drank some pickle juice at the last aid station and it was making
him feel nauseous. I gave him some of my
water so he could rinse his mouth out and hydrate himself a little. We powered along together for a little while,
and when I rolled into the final aid station with just 3.4 miles left, the rain
had stopped and the sun had come back out, much to my delight. I refilled my water bottles for a final time
and crossed the bridge for the final stretch.
I had expected the climbs to be tough, the power lines to be
challenging, and the humidity to be exhausting, but I was not expecting what I
was about to encounter during the last three miles. I had returned to the rugged section of the course
and the rain had left the trail wet and muddy, effectively turning it into a giant
mud puddle. Wherever there wasn’t rocks
and thick tree roots, there was slippery mud and puddles of water. I made my way through as quickly as I safely could,
but I was slipping and sliding everywhere.
If you’ve ever seen Home Alone 2, there’s the scene where Macaulay
Culkin sets all the traps in the house in New York City. During one scene, Daniel Stern is slipping
and sliding on the floor through a greasy substance before falling and colliding
into a shelf full of paint. That’s pretty
much how I felt going through this section of the course. I approached a shallow trough, only about a
six foot drop down a muddy embankment to a small pile of rocks, then back up. Something I normally wouldn’t think twice
about. I took two steps down the trough
when my feet slid right out from underneath me and I came crashing down, ass
first, into the mud. The fall
immediately triggered mind blowing cramps in both legs simultaneously. I rolled onto my side, trying to stand up. But I couldn’t. My legs couldn’t pick me up. I felt pathetic lying there in the mud. I only had two miles left but at this rate, I
felt like I’d never make it. I was
miserable, hot, sore, and dehydrated.
After about a minute, the cramps subsided, and I reminded myself why I
do this. I reminded myself that this was
what I loved about ultrarunning. Having
incredible highs and awful lows and priding myself on being able to plow
through the lows and come out strong. “This
is crazy” I said to no one in particular (only, I inserted a bad four-letter
word followed by “ing” between “is and “crazy”). “But I love this shit”. I picked my weary butt up out of the mud and
continued my way through the mess. It was a long slog, but I wasn't stopping come hell or high water. I had come too far to give up now. I still
slid and stumbled frequently but I used trees and branches to catch my falls. “Embrace the suck” I said to myself. Just then, Siva caught up to me again and
said he was still not feeling good. I let
him sip some more of my water to mitigate the nausea and he pressed on. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity,
I came to the junction where the course leaves the trail for the bike
path. After a few minutes, I made a
right turn onto the street, which meant only a quarter of a mile to the
finish. As I approached, I saw my Dad
and Sister standing in the middle of the road about a block ahead. I had been in contact with them throughout
the race, but I was arriving a little later than I had initially told them. As I ran the final steps to the finish, people
were yelling out my name and my Dad and Sister were going crazy. I crossed the finish line after twelve hours
and thirty-five minutes of running, arms in the air, smiling ten miles wide. Siva had finished just before me and we
embraced as I crossed the finish line.
After a round a hugs from the volunteers, I was handed not a medal or a
belt buckle, but a hand crafted finishers coffee mug, which I thought was awesome. Seeing my Dad and Sister at the finish was a euphoric
moment. I thought about how far they had
driven and all the support they were giving me, and my eyes filled with tears
and I hugged them. I was sweaty, dirty, muddy,
and physically annihilated, but I was on cloud nine as I stumbled to my Dad’s
car.
That night, we had dinner at an Italian restaurant in
downtown Duluth where I stuffed myself full of pizza and reveled in the deliciousness
of a hot meal. My flight the next morning
was pretty early and I was going to need to leave the hotel around 6:30 in the
morning to drive to Minneapolis, which worked out well because my Dad and Sister
would have to leave around the same time to get back home at a descent hour. Despite having to jump out of bed a few times
in the middle of the night to stretch some cramps away, I slept pretty
decently. Saying goodbye to my family
the next morning was hard, as always, but I was so grateful that they made the
trip to Duluth to support me. Until
yesterday, they had never seen me in action, and I was happy and excited that they
were able to experience this part of my life up close and personal. Having them there with me, even for just a
short time, made all the difference in the race experience, and it made me want
to run more ultras in the Midwest so I can see them more. I guess now I’ll have to go back and run the Superior
Trail 100! Just kidding, not
really. Not anytime soon. But maybe someday…
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