Blisters, Cramps & Heaves

Run Crazy Horse Marathon (SD)

Posted: November 7, 2013 in 50 States, Marathons, RACE REPORTS
Tags: 50 States, Crazy Horse, Korczak Ziolkowski, Mount Rushmore, road marathon, South Dakota running, trail marathon

A very great vision is needed, and the man who has it must follow it as the eagle seeks the deepest blue of the sky.
– Crazy Horse

The devil, we’re told, is in the details. In which case some readers may deem me a practicing Satanist. In an effort to document the races I run for myself and like-minded runners, I prefer to err on the side of ample detail. Creating and writing this blog hasn’t necessarily changed how I observe and absorb the world around me, but it has given my brain a more compelling reason to do so. I now appreciate the importance not just of seeing but of noticing – noteworthy facts, amusing details, poignant behaviors. The stuff that makes every race – and even the most ho-hum training run – unique from every other.

BC&H was born after my near-literal meltdown on Mt. Diablo in April 2012. More recently, though, in considering the 44 races of varying distances (including four marathons) that I logged prior to Diablo, it struck me that I really should have begun the blog six months earlier. I should have begun with a race that still ranks among my favorite running experiences, and whose blow-by-blow details remain remarkably vivid in my mind two years later. I should have begun with the 2011 Run Crazy Horse Marathon.

And so, with the help of Garmin, Google Maps and Katie’s own memory and record-keeping, I’ve decided to put my pre-blog perspicacity to the test, and right this wrong before it gets any wronger. Besides, I’d hate to look back years from now, once I’ve hopefully medaled in all 50 states and on all 7 continents, and end up kicking myself because I’m left with only vague, surreal memories of an extraordinary weekend in the Black Hills of South Dakota.

Here then is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth (as I remember it) about marathon #2 in state #2 – inspired by a single-minded sculptor who was every bit as crazy as the legend he sought to immortalize.

The Motive
I live in a scenic warm-weather state full of amazing races. Why, then, for my second marathon would I travel to the middle of the country to run in a state that most Americans think of (if they think of it at all) as Flyover Land? A state that too often gets grouped with its northern counterpart under the collective heading of “The Dakotas”?

I’d visited South Dakota nearly a decade earlier, with buddies Pete and Matt on a road trip through several of the less populated states. Realizing Katie would get a similar charge out of its natural beauty and majestic monuments, I resolved to bring her back with me on a future visit. Nine years later, while training for the 2011 California International Marathon, I remembered hearing of an October marathon in South Dakota that allowed runners to start from either of the state’s two deftly chiseled mountains, the Mount Rushmore National Memorial or the Crazy Horse Memorial. That was all I needed to know, to know I’d found my next race.

My interwebs research quickly revealed that the “Monument Challenge” Marathon had been discontinued two years earlier, in 2009. Fortunately, it had been reborn the following year as the inaugural Run Crazy Horse Marathon. More importantly, what hadn’t changed was that the two memorials still sat nestled in the Black Hills, only 16 miles apart.

The difference between these two is like night and day

So it was that Katie and I found ourselves on Friday flying into South Dakota over the dark, tree-covered terrain that earned the region its Lakota designation – Paha Sapa, or “hills that are black”. Our flight touched down in Rapid City, which lies in the southwest corner of the state and is its second most populous city after Sioux Falls. Luckily for us, the timing of race weekend happened to coincide with the final evening lighting ceremony of the year at Mount Rushmore, which was scheduled to start 90 minutes after our plane landed. So we hit the ground renting (a car, that is) and made the 45-minute drive in time for Katie to witness Mount Rushmore as few visitors do their first time – with the faces of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Lincoln slowly emerging out of the Black Hills darkness and into (artificial) light.

Mount Rushmore is one of the few national icons that every American recognizes. In fact, its façade is so ubiquitous in American culture that you could be forgiven for assuming, as I did, that the real thing couldn’t possibly live up to the hype. But you’d be wrong. Seeing those four intricately carved faces gazing like silent sentries from atop the mountain is breathtaking even in broad daylight, against the typical backdrop of visitor traffic and vocal toddlers. But at night, under dramatic lighting and with life’s usual exhortations muted, the majesty of Mount Rushmore speaks softly and carries a very big stick.

Rapid City’s “City of Presidents” includes (clockwise from upper left) Franklin Pierce,
James Buchanan, Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt
(It’s unclear whether the real Buchanan had a rhino-like horn on his head)

After bidding Mount Rushmore goodbye, we headed back to Rapid City, where we enjoyed a late dinner at Wine Cellar, a local restaurant with the look and feel (if not quite the food) of a Napa Valley bistro. Our waiter welcomed us with the news that we’d arrived in the midst of an unseasonal heat wave (my 8^th grade English teacher would call this foreshadowing). He also shared his story of how, the previous summer, Guns N’ Roses had dropped by the restaurant for dinner prior to playing the nearby Sturgis Monkey Rock USA Festival, their first U.S. show in four years – and how, in typical Axl Rose fashion, their time to hit the stage had come and gone while the band’s members sat in the restaurant. I had to smile at the comforting thought that – nearly 20 years after I’d twice experienced that same G N’ R volatility as a college kid in Houston – the more Axl changed, the more he stayed the same.

Saturday began with a short morning run along the Mickelson Trail near our hotel in Hill City (my 8^th grade English teacher might point to the town’s name as a second example of foreshadowing). We then grabbed lunch on Main Street, site of the next day’s finish line. I would say Hill City looks like a land that time forgot, except I’m not sure the town cares to be remembered. With business names like the Bumpin Buffalo Bar & Grill, the Mangy Moose Saloon and Broken Arrow Trading Company, Hill City gives the impression of a dusty one- or two-horse town that embraces its Wild West ethos. Amidst the quaint local shops that line Main Street, the town’s Harley-Davidson dealership offers a nod to the pervasive and freewheeling biker (i.e. motorcycle) culture that puts this region on the national map for one week a year in August.

After lunch we made the quarter-mile walk across town to the Boys & Girls Clubs of the Black Hills, where the low-key race expo was housed in one modestly sized room. We quickly negotiated the 5-10 sponsor booths, with the exception of one booth where a chatty older woman selling alkalinized water bent our ear for several minutes, seemingly delighted to have someone to talk to.

The elevation profile agrees: the high point of the course was the monument at mile 2

Katie studied the posted list of registered runners and commented on how few out-of-towners would be running the marathon. Meanwhile, glancing at the course map, I was taken aback to discover a key variable I’d completely overlooked in my twitterpated zeal to revisit the Black Hills: elevation. Turns out the marathon would begin at 5,919 ft of elevation before reaching its zenith at 6,083 ft (foreshadowing hat trick complete). But at just over a mile high, I tried to reassure myself, how much of an impact could altitude really have? After all, I’d gained 7,815 vertical feet to finish the Pikes Peak Ascent at 14,115ft the previous summer – a ludicrous comparison that did absolutely nothing for my confidence.

With race bib and newfound trepidation in hand, we made the 30-minute drive back to Rapid City, where we strolled its impressive downtown “City of Presidents” display of life-size bronze statues honoring all 43 former U.S. Presidents (with Barack Obama in the works). Collectively, the statues elevate Rapid City from “sleepy town near Mount Rushmore” to “sleepy town with cool historical diversion near Mount Rushmore”.

Feeling like participants in a South Dakota scavenger hunt, we hopped back in the car and returned to Mount Rushmore, where we were able to appreciate the monument in full daylight and from all possible ground angles, via a walking path that leads around the base of the mountain. At last, the time came to bid Rushmore adieu for the second and final time – Crazy Horse beckoned, and who were we to keep a legend waiting?

Mount Rushmore as framed through a one-lane tunnel on U.S. Route 16A

The Monument
The sprawling horizon was reeling in a rose-hued sun as we pulled into the parking lot of the Crazy Horse Memorial. Despite being the final listing under the heading of “National Parks and Monuments” on South Dakota’s Wiki page, Crazy Horse is an astonishing testament to one man’s vision, tireless resolve and get-‘er-done-itude. Except that sadly, it isn’t done… and in fact it’s nowhere close.

The Memorial began life as the passion project of Korczak Ziolkowski, a Boston-born sculptor of Polish descent. After assisting fellow sculptor Gutzon Borglum in the creation of Mount Rushmore, Korczak returned to the Black Hills in 1947 at age 38 at the invitation of Lakota Chief Henry Standing Bear, who shared his idea for a similar mountain tribute to honor Native Americans. “My fellow chiefs and I would like the white man to know the red man has great heroes, too,” wrote Standing Bear. Work began and the Crazy Horse Memorial was dedicated on June 3, 1948.

The sheer size and scope of Korczak’s project is mind-boggling. The sculptor designed his carving of Lakota war leader Crazy Horse, pointing with outstretched arm astride his steed, to be the largest sculpture in the world: upon completion, it would measure 563ft high by 641ft long. All four heads of Mount Rushmore would easily fit inside Crazy Horse’s own 87½-foot-high head.

Sculptor Korczak’s 1/34-size scale model of the finished monument (with the real thing in the background)

Unfortunately, due to Korczak’s insistence that the project subsist entirely on charitable donations and private funding, work on the monument has proceeded at a lugubrious pace, and only the Lakota Chief’s face has so far been completed. According to the Crazy Horse Memorial Foundation, Korczak twice refused federal grants of ten million dollars because he wanted his Memorial to be a “humanitarian project built by the interested public and not the taxpayer.”

Korczak’s master plan extends beyond the monument itself, envisioning an entire campus that includes an Indian Museum of North America and the American Indian University and Medical Training Center. After his death in 1982, Korczak’s wife Ruth along with seven of their ten children took up the mantle and continue to oversee work on the project to this day. If and when the Memorial might be completed, however, remains anyone’s guess.

So I was happy to support Korczak’s grand vision, and my support began with a pre-race pasta dinner at the Memorial’s Laughing Water Restaurant, followed by a laser light show projected on the monument itself. Whereas the meal was excellent in its simplicity, the light show was well-meaning but surreal, thanks in part to its ’70s musical choreography. In particular, “Music Box Dancer” is a discomforting instrumental that would – as bad music is wont to do – spend the rest of the weekend pirouetting its way through my impressionable brain. Ouch.

The laser light show was projected on the monument itself

The Marathon
On Sunday morning we made the return drive from Hill City to Crazy Horse for the 8:00a.m. marathon start. With the awakening sun stretching out over the Black Hills and the start area still swathed in shade, the already warm weather brought to mind our waiter’s words from two nights earlier: unseasonal heat wave. I was wearing the most lightweight tech shirt I owned, carrying a bottle of my usual Cytomax/GU concoction, and hoping most of the course would be adequately shaded. I might just as well have hoped for Pegasus to swoop down and carry me across the finish line.

I have vague recollections of Native American drum beats playing to start the race and send 700 eager runners on our way toward Hill City. Beginning from the Memorial Visitors Center, the first 3.5 miles of the course would be run on Memorial grounds. After initially leading runners away from the monument, the course looped back past the “BLASTING AREA CLOSED TO PUBLIC” sign and to a turnaround point just below the mountain. Glancing upward yielded an awesome view of Crazy Horse’s meticulously chiseled face. Then the monument was behind us once again, and the paved course headed downhill and out of the complex to meet up with the region’s famed George S. Mickelson Trail.

Mike Sohaskey running Run Crazy Horse Marathon 2011

If the mountain won’t run to Muhammad…

The next ten miles, cruising along the crushed limestone and gravel surface of the Mickelson Trail adjacent to U.S. Route 16, infused me with a Bob Marley-like confidence that Every little thing, gonna be all right! Verdant pines and golden autumn foliage threw wispy shadows across the sun-dappled trail, which periodically traversed a converted railroad bridge. Adding to my confidence was the trail’s persistent downward trajectory, which enabled me to pass several runners and string together ten relatively easy 8-minute miles. I resolved to bank time by running comfortably fast on this first-half descent, though not so fast that I risked flaming out before the more demanding second half.

As we approached the midway point of the race, the course transitioned from the comfy packed gravel of the Mickelson Trail onto the asphalt Main Street of downtown Hill City. Here, across from the Bumpin Buffalo, the inflatable black-and-blue (coincidence?) finisher’s arch greeted joyful half marathoners while spurning the rest of us. This struck me as the ultimate mind game, forcing the 26.2ers to pass within inches of the finish line while watching our fellow 13.1ers collect their medal and revel in their accomplishment. The race organizers clearly have a sadistic streak, and even at the time I had to nod my approval.

Mike Sohaskey on Mickelson Trail during Run Crazy Horse Marathon 2011

Nearing mile 19 on the Mickelson Trail (left), where shetland ponies look on in bemusement (right)

If the first half of the race was the charming Dr. Jekyll, the second half morphed gruesomely into Mr. Hyde. A hilly 13-mile out-and-back awaited, and the sun’s onslaught intensified as if seizing its opportunity to do some damage along this shade-free stretch. Katie was waiting as always with a smile and encouragement as the course left Main Street, circled Major Lake and began its punishing ascent toward a reunion with the Mickelson Trail.

Returning to the smooth dirt surface of the Mickelson Trail, my pace gradually slowed. I was already fighting the twin trials of escalating 80-degree heat and mile-high elevation, and strike three would come in the form of a steady uphill out to the turnaround point at mile 19.6. The blunt-force reality of the situation hit me along that out-and-back stretch, when I looked up to see the leader and eventual winner – who was headed back in the opposite direction – stopped in his tracks and standing bent over with hands on knees. That’s not something you want to see at any point in a race, much less before you’ve even reached the turnaround.

Katie had driven to the aid station where Deerfield Rd intersected with the Mickelson Trail, and was waiting to cheer me on just after mile 18. We traded a few words as I walked through the aid station in an attempt to cool down and rehydrate. Unfortunately the aid station doubled as a transfer point for the marathon relay – and as annoyances go, there’s little to rival the bouncy, fresh-faced relay runner who starts their race at mile 20 and clearly expects your dragging ass to yield the right-of-way to them as they fly by.

Mike Sohaskey and Katie at finish line of Run Crazy Horse Marathon 2011

Katie would be front and center on the Mount Rushmore of support crews

By the time I returned to that same aid station 3½ miles later, I was feeling light-headed from the combination of elevation and sun exposure, and also embarrassed that Katie was still there to see me slowly shuffle by like an overheated mule. Four painfully long miles lay ahead, and as Katie cheered me on with promises to meet at the finish, I reflected bitterly on the FAQ section of the race website:

Will I be affected by the altitude, especially if I am flying from a place at or near sea level?
The short answer is “no,” you won’t be affected. The slightly longer answer is that any minimal affect from the altitude is offset by the perfect running conditions, cool and dry.

All I want, I told myself more than once, is to finish this race… Crazy Horse ain’t got nothin’ on this insanity. Suddenly, the Bumpin Buffalo and Mangy Moose felt very far away. And I couldn’t imagine how the few runners I’d passed must be feeling. I walked my oxygen-deprived muscles through yet another aid station, dousing myself with water in a futile attempt to revive myself. By this time my pace had crept up into consistent 10-minute/mile territory (mile 24 even crawled above 11 minutes), and I entered the runner-populated town of Bonk City – a city devoid of homes, offices or even roads, but with only one impassably high Wall encircling the entire city. And struggle as I might, there was no way I’d be scaling The Wall in my overheated state.

Run Crazy Horse Marathon 2011 finish line approach

The shortest distance between two points is NOT this convoluted path to the finish (Google Earth)

I had heat-induced visions of the race organizers surreptitiously extending what now seemed a never-ending stretch of trail. Damn thing has to end eventually. And at long long last it did, transitioning back on to now-blessed asphalt. Wearily I took a few deep breaths as I shuffled my way down that final incline, not daring to look at my Garmin for fear I’d already blown past the four-hour mark. I reached Main Street and approached the finisher’s arch from the opposite direction. And whether I was thinking of myself or the finish line, the only two words my sun-addled brain could register were dead ahead. This time the finish line couldn’t turn me away…

Except it did. Roughly 50 yards from the finish, we were unexpectedly detoured by a right turn, followed by a quick left that led us down one last 0.1-mile stretch of alleyway parallel to Main Street. And I’d thought the race organizers were sadistic at mile 13.1. With that final blow to my psyche, I honestly felt I might collapse in that alleyway, propped up against a fence and unable to stand after running 26.1 miles. I felt none of the home-stretch euphoria that’s typified every other marathon I’ve run – only a grinding, full-body exhaustion. But stay upright I did, long enough to make two more quick left turns that led me back to Main Street and across the finish line in a surprisingly triumphant time of 3:55:22. Turns out my strong first half had more than covered for my shaky second half.

Mike Sohaskey approaching finish of Run Crazy Horse Marathon 2011

Desperado may be Lakota for “desperate to finish this race before it kills me”

The Aftermath
Crossing that finish line might have elicited more emotion if my equilibrium hadn’t been in such turmoil. Gratefully I accepted my ceramic finisher’s medal from a smiling volunteer and, after eschewing (because there’d be no chewing) solid food in favor of a few sips of Powerade, I sprawled out awkwardly on my back on a knee-high brick wall. The rough brick was only slightly more forgiving than lying on stairs, but at that moment I needed to lie down somewhere I wouldn’t be underfoot.

Fortunately I was able to avoid making any gastric sacrifices to the running gods, but suffice it to say I’ll always have naus-talgic memories of Crazy Horse.

As I lay there trying to regain some sense of normalcy, Katie checked the results and discovered that my sub-four finish had earned me third place in my age group. For my effort I received a very cool dreamcatcher, which remains the most distinctive award (age group or otherwise) I’ve received to date.

Although my pose – flat on my back with sunglasses shielding my eyes – couldn’t have looked too inviting, another fellow stopped alongside me to ask “Hey how do you like those compression socks do you wear them for all your marathons I tried to wear mine for a 50K a while back but they really messed up my Achilles so now I can’t wear them anymore but I was just wondering how you like ‘em I mean do they give you any problems ‘cuz like I said mine rub my Achilles and…” Still queasy and getting queasier by the word, I croaked out a weak “They’ve been great.” This seemed to either satisfy his curiosity or clue him into my plight, because he continued on his way without another word.

Devils Tower photo taken by Mike Sohaskey

Devils Tower was our first national monument (1906), and still is one of many good reasons to visit Wyoming

Eventually I stumbled to my feet and we returned to our nearby hotel, where I collapsed on the bed for another few minutes before dragging myself into the shower. After checking out we settled on Subway as a safe and familiar lunch option to appease my disgruntled GI tract. Then it was time to put South Dakota in our rearview mirror, and we were able to admire the not-quite-autumnal textures of the Black Hills one last time as we crossed the border on Interstate 90 into rugged Wyoming. That evening and the next morning we hiked around Devils Tower, the nation’s first national monument and another awe-inspiring testament to the power and beauty of Flyover Land.

The American philospher George Santayana warned us that “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” Hopefully one day, in the case of one memorable weekend in the Black Hills, those who can remember it will have that same chance.

BOTTOM LINE: The race’s official name says it all – Run Crazy Horse. The Marathon offers a wicked combination of picturesque beauty, historical context and a challenging course you’ll both love and hate in a span of five miles. As such, Crazy Horse is a no-brainer for any runner looking to get out, explore a less ballyhooed region of the country and spice up their race catalog. I appreciate the argument against desecrating nature, but at the same time if you’re going to vandalize a mountain, you’d better have a Mount Rushmore or Crazy Horse to show for it.

PRODUCTION: Sadistic though they may be, the organizers of the Run Crazy Horse weekend did a terrific job from start (expo and pre-race dinner) to finish (medals). The Marathon had the comforting feel of a low-key trail race, yet without any wrong turns or logistical glitches. Though I carried my own bottle and the details of the aid stations escape me, I recall them being there when I needed water to dump on my head. As swag goes, the race shirt was a serviceable red short-sleeve tech tee. But the stars of the show, other than the Memorial itself, were the ceramic finisher’s medal and age-group dreamcatcher, both of which will always evoke the spirit of Crazy Horse and the dedication of those who have toiled to keep his memory alive.

For another perspective, I’d recommend Dan’s eerily similar experience at the 2012 Run Crazy Horse Marathon.

FINAL STATS:
October 2, 2011
26.19 miles from the Crazy Horse Memorial to Hill City, SD (State 2 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 3:55:22 (first time running the Run Crazy Horse Marathon), 8:59/mile
Finish place: 21/119 overall, 3/9 in M(40-44) age group
Race weather: Sunny and unseasonally hot (temperatures reached the low 80s)
Elevation: 5,919ft at the start, 6083ft max

The 42nd Portland Marathon (OR)

Posted: October 16, 2013 in 50 States, Marathons, RACE REPORTS
Tags: 50 States, Bill Rodgers, Front Avenue, Pacific Northwest, road marathon, Rose City, St. John's Bridge, Willamette River

The marathon can humble you.
– Bill Rodgers

Portland Marathon 2013 street banners

First and most important things first… HAPPY 40^thBIRTHDAY, KRISTINA! Please consider this blog post my present to you, in the form of another fun place to take the family. Though with today being particularly busy, you should feel free to wait to read it until, say, 12:01am tomorrow…

∞

Admittedly I‘m no connoisseur of marathon training programs, but I’d imagine very few recommend the following regimen for weeks 10-12 of a 16-week training cycle:

(From Bart Yasso’s race-tested intermediate marathon-training program, Runner’s World July ’09)

Unfortunately, thanks to a nasty ankle sprain at the E.T. Midnight Marathon in August, this is exactly what my training Franken-program would look like leading up to the Portland Marathon last Sunday. Yes, I was acutely aware that cramming in 50-mile weeks was a risky remedy for two weeks on the couch. But I was equally determined not to go first-time marathoner, fizzling out at mile 20 and death-marching my way across the finish line.

After my first four races this year alternated among rain, snow, ice, extreme heat and darkness – along with a healthy dose of hillage – I was looking forward to my first legitimate opportunity of 2013 to get out and run. And Portland would be just what this doctor ordered: a largely – though as I’d soon learn, not entirely – flat course under cool, sunny skies. In fact, Portland would be the coolest running weather I’d experienced since moving to L.A. from the Bay Area in April. So I was hoping that a summer’s worth of heat training would give me a literal leg up toward a new PR in the Pacific Northwest. Turns out I really should pay attention to course maps before the race.

I chose Portland as my autumn road marathon for two reasons: 1) Katie and I hadn’t visited the Rose City in over a decade and were eager to return; and 2) Fellow running blogger (runnogger?) Dan, whose goal is to run a half marathon or farther in all 50 states, had chosen this year’s Portland Marathon as his Oregon race. Dan and I first met after he found my Chicago Marathon post last October, and his blog quickly became a must-read thanks to its fluid style and narrative knack for making the reader feel like a strategic third eye in the middle of his forehead. Though our physical paths had never crossed (not counting the 2011 Austin Half Marathon, where we apparently finished 72 seconds apart), over the past year I’d watched him morph from 3:30:00 wannabe into hardcore ultrarunner whose no-joke marathon PR of 3:23:12 I now find myself chasing from a distance.

Dan and his buddy Otter (whose self-deprecating blog chronicles his own entertaining path to ultrarunning enlightenment) would be tackling Portland as the back end of their own personal gut check: back-to-back marathons. On consecutive days. In neighboring states. After running the Leavenworth Oktoberfest Marathon in Washington on Saturday, they would be driving five hours to knock out another 26.2 in Portland on Sunday. Like me, Dan’s most recent race had been truncated by injury, so I was psyched when he texted me shortly after noon on Saturday to say “3:57 for the first one. Tomorrow should be… interesting.” How prophetic he was.

Hotel-room view of the Hawthorne Bridge over the Willamette River, with snow-capped Mt. Hood beyond

We arrived in Portland on Friday afternoon. As we settled back for the 38-minute light rail ride from the airport to our downtown hotel, what struck me was the number of trees and the sheer amount of greenery (and autumn orangery, pinkery, and goldery) that lined our route. Not your typical urban train ride. A short time later, wheeling our luggage along city blocks that looked like they’d been washed down with a fire hose, my lungs filled with the crisp, newly scrubbed air that follows a good cry from Mother Nature.

Although Portlanders and Seattleites will argue over whose city gets more rain, Portland’s reputation as one of the soggier cities in the country is well-earned. Case in point, the week before our arrival saw the city buffeted by the tail end of a Pacific Typhoon that led more than one local to tell us how lucky we were “not to be here last week”. Portland is a very green city, and a beautiful place when the sun shines (as it would for us all weekend)… but with great greenery comes great precipitation. Such is life in the Pacific Northwest.

Even if I’d had no race the next day, Saturday alone would almost have justified our trip. The day began with a relaxed 3-mile run north along the western banks of the Willamette River (a friend now living in Portland reminded us that when in doubt of the river’s pronunciation, it’s the Willamette, damn it!). As I passed the Portland Saturday Market, the spirited sounds of weekend gaiety and the smoky smells of char-grilling billowed from an eclectic collection of white tents. The law of conservation of energy was on clear display in the sun-dappled park, with restless children chasing and giving chase while drowsy adults lay sprawled out on the grass in full repose.

After lunch we hit the bustling race expo, held in the basement of the Portland Hilton. With its red velvet stanchions and awkwardly slanted floors, the venue felt like a low-budget amusement park ride. Sponsor booths, which were confusedly distributed among two rooms and a hallway, featured the usual combination of high-profile brands and less established companies. But the hands-down highlight was the opportunity to meet running legend Bill Rodgers. The line at Rodgers’ table was surprisingly short, and we chatted for a couple of minutes before he signed my copy of his new memoir, Marathon Man: My 26.2-Mile Journey from Unknown Grad Student to the Top of the Running World (based on the title, I’m halfway there!). He also recommended former teammate Alberto Salazar’s own autobiography.

Mike Sohaskey with running legend Bill Rodgers

With running legend Bill Rodgers… between us we’ve won 4 Boston Marathons, 4 New York City Marathons and 1 Limantour Half Marathon in Point Reyes, CA

The second highlight of the day would come that evening, as fellow Antarctica travelers Donn and Rod hosted us and several other guests at their beautiful floating home on the Willamette River. Rod’s veggie lasagne was carbo-perfect, the camaraderie was excellent, and we spent much of the evening admiring the view of the river from their gently swaying deck. Donn recounted their first morning in the house, when he’d glanced out the window to see a seal feasting on a salmon, followed by two bald eagles swooping in to scavenge the leftovers. By the time he dropped us off at our hotel, I felt rested and ready to leave my non-carbon footprints all over this city.

Sunday morning’s alarm rudely interrupted our sixth hour of sleep. Pulling back the curtains on a still-darkened and slumbering city, I dressed and prepared my standard pre-race meal, an easily digestible mush of granola, peanut butter and almond milk yogurt. Contrary to conventional wisdom, my rapid metabolism compels me to eat no earlier than an hour before the starting gun, so I don’t burn through my glycogen stores by mile 10. Legs feel good, feet feel good… race day adrenaline gradually kicked in as we made our way through the nascent twilight toward Lownsdale Square, where the start line awaited.

On this day Portland would be honoring those affected by the Boston Marathon bombings. I was relieved, then, to see no overt indicators of beefed-up security as we made our way through the throngs toward corral A. Kudos to the organizers for recognizing that you can’t police random acts of hatred without sacrificing a whole lot else.

It struck me how long it had been since I’d seen race-day weather like this: clear skies and a starting temperature in the low 40s. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t need to reference the warning signs of heat exhaustion and heat stroke listed on the back of my oversized race bib.

Mike Sohaskey at start line of Portland Marathon 2013

Who let the slow guy so close to the start line?

Finally 7:00a.m. arrived. After a moment of silence in remembrance of Boston, the assembled runners joined together in an a capella singing of the national anthem, followed over the PA system by a few bars of “Sweet Caroline,” again in tribute to Boston (I’d be sporting my own “I Run For Boston” shirt). Then my good buddy Bill Rodgers counted us down to zero, the crowd surged forward, and the streets of Portland beckoned.

Taking care not to fire out of the gate too quickly, I fell in with the 3:25:00 pace group and reached the mile 1 marker in a disappointing 8:16, already 33 seconds behind last year’s Chicago PR pace (an eventual 3:28:45 finish). I resolved to stick with the 3:25 group for as long as possible – if I could stay between the 3:25 and 3:30 pacers (and preferably closer to 3:25) from start to finish, I’d be a happy running man. This would be the first time I’d chosen to fall in with a pace group so early in a race.

Within the first mile, a female punk band supported on a platform over the street provided our first musical entertainment. The next few miles along the waterfront then featured, in rapid succession, an amusingly diverse collection of incongruent acts: a female singer/guitarist, solo harpist, honky-tonk bluegrass band, pan flutist and some sort of wind chimes which I thought might segue into “Silver Bells”. Apparently unimpressed by this latter selection, the fellow next to me shouted “Play ‘Eye of the Tiger’!” Ah, what highly trained creatures of habit we are.

Inspirational or not, the music in the first three miles distracted from the course’s steady uphill trajectory between miles 1 and 3. I retreated into my own head for the early stages of the race, mentally ticking off each muscle group in turn to ensure we were all on the same page. After that I focused on a game of “Name That Shoe,” as I tested my knowledge by guessing the brand – and in some cases the model – of shoe being worn by those around me: So those are the Brooks PureProject line, but PureFlow or PureCadence? I think that color scheme is only offered for the PureFlow… and the Brooks logo on top of the upper tells me PureFlow 2, second generation. The early “get-through-em” miles of a marathon can be kinda boring.

That inexplicably sharp dip at mile 17 is, somehow, the St. John’s Bridge

After a 4-mile out-and-back hairpin loop through a typically urban mix of residential and commercial neighborhoods, we hugged the downtown waterfront for another mile before entering the least inspiring section of the course, another out-and-back through the train yards and industrial wasteland along Front Avenue. But for me, Front Avenue turned out to be the most eventful section of the course.

First, it was along this stretch that Dan and I met, offering quick words of recognition and encouragement as we headed in opposite directions. This was more challenging than it sounds, since the southeast-facing “back” segment I was running faced directly into a blinding sun. As seen through sunglasses, runners approaching from the other direction were nebulous silhouettes, leading me to run with sunglasses in hand as I squinted into the steady stream of oncoming runners. Fortunately Dan and I spotted each other around mile 10, as he looked to be well on his way to his second sub-4:00 marathon in 24 hours. Nothing seemed more appropriate at that moment than two marathoners meeting for the first time mid-race and in mid-stride.

I kept an eye out for Otter as well, but not knowing his pace or what he was wearing, I’d have to wait to meet him at the finish. Shortly after seeing Dan, we passed a loudspeaker blasting REM’s “Losing My Religion,” which despite being a catchy song did little for my motivation with its plaintive refrain of “Trying to keep, up, with you… and I don’t know if I can do it….”

But my gold star for “Worst Premeditated Idea” goes to the idiots in the pirate costumes, who apparently decided – with Boston still fresh on everyone’s mind – that firing off a cannon was a totally awesome way to show their support for the runners. As the blast exploded, runners around me momentarily broke stride before seeing the setup ahead and angrily realizing what had happened. Too bad we had no plank handy for those pirates to walk.

“HEY EVERYBODY, WHAT’S THE HURRY?”

Thanks to the train tracks that regularly cross the course along Front Avenue, I found myself flashing back to my recent ankle sprain at the E.T. Midnight Marathon and monitoring my footing closely. On the bright side, any distraction (other than warring pirates) along this stretch of industrial nothingness was much appreciated.

Just before the mile 11 turnoff on to NW 17^th Avenue, we passed one of Portland’s many (or so I hear) gentlemen’s clubs. Some useful trivia for those looking to plan a bachelor party for a hippie buddy: With its “live and let live” attitude and sketchy past, Portland boasts more strip clubs per capita than Las Vegas. And if I hadn’t been glancing around trying to distract myself at that moment, I probably would’ve missed the amusing sign advertising “hardwood” on the building next door to the strip club. If we weren’t all adults here, I’d compliment Portland on its sly sense of humor.

Still feeling strong and with the Front Avenue out-and-back now thankfully out of the way, I scored a momentary burst of adrenaline upon seeing Katie for (already) the third time at mile 11.5. We passed the midway point at mile 13.1 without fanfare and transitioned on to the spectator-free shoulder of busy NW St. Helens Road, where Smart cars, hybrids and a smattering of fossil fuel guzzlers zoomed by on our right. Three miles later I paused at the mile 15.5 aid station to spill a cup of Ultima Replenisher on myself (about half made it into my mouth) before setting off again in pursuit of the 3:25 pace group, which was slowly creeping ahead.

Mike Sohaskey at mile 11.5 of Portland Marathon 2013

All smiles at mile 12 – clearly we are having an awful lot of fun

The course then veered left past a “Checkpoint Charlie” overseen by marines in uniform. Here began the toughest and most noticeable ascent of the day, a slow ½-mile burn up to the St. John’s Bridge. Pushing uphill as hard as I dared without risking a flame-out, I reached the roadbed of the St. John’s Bridge with the 3:25 pacers still in my sights about 25 yards ahead. The bridge provided a much-needed respite as my hill-addled legs tried to recover from the brief but taxing climb. And there I was able to appreciate the highlight of the course, a stunning panoramic view of Mt. Hood in the distance.

Unfortunately, the damage had been done. Although I wouldn’t realize it until after the race, the hills had taken enough out of my legs that mile 16 (at 7:52/mile) would be my final sub-8:00 mile of the day. Not coincidentally, as we reached the eastern (opposite) side of the St. John’s Bridge, I glanced up to see the 3:25 pace group gradually… pulling… away. In that moment, I felt strong enough to convince myself that as long as I maintained my current pace, I might still be able to gain back some ground in mile 23 or 24. And even if I didn’t catch them (a more likely scenario), I’d still set myself up for a 3:27-ish finish, which would send me home from Portland with a nice PR.

As we descended from the bridge on to Willamette Blvd, we re-entered the spectator zone where onlookers were once again vocalizing their much-appreciated support. And though I paid little attention to the signage along the course, the crowds at Portland left a lasting impression for one reason: their unfailing ability to pronounce my last name correctly. With my last name printed on my bib, I heard it included in shouts of support at least a half-dozen times. It really is easy to pronounce – So-has-key – but newcomers almost always insist on throwing a “z” or “j” into the mix. Yet with just a fleeting glance at my bib, the Portland literati nailed it time and time again. At one point I trailed a runner with “Mike” printed on his bib, so I’d hear frequent cries of “Yeah, Mike!”, “Go Mike!” and “Looking good, Mike!” along with the sporadic cheer of “Go Sohaskey!” These people love me! I hallucinated. It was like I’d brought my own cheering section… which I had, except she was now waiting at the finish line.

On the St. John’s Bridge (image and clouds courtesy of Google Maps)

The 6.5 miles after the bridge began with more tree-lined neighborhoods and led us down the eastern side of the Willamette, with occasional glimpses of the Portland skyline (unobscured by clouds!) visible across the river.

Throughout the race I kept reminding myself to smile, stay positive and do whatever I could to reduce my all-important perceived effort. And I kept returning to one simple mantra: Just run. Time to tackle another uphill? Just run. Hit an energy lull at mile 15? Just run. 3:25 pacer fading in the distance? Just run. Boneheads in pirate gear firing off a cannon in my ear? Freak out momentarily… then just run. This mantra proved particularly helpful in the last six miles, as the world around me began to look more and more like a casting call for The Walking Dead. Runners in front of me suddenly stopped running and started walking. Several more pulled over to the side of the road to nurse cramps. And still others trudged along wearily at a non-quite-running/not-quite-walking pace, eyes cast downward as though burdened with a lead brick around their neck.

Just run rhymes with Just fun.

Sometime around mile 20, when I could have used a raucous blast of three-chord distorted guitar, what I got instead was a lounge-style smooth jazz ensemble that made me want to curl up and take a nap. I half-expected a cocktail waitress in Sauconys to pull up alongside me and offer me a martini. As much as I appreciate a good saxophone solo in the right place and at the right time, this was neither. Nearly three hours after I’d scoffed at the same request, this was “Eye of the Tiger” time.

"It's Almost Over" sign near finish of Portland Marathon 2013

Although my nutritional reserves weren’t noticeably dwindling, I paused at the mile 21 aid station to force down some Ultima and an Accel Gel, my first solid fuel of the race. As my legs and hips slowly ossified, I wanted to ensure I’d have enough energy to maintain – if not increase – my pace over the last five miles.

And the last five miles felt surprisingly good. Like a trip down memory lane, miles 23 and 24 led us through one last industrial stretch alongside one last series of train tracks. We then looped around and crossed back over the Willamette River on the Broadway Bridge, which looked to have been constructed from a Paul Bunyan-sized Erector Set. Returning the way we’d come along the waterfront, I barely registered the final aid station as I turned away from the river, waved to Katie one last time and fired down those final 385 yards to the finish line. My stride still felt stable, and despite not having seen the 3:25 pacer in nearly 8 miles, I felt confident a PR was within reach…

… until I made one final left turn on to 3^rd Avenue. “3:30:17” read the finish line clock matter-of-factly as I entered the home stretch. Crossing the blue and red finish line mat, I heard my name announced over the PA system (another perfect pronunciation!) and glanced down at my Garmin for the first time. 3:30:28. Dumbly accepting my medal from one of the day’s many fantastic volunteers, my mind was already grinding away in search of answers. How had I finished more than five minutes behind the 3:25 pace group? And more stupefying than that, how had I finished behind a 3:30 pace group which I was almost certain had never passed me??

Mike Sohaskey in final stretch of Portland Marathon 2013

Officer, that speedy man just ran a red light!

Absent-mindedly I accepted a white rose and mylar heat sheet from two cheerful volunteers, before turning back toward the finish in search of the 3:30 pace group. Sure enough, moments later I saw the “3:30” red lizard sign (all pace groups carried red lizard placards showing their target finish times) enter the finish chute.

Son of a @%*$#!

True, I had no way of knowing how far ahead the 3:25 pacer had finished. But I’m accustomed to pacers finishing a minute or two ahead of their projected time, to ensure that all runners in their group meet their individual time goals. And based on where I positioned myself in corral A, I don’t see how I could have crossed the start line that far ahead of Team 3:30.

So as I chugged a pint of chocolate milk and gnawed away at an orange slice, I was a bit dazed and a lot disap-pointed. Not only hadn’t I scored a PR, I hadn’t broken 3:30. Apparently I should revise my mantra to Just run faster.

But life – and more to the point, traffic in the finish chute – goes on, and riding the wave of triumphantly exhausted runners, I turned my attention to finding Katie. Before I could reach her though, volunteers handed me 1) two small velvet pouches containing a finisher’s coin and mini-me pendant version of the finisher’s medal; 2) an eye-catching long sleeve baby blue and gold finisher’s shirt; and 3) a tree seedling I politely declined, having left my third hand back in the hotel room. I wondered how much of Portland’s verdure had been planted by zealous marathon finishers.

Mike Sohaskey and Katie Ho after Portland Marathon 2013

I know, kinda rude of me to jump in front of Katie’s selfie

As I hobbled through the finish chute, one of the friendly volunteer florists obliged my request for a red rose, which I shared with my all-in-one support crew/cheering section/race photographer. As always, Katie the Ubiquitous had seen me off at the start, beaten me to the finish and cheered me on at several points in between…. all while capturing some pretty sweet shots of the action. In fact, she took several impressive photos of Dan at mile 11.5… before she’d ever met him. And as I wearily admired the deep red petals perched atop a long supple stem, it occurred to me that not every rose has its thorn.

After reuniting with Katie, we circled back to watch Dan complete his second sub-4:00 marathon of the weekend and check off Oregon as state 34 on his 50-states running tour (compared to the fifth state on my own less strategic tour). With Otter still en route, the three of us convened at Portland Brewery’s “26.3 Mile Gathering Place,” a grassy street corner nearby. There we relaxed on the grass, the late-morning sun warming us as we happily sipped local brews and compared notes.

With so many people now wearing their blue and gold finisher’s shirt, the area looked like a convention of Boston Marathon wannabes, myself included. Otter was all smiles when he joined us, and though his second marathon of the weekend had hit a few more rough patches than Dan’s, he’d earned his medal like everyone else. And his ills were nothing an IPA or two couldn’t smooth over.

Otter, Dan Solera and Mike Sohaskey... celebrating completion of Portland Marathon 2013

Otter, Dan and me… nobody told me to bring my own box to stand on

After following Dan’s Marathon for the past year and Otter’s I Drank For Miles in recent months, and after seeing so many photos from so many places, I got a kick out of finally matching voices to faces and personalities to blog posts. And at 6’0”, it was one of the few times I’ve ever felt legitimately short. Congrats to both of them on an amazing athletic feat… on amazing athletic feet. I do relish the mind games of running, and theirs is an accomplishment that’s just crazy enough to have set my own mental gears in motion.

That evening we continued the celebration over a satisfying dinner at Deschutes Brewery & Public House in the Pearl District of Portland. Both conversation and drinks flowed easily, as though among old friends who simply hadn’t seen each other in a while. The discussion centered around all things running, but it didn’t stop there, and I was reminded that runners are some of the most genuine and sociable people you’d ever want to meet. My head hit the pillow that night wishing I’d had more time to get to know these guys. Hopefully I’ll have that chance – and in the meantime, I’ll keep reading to see what crazy shit they talk each other into next.

Once I’d had a chance to ice my legs and clear my mind, I had to admit – the weekend had come up roses. Portland lived up to its reputation as a clean, green progressive machine. The city had admirably hosted a marathon that, while not exactly scenic, provided a solid urban challenge. And despite a two-week training hiatus, I’d run my second-fastest marathon on a relatively hilly course, and learned a valuable lesson about relying on pacers (i.e. don’t do it).

When I wasn’t running, we’d reunited with old friends and rendezvoused with new ones. I’d met a bigger-than-life yet decidedly down-to-earth icon whose name is synonymous with American distance running. And in a town maybe best known for its persistent precipitation, we hadn’t once opened our umbrella.

All told, I’d call it a pretty successful weekend along the Willamette, damn it.

Powell’s Books is the de facto center of Portland’s cultural universe

BOTTOM LINE: Portland is a beautiful city when the sun is shining. And while October isn’t the driest month in the Pacific Northwest, Les Smith claimed in his October Newsletter and Pre-Event Instructions that only once in his 33 years as Race Director had it rained on race day. So chances are good you’ll get as lucky as we did. I’d like to run every race Oregon has to offer, since much of the state is a trail runner’s paradise… but if road running is more your forte, I’d recommend Portland as a worthwhile urban footrace. And I’d recommend you not underestimate those harmless-looking hills on the course map.

PRODUCTION: Overall, the Portland Marathon was well organized and well executed. For the most part, I enjoyed marathon weekend and my 3 hour 30 minute tour of the city. The race medal is stylish (see below) in a “military service medal” sort of way, and the inclusion of two race shirts – one for registrants and another for finishers, both attractive, high-quality offerings from Leslie Jordan – was a very nice touch. That said, I’d suggest a few changes to make the weekend even better:

First, the out-and-back through the train yards along NW Front Avenue is an uninspiring eyesore, a reaction I heard from several runners after the race. In a city as green and picturesque as Portland, it’s unclear (aside from convenience) why the organizers settled on this 4½-mile stretch of industrial badlands.

Second, the aid stations in Portland featured gummy bears as their primary source of carbs. Yes, gummy bears – a great choice if my 5-year-old nephew is running your race. Unfortunately, it’s not like you can pop a gummy bear in your mouth and let it dissolve over the next ½ mile. It’s hard enough for many runners to stomach energy gels, let alone a tiny pencil eraser. And the last thing anyone needs at mile 20 of a marathon is a snack food that fights back. So please Portland, talk to the folks at Gu, or Clif, or PowerBar, or Accel Gel, or Stinger, or any of a hundred honey companies before next year’s race.

One last on-course item: this isn’t a big deal for me since I always judge mileage by the twitter (not Twitter) of my Garmin, but the mileage markers were consistently short for most of the course. One surprised runner asked, as we passed the mile 1 marker, “How far is this marathon?” Only in the last five miles or so did the markers more or less sync with my Garmin.

Swag-wise, the two t-shirts and finisher’s medal are nice keepsakes, but I’m less sold on the finisher’s coin and mini-me medal. While I appreciate the sentiment, I certainly don’t need more stuff, and I’m quite sure I’ll never again open those velvet pouches.

And finally the expo, held in the basement of the Portland Hilton, was organized (or disorganized, as it were) in a convoluted maze of rooms that made the whole thing difficult to negotiate. I was never quite sure which aisles I’d already strolled and which booths I’d already passed. In the end though (or was it the beginning?), the circuitous route was worth navigating for the chance to meet Bill Rodgers.

2013 Portland Marathon Medal

FINAL STATS:
October 6, 2013
26.3 miles in Portland, OR (State 5 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 3:30:27 (first time running the Portland Marathon), 8:02/mile
Finish place: 610/6958 overall, 77/524 in M(40-44) age group
Race weather: sunny and cool (starting temp 39°F), with an intermittent breeze
Elevation change (Garmin Connect): 728ft ascent, 742ft descent (compared to 121ft, 119ft at Chicago)

Running’s final frontier: Mind games and the two-hour marathon

Posted: September 27, 2013 in CATCH-ALL
Tags: Alberto Salazar, brain imaging, brain training, David Eagleman, exercise science, longreads, Matt Fitzgerald, MRI, perception of effort, Roger Bannister, run through it, Samuele Marcora, Steve Prefontaine, two-hour marathon

If you got a weak brain and a narrow mind, the world gonna leave you way behind.
– Willie Dixon

As a runner, it helps to have a really good brain on your shoulders

It’s late June, though it could just as easily be October or February. After all, the concept of seasons is largely an abstract one in Southern California. A light but steady breeze – a product of Venice High School’s proximity to the ocean – complements a stunning azure sky interspersed with sparse white clouds that seem the floating remnants of shredded cotton balls. It’s a perfect day to be outside… and a perfect day to be outside running.

Certain members of the Venice High Gondoliers football team may not agree. On the unkempt grassy field encircled by an unmarked dirt running track, sweat-soaked teenage boys in oversized navy-and-white practice jerseys run short sprints of ~20 yards each. This will be the last drill of today’s practice, and if body language is any indication, for many in this weary group the end can’t come soon enough. Players cross the finish line and then circle back slowly in an effort to secure as much rest as possible before repeating the ordeal. Hands rest on knees and faces contort in fatigued grimaces, as varsity hopefuls await their turn in perpetually moving lines that offer little respite. Two drill sergeants coaches oversee the operation – the first launches each wave of sprinters with a clipped “Go!” while the second stands at the 20-yard mark, urging his charges across the finish line with three strong-throated syllables: “Run through it!”

From my vantage point on the dusty track, rounding a turn on one of my drawn-out recovery laps, the scene feels awfully familiar. Adolescent memories harken me back to stifling summer days spent enduring similar {ahem} character-building experiences under the watchful eye of a questionably qualified coach. But what arouses my interest here isn’t nostalgia – it’s that barked command that awaits each group of sprinters at the finish line: Run through it! Three words that some kids take to heart, leaning forward and jutting their chest out as if to break an imaginary tape, whereas others clearly take their foot off the gas after no more than 15 yards.

It’s doubtful I’ve ever used the terms “high school coach” and “thought-provoking” in the same sentence – growing up in Texas, my 9^th grade basketball coach clumsily sliced off three of his toes while mowing his lawn. But like Valvoline for the brain, that single coaching directive – Run through it! – lubricates my mental gears and gets me thinking:

Why do some runners attack the finish line like shark on seal, while others falter much earlier in the race? Why don’t we all “run through it”?

The mind is a powerful thing. It can take you through walls. – Denis Avey
Runners love their motivational quotes about always giving 100% (or for the mathematically challenged, 110%). But as inspiring as this sentiment is, the reality is that most of us will never come close. And that reality is a major reason why, in the hearts and minds of the running community, the legends of Alberto Salazar and Steve Prefontaine continue to grow long after the end of their storied racing careers.

Salazar – widely regarded as one of the greatest marathoners (and now coaches) of all time – was once read his last rites prematurely after collapsing at the finish line of the 7-mile Falmouth Road Race with a body temperature of 107°F. Salazar was able to filter out pain and push through perceived limits to an extent that very few runners can. Indeed, it was in large part this unwillingness to heed his own physiological signals that short-circuited his racing career due to illness, injury and burnout after his “Duel in the Sun” victory at the 1982 Boston Marathon at age 24.

Similarly, Prefontaine – whose competitive drive remains the stuff of legend 38 years after his premature death at age 24 – once famously said:

A lot of people run a race to see who is fastest. I run to see who has the most guts, who can punish himself into exhausting pace, and then at the end, punish himself even more…. Someone may beat me, but they’re going to have to bleed to do it.

And Pre was the authority on guts, having held the U.S. record at all seven track and field distances ranging from 2,000m to 10,000m. Clearly both men recognized mental fortitude (or “guts”) as their competitive advantage, an advantage they’d use to claim psychological victory over an exhausted opponent before ever reaching the finish line. An advantage they’d use to run through it.

So then is it the case that these two simply trained harder and were more genetically gifted than the rest of us, enabling them to dominate their competition? No doubt that’s a big part of it. But aside from easily defined measurables like lactate threshold and VO₂ max, it was each man’s immeasurable psychological edge that ensured his eventual rise from “runner” to “champion” to “legend”.

Salazar and Pre’s singular ability to reach deep and run through it raises a tantalizing question: what if our own inability to push beyond perceived limits is based on a clever lie, meticulously crafted by our brains over evolutionary time scales, and fraught with lactic acid demons and muscle depolarizing goblins?

In effect, what if our brain is running the show? What might be possible, in terms of athletic performance, if we can override its self-imposed limits? Because recent evidence suggests an inconvenient truth of exercise physiology – namely, that the body has more to give than the mind is willing to admit.

Although originally drawn as “The Gout” in 1799, with a little imagination this could be a lactic acid demon

Reality leaves a lot to the imagination. – John Lennon
In his book Incognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain, neuroscientist David Eagleman makes a compelling case for the dominant role of the subconscious mind in our everyday lives. Eagleman cites both experimental and anecdotal evidence to argue that the subconscious mind is the engine that drives our decision-making and which enables the entire machine to run smoothly. He writes:

Our brains run mostly on autopilot, and the conscious mind has little access to the giant and mysterious factory that runs below it…. The truth is that it’s better this way. Consciousness can take all the credit it wants, but it is best left at the sidelines for most of the decision-making that cranks along in your brain.

Extending Eagleman’s argument to running performance yields the provocative notion that the final frontier in exercise science may well be our ability to harness the power of our own subconscious… and to use that power to regulate the flow of information between mind and body.

Samuele Marcora would likely agree. Dr. Marcora studies fatigue and endurance performance as Director of Research at the University of Kent School of Sport & Exercise Sciences. His research into the causes of fatigue in endurance athletes have led him to conclude that rather than effort itself, it is the psychological perception of effort which induces athletes to quit before their physiological well runs dry. “Perception of effort” is basically a euphemism for “level of suffering,” so runners ultimately stop running not when they experience muscle fatigue, but when they feel they’ve suffered enough. By extension, anything that lowers perception of effort – smarter training, superior genetics, forgoing those last five beer-battered onion rings, etc. – will increase the likelihood of reaching the finish line faster.

Other observations, scientific and otherwise, support the “perception of effort” hypothesis. Negative thoughts and facial grimaces while running lead to a greater feeling of fatigue than a positive mindset and relaxed countenance. Running against competition raises one’s pain threshold compared to running alone. We’ve all experienced the “end spurt” phenomenon, that lactate-infused dash to the finish in the home stretch of a race. And most men can vouch for the fact that their mental fatigue and perception of effort both decrease dramatically under the watchful eye of an attractive female.

I don’t have far to look for my own practical example. The final interval of my speedwork sessions is usually faster than it has any right to be. Instead of reflecting a predictable deterioration in performance consistent with muscle fatigue, my last interval is frequently the fastest of the bunch. And that only makes sense if I’m (consciously or otherwise) holding something back – “chickening out” as Matt Fitzgerald bluntly puts it – to prevent the all-out suffering that would accompany an all-out effort. But once the imaginary coach in my head snaps “Go!” to start that final interval, all bets are off – because the sooner I reach the finish line, the sooner it will all be over. And the sooner those dissident voices in my head can turn their attention to dinner.

Now that we understand what “perception of effort” means and why it matters, what do we do with that information? One quote from Dr. Marcora’s 2010 interview with Fitzgerald sticks with me like mental mucilage: “If you didn’t have perception of effort, you could run your marathon much faster, definitely!”

So naturally the question becomes… how much faster? Fast enough for an elite runner to, say, run a marathon in less than two hours?

Deserving cover boys Roger Bannister (1955), Steve Prefontaine (1970) and Alberto Salazar (1980)

Physiology always wins the day. – Ross Tucker, Jonathan Dugas and Matt Fitzgerald (p. 187).
No question sparks a more lively debate among hardcore runners than “Will someone break the two-hour marathon barrier in our lifetime?” (although the prospect of a woman chasing the four-minute mile is intriguing in its own right). In many minds, the word “barrier” aptly describes the potential for a two-hour marathon performance. And while no less a runner than Ryan Hall believes it can be done, many well-reasoned data-driven arguments suggest it won’t… at least not anytime soon. Arguments citing the undeniable fact that no runner has ever clocked a sub-hour split – much less two – in the marathon, despite this having happened 178 times (for 89 different runners) at the half marathon distance. Arguments suggesting that marathon times have more or less plateaued, and that the world record is gradually approaching the uninspiring limit of… 2:02:43. And arguments pointing to the requisite (and admittedly mind-blowing) 5K and 10K “equivalent performances” as proof that a sub-two marathon ain’t happening in our lifetimes.

Granted a sub-two marathon doesn’t feel imminent – the current world record, set by Patrick Makau at the 2011 Berlin Marathon, stands at 2:03:38. Given that the record has dropped by only 2:27 in the past 15 years, two hours still feels like a distant target. Then again, nobody expected Paula Radcliffe to shatter the women’s world record by nearly 3-1/2 minutes when she clocked an astonishing 2:15:25 at London in 2003. But two analyses published in the Journal of Applied Physiology – one from University of Montreal mathematicians François Péronnet and Guy Thibault, and the other from Mayo Clinic physiologist Michael Joyner and colleagues – do foresee the marathon world record falling below two hours by 2040. And several of Hall’s elite colleagues – including U.S. teammate Meb Keflezighi, former world-record holder Haile Gebrselassie and London course-record holder Emmanuel Mutai – agree it’s not a matter of if, but when the two-hour mark will fall.

So then if you’re scoring at home, weighing the pros and cons of each side’s argument and taking all the data into account, the answer to whether we’ll see a two-hour marathon in our lifetime is a categorical, rock-solid maybe.

But keep in mind… before that spring day in 1954, when Roger Bannister ran four laps around a cinder track in 3:59.4, the four-minute mile was considered by many an insurmountable barrier. Turns out that barrier was actually more of a hurdle, and the floodgates were open – Bannister’s record quickly fell to Australian John Landy 46 days later, after which the mile record time would drop four more times in just over a decade. Clearly the four-minute mile “barrier” was more mental than physical.

As you can see, a two-hour marathon is on the horizon (distance measured in SoCal units; updated 28 Sept 2014)

That’s your best friend and your worst enemy – your own brain. – Fred Durst
All that said, the future – the real future – of exercise physiology doesn’t lie in incremental improvements to our VO₂ max or our running economy. It doesn’t lie in thrice-weekly interval workouts, or healthier eating, or improved stretching techniques, or radical advances in footwear technology, or increasingly elaborate (and expensive) tools for monitoring heart rate and metabolite levels… though these familiar themes should continue to keep Runner’s World in circulation.

Likewise, it doesn’t lie in bigger, better and harder-to-detect supplements that target every organ below the neck – supplements like erythropoietin (EPO) to produce more red blood cells, human growth hormone to increase muscle mass and speed healing, amphetamines and other stimulants (55-Hour Energy?), plus masking agents to dilute ‘em out and decrease the chances of getting caught. The introduction of the “biological passport” that ultimately led to Lance Armstrong’s downfall makes conventional performance-enhancing drugs a much riskier proposition for elite athletes.

No, my expectation is that the real future of exercise science lies not so much in the heart, lungs and legs (though we’ll want to hold on to those), but in the ability to modulate our perception of effort. If I may redirect the wisdom of former U.S. Defense Secretary and noted non-brain surgeon Donald Rumsfeld, the human brain is an untapped treasure trove of “known unknowns… things that we now know we don’t know.” But even more alluring to me are the brain’s “unknown unknowns… things we do not know we don’t know.” And while well-respected authors such as Matt Fitzgerald and Tim Noakes offer practical guidance on how we can train our brains to improve running performance today, I’m more intrigued by the boundless promise of tomorrow. Because as neuroscientists roll up their sleeves and poke around under the hood, what they learn about the brain will have game-changing implications for the future of the sport.

Luckily, cutting-edge approaches – non-invasive imaging technologies together with President Obama’s recently unveiled BRAIN Initiative to map the human brain – should offer a wealth of insight into how three pounds of squishy pink biomass governs athletic performance. Because if we’re to keep pushing the limits of human endurance, we need to know which regions of the brain control each stage of the race-day experience – from pre-race anxiety to onset of fatigue to post-race euphoria – and which neurons fire when we’re nervous, or relaxed, or focused, or overheated, or exhausted, or triumphant.

(This isn’t wishful head-in-the-clouds thinking on my part: similar brain-imaging studies are already being used to map the neural circuits that underlie feeding behavior, with the long-term goal of combating the nation’s obesity epidemic.)

With that toolkit of knowledge in hand the real fun begins, as neuroscientists and exercise physiologists fine-tune their neural tinkering in an attempt to manipulate – via drugs, electrical stimulation, meditation, or other – the pain-and-pleasure center of the brain. To limber up the limbic system, as it were. Because what if – to take the mechanic analogy one step further – we could disable the catalytic converter in our own brains? Might we desensitize our perception of effort, and coax out just enough of a performance boost for us to run our fastest mile, our best 10K, our speediest marathon? For an elite runner with world-class training and resources to run a sub-2 marathon? What a brave new world of performance enhancement that would be.

Brain imaging is the future of exercise science (MRI scans courtesy of Dana-Farber Cancer Institute)

Never was anything great achieved without danger. – Niccolò Machiavelli
This is a high-risk, high-reward proposition. To the victor go the spoils, and the first marathoner to break the tape in less than two hours – whether American (though probably not), British, Kenyan, Ethiopian, Eritrean or a citizen of Atlantis – undoubtedly will write his own ticket. The running community and the world at large will rightly genuflect before their modern-day Roger Bannister. Who knows, ESPN may even break into its own brain-draining Tiger Woods or New York Jets coverage to report the story! Or, it may not.

But the greatest resistance to a two-hour marathon will come between the ears of the person running it. Because like any good police force, the job of the mind is to protect and serve. And for that purpose it deploys powerful feedback mechanisms – mechanisms such as pacing, perception of effort and “anticipatory regulation” (discussed by Tucker, Dugas and Fitzgerald) – as protective strategies to keep the body from burning out five miles short of the finish line. Therefore, striving to override these mechanisms – or even tweak them – may be asking for trouble, and may even jeopardize racing careers in the same way that Alberto Salazar’s maniacal training regimen undermined his own.

In any case, physiological limits eventually collide with cold hard reality… all the motivational tools in the shed won’t help you beat a cheetah in the 100-yard dash. And it may ultimately be those physical limitations, including the body’s capacity to offset excessive heat production with sufficient heat loss, that determine if and when a human being runs 26.2 miles in less than two hours… and whether they’re still standing for the post-race interview. But one day, and hopefully in my lifetime, some supremely focused runner with a high-altitude background and the mental wherewithal of Bannister, or Salazar, or Prefontaine, will step up and make a legitimate bid for running immortality. And my guess is that when that happens, the operative word of the day will be “headstrong”.

Because if neuroscience has taught us anything, it’s that deceiving is believing. And with the right combination of physical stamina and mental fortitude, it’s only a matter of time before someone looks the two-hour marathon barrier straight in the eye, and refuses to blink. Before someone runs her mile in less than four minutes. Before someone does the seemingly impossible. Before someone runs through it.

But they still won’t give 110%.

What do YOU think is the limiting factor for a sub-2-hour marathon? And how do you envision the future of exercise science?

For a fantastic “State of the Union” on the two-hour marathon debate, check out this recent post on Dan’s Marathon.

And for those readers living in 2030, keep your eye on Berlin this weekend.

E.T. Full Moon Midnight Marathon (NV)

Posted: August 30, 2013 in 50 States, Marathons, RACE REPORTS
Tags: 50 States, Area 51, Calico Racing, Extraterrestrial Highway, Las Vegas, Little A'Le'Inn, night running, Rachel NV, running injuries, sprained ankle, X-Files

With the marathon, even if you’re hurting, it’s like, ‘Well, I’ve come all this way. Unless there’s a bone poking out, I might as well finish.’
– Al Roker, cohost of The Today Show

Clearly they see it too, because the voices now are impossible to ignore. Once a barely perceptible pinpoint in the distance, the dazzling and ever-expanding glow that beckons on the horizon now threatens – no, promises – to vanquish the seemingly infinite darkness of the Nevada desert. And the voices heed its call, compelling me onward like a single-minded moth toward a seductive flame. Move forward, into the Light, the all-knowing all-seeing all-caring Light… release your tension, confront your pain, let Its radiance guide you, yes that’s it! feel Its warmth sustain you, Its compassion embrace you, Its omnipotence protect you…. I cross the threshold from dark into light, wholly surrendering both mind and body to the indescribable relief that floods every synapse. Squinting into the soft resplendence, my gaze is met by an unblinking pair of impassive black eyes set in a featureless green, unside-down teardrop of a face. Certainly the face isn’t human, nor had I expected it to be. Yet fear, like darkness, has no place here. The wide, expressionless eyes gaze silently up at me while the soothing voices in my head continue to reassure me – Welcome home, your long journey’s over, it’s time to heal. My outstretched hand gently caresses the other-worldly face in an awkward mix of exhaustion and wonderment. I step forward unsteadily, into the light and beyond.

∞

Little green men in the Silver State
I’m no fan of Las Vegas, but I understand its allure… who isn’t instinctively attracted to bright and shiny? And if bright and shiny appeals to you, then no place rivals the neon-powered spectacle of The Strip at night. If tackled with the right group of friends, Vegas can be a genuinely fun place… but then, even the DMV can be a fun place with the right group of friends. With each successive visit, Sin City feels more and more like a high-mileage, weather-beaten Volvo that’s spent the past 20 years parked along the curb, collecting layer upon gradual layer of dirt, pollen and neglect. Throw in some spinning rims and purple neon undercarriage lighting, and that’s how I view Vegas. Or in snacking terms, Las Vegas to me is that second donut, with the electric thrill of anticipation quickly mutating into the sickening aftershock of reality.

Behold! the spectacle of Seizure City (photo credit TakeTours)

Hey brainiac, here’s a novel concept: stay away. And gladly I would, but where gambling outsiders like me hit the jackpot is in the city’s proximity – to Hoover Dam, to Red Rocks Canyon, to several National Parks, and to the barely-there town of Rachel, NV, site of last weekend’s E.T. Full Moon Midnight Marathon, organized by the folks at Calico Racing.

Why the E.T. Marathon? And why now? For two reasons: first, Chuck and Laura had run the race back in 2008 and highly recommended it. And second, given that my 2013 racing schedule had already morphed somehow into my own personal X Games – sub-freezing temperatures and icy conditions in my first two races, record-high temperatures in my next – I figured what better place to continue the “extreme” theme than in the midnight darkness of the Nevada desert. With one slight caveat: since the race each year is scheduled to coincide with the full moon (hence the name), we wouldn’t be running in total blackness.

I’ve never been what I’d call an alien aficionado. I find the subject of little green men more amusing than anything, although the presumption that we’re alone in the universe strikes me as naïve hubris. During graduate school, I discovered and watched every episode from the first seven seasons of The X-Files, with its spooky (at the time) taglines of “Trust No One” and “The Truth Is Out There.” Over time, though, my dedication to the show grew in spite of rather than because of its alien conspiracy storyline, which eventually took on an absurd life of its own. In any case, to this running aficionado the prospect of running under a canopy of stars and by the light of the full moon while dodging alien tractor beams promised a compelling and one-of-its-kind race experience. Not to mention a pretty cool medal.

So it was that Katie and I found ourselves – after narrowly escaping the crush of Friday afternoon L.A. traffic – cruising northeast along I-15N, through the no-man’s-land of unincorporated California and on the boundary of the Mojave National Preserve. Like most interstates, I-15N doubles as a steel-belted graveyard, and out here the mangled roadkill of blown tires littered the highway like neglected rubber corpses. As the temperature outside the car hovered near 110°F, I was surprised by the lack of heat haze rising up from the pavement, a constant from so many childhood summers spent driving under the blistering sun of hot and humid Texas.

The world’s tallest non-functioning digital thermometer in Baker, CA

We’d broken up the drive with a pitstop for gas in Baker, CA, home of the world’s tallest thermometer, an uninspiring and nonfunctional 134-foot-tall landmark built to commemorate the nation’s record-high temperature of 134°F, set in Death Valley in 1913. As if to apologize for such a lame tourist attraction, Baker paid for half our tank of gas when Katie found an orphaned $20 bill on the floor of the gas station convenience store. Returning to the car, and anticipating our upcoming arrival in the Silver State, I brought up a playlist from Sin City’s own house band, The Killers. We then hopped back on the highway and 45 minutes later crossed the border into Primm, NV, where the first of many oversized neon casino signs offered a garish reminder of what awaited us on a much larger scale in Vegas.

Thirty minutes later, we exited the highway and rolled onto the Vegas Strip, center stage in America’s own Theatre of the Absurd. Thanks to the generosity of Katie’s parents, our base of operations would be centrally located Caesar’s Palace. After arriving too late to meet several members of our Antarctica contingent for dinner, we carbo-loaded on our own and then wandered among the urban gristle of the Strip before heading up to our room for the night. “Absurd” is trying to exercise self-discipline and conserve energy in Las Vegas. In August. Welcome to the No Fun Zone.

On Saturday, anticipating the day to come, we made ourselves stay in bed until nearly 1:00pm, then ate a quick lunch and headed over to the race expo at the Hard Rock Hotel. I use the word “expo” because that’s how it was billed, though the entirety consisted of several folding tables on which were stacked registration materials, goodie bags and exterrestrial merchandise/souvenirs. At a smaller table next to the door sat a fellow selling high density foam rollers. Even factoring in the time required for mandatory alien photos, we were in and out of the expo in ten minutes, and were again disappointed not to encounter any of our Antarctica colleagues. From there we returned to our hotel room, where we packed and repacked, checked and double-checked everything we’d need for the long night ahead. After a quick pasta dinner (carbo-loading session #2), we joined our compression-clad kindred spirits outside the Hard Rock Hotel, as boarding of the buses began for a 2.5-hour ride into the heart of darkness.

Leaving Las Vegas
An hour later, Katie and I sat side by side and lost in thought at the back of a dark and quiet bus bound for the outskirts of Rachel NV, population 54. Despite its small size, Rachel has large street cred among extraterrestrial hunters as the township closest to Area 51, the mecca for UFO aficionados. And the timing for this race would be perfect – with the U.S. Government officially acknowledging the existence of Area 51 earlier in the week, I figured UFO sightings in the skies above Rachel would be plentiful, as extraterrestrials staged their own long-awaited “coming out” party. Adding to my anticipation was the recent experience of NBA player Baron Davis, who insisted just last month that he’d been “actually abducted by aliens” while driving alone from Las Vegas to Los Angeles. All’s well that ends well, though, since apparently Baron was able to calm his nerves at In-N-Out Burger after his gracious hosts dropped him back to Earth in Montebello, CA.

Admittedly, my real fear about running through Area 51 was that I’d end up like Cartman:

Once on the highway we’d quickly left behind the billboard advertisements for vasectomies, hangover cures and pole-dancing classes, and had transitioned into darkness interrupted only by the occasional pair of oncoming headlights, the Christmas tree-like incandescence of the sporadic refinery, or the distant bolt of lightning greeting arid desert terrain. I’d momentarily regretted boarding one of the “chatty” (vs. “quiet”) buses when the two fellows in the seat behind us began to discuss loudly and in graphic detail the plot progression of Breaking Bad. Admittedly it’s my fault I’m five seasons behind and have yet to watch a single episode, but I do intend to watch the entire series at some point, and so I quickly jammed in my iPod earbuds to stem the tide of plot spoilers.

As our bus hummed smoothly along through the desert darkness, round overhead lights spaced at regular intervals bathed the upholstered seats in a soft green glow and cast each passenger in a Hulk-ish sheen. Enhancing this effect was the neon green compression wear sported by many of our fellow passengers. Though I myself wouldn’t be decked out in full alien regalia, I’d be tipping my LED-equipped cap to our otherworldly homies by running the (Area) 51K rather than the shorter marathon distance. This only seemed right… if the race had been held around San Francisco’s Candlestick Park, I would’ve chosen to run the 49K.

Approaching our destination on Nevada Highway 375 – rebranded as the “Exterrestrial Highway” in 1996 – our human driver kept the crowded vehicle well below the unofficial speed limit of Warp 7. At last the bus slowed to a halt, signaling an end to this leg of the journey and the start of the next. Both literal and figurative electricity filled the suddenly lively bus, as anxious and excited runners decked out in blinking, flashing multihued running apparel stretched their legs, gathered their belongings, and prepared for what promised to be, one way or another, an out-of-this-world race.

Mike Sohaskey at start of E.T. Full Moon Midnight Marathon 2013

Countdown to midnight: All dressed up and nowhere to glow

We deboarded just before 11:30pm. Diffusing away from the glare of bus headlights and into the shadows, I made my way toward the very manageable lines forming in front of the eight porta-potties. After that mandatory stop I triple-checked my gear and nutrition, reminding myself where I’d stashed everything in the UltrAspire Alpha hydration pack I’d purchased two days earlier. I’d decided to leave the bladder reservoir in the hotel room and use the pack strictly to carry bottles and gels, since the Alpha allows easy access to its front pockets without having to physically remove the pack.

I’d be carrying two bottles, one filled with Skratch Labs hydration mix and the other with Skratch Labs powder sans water, which I planned to fill once I emptied the first. Normally one bottle would be plenty, particularly for a road race, but on this night my nemesis and leading sponsor Hammer Labs would be stocking all aid stations with their unpalatable HEED drink. I assume they chose a midnight race so that runners wouldn’t see what they were drinking; in any case, I decided to play it safe and carry my own concoction.

Two water bottles? check. Headlamp? check. Blinking red light to give those behind me something to chase? check. Garmin on and satellites found? check. Green glow bracelet? check. And iPod just in case those last few miles got really lonely and I needed a musical pick-me-up? check. I was ready-ish. With that, Katie and I wished each other luck, and she boarded the 11:45pm bus that would transport her to the finish line, where her 10K race – an out-and-back course that would double as the last 6.2 miles of the marathon – was scheduled to begin at 1:00am.

Black Mailbox at start of E.T. Full Moon Midnight Marathon 2013

Do not adjust your monitor: this is the Black Mailbox that stands at the marathon/51K start line

I spent the remaining few minutes before midnight wandering through the sporadically lit start area, searching in vain for the five members of our Antarctica expedition who I knew to be running the marathon. How could finding five people in a crowd of less than 200 – even in these dimly lit conditions – be so difficult? That failure behind me, I mulled over my race goals one last time. By simply finishing I’d shatter my previous 50K PR, a sun-baked 6:33:45 set at the Harding Hustle 50K in June. That, barring an alien abduction, was more or less a given. But my unspoken (mainly because no one had asked) goal-that-must-not-be-named was an ambitious yet realistic five hours, a 9:27/mile pace. It was a goal I wanted, and even in the lingering heat and nearly mile-high elevation, one I should be able to attain.

My glow bracelet popped off my wrist as race director Joyce gathered us around for her prerace announcements, the highlight of which was her congratulating one runner on this being her 200^th marathon (cue well-deserved applause). Then without further ado Joyce wished us luck, counted down the seconds… and as the calendar flipped over to Sunday, the 7^th annual E.T. Marathon was underway!

The dark night rises
All race distances would overlap and run similar courses along the Extraterrestrial Highway. With no turns other than the 51K turnaround at mile 26, the course would be among the straightest (and most straightforward) I’d ever run. Or so I thought until, less than 100 yards from the start line, my iPod bounced out of the front pocket of my shorts and clattered to the pavement. Quickly reversing course, I swept it up and jammed it in my calf compression sleeve before the oncoming stampede of runners could bear down on me. So much for that genius idea… mental note: never again with the iPod.

Almost immediately I could feel the dryness of our surroundings in my parched throat, and by the first mile marker I could already feel myself sweating more than usual courtesy of the 88°F desert heat. Luckily a cool intermittent headwind kept the night pleasant and my mind focused. As I ran hugging the shoulder on the left side of the highway, my shadow ran alongside me in the left lane thanks to the full moon, which sat low on the western horizon. As appealing as the idea of running by moonlight might sound, the idea of treading on an unseen rattlesnake sounded significantly less appealing, and ‘twas the latter concern that kept me running diligently in the arc of light created by my headlamp. Under the faint glow of the moon, and with nothing but time to let your mind run wild, every tar snake on the highway might as well be the real thing.

Other than the occasional wafting odor of cow manure, I’d encounter no sign of non-human animalia, alive or dead, along the course. And for natural scenery, the rolling hills silhouetted against the moonlight on either side of the highway would have to do. Apart from the blinking, glowing and flashing of other runners, this would (not surprisingly) be one of the less visually satisfying races on record.

I reminded myself to blink frequently and not fixate on the arc of my headlamp. During the Davis (CA) Moo-nlight Half Marathon three years earlier, I’d become so entranced by the beam of light directed at my feet that my left contact lens had dried up and popped out of my eye, forcing me to run the last ½ mile or so with my desiccated contact stuck to the eyelashes of my lower eyelid. Battling a left eye that in its uncorrected state is only slightly more functional than a marble, I’d accelerated along the final darkened straightaway in a half-blind haze, as if someone had covered my world in a thin layer of Vaseline. Amazingly, after crossing the finish line I’d recovered the contact which had remained stuck to my eyelid, and popped it back in without further incident. “I was wondering why you made such a wide and wobbly arc coming around that last turn,” Katie later admitted.

Back to the Nevada desert, and after five miles of what felt like comfortably strong pacing on a slight uphill, the highway began a more pronounced ascent that seemed to steepen once I passed the mile 11 marker. I knew from the course profile that this ascent – a climb from 4,523ft at the start to just over 5,600ft climb at mile 12.8 – would be the “gut check” miles, after which the course would change trajectory and carry us back downhill to mile 20 (and for half marathoners, the finish line).

Somewhere near mile 9, I began to pass the brightly lit and colorfully costumed back-of-the-pack half marathoners, a welcome distraction from the dark and quiet sameness of the first eight miles. I allowed myself a celebratory moment as I passed the double-digit mark at mile 10, and continued to maintain a solid pace as I chugged up the hill, the density of half marathoners increasing as I neared the summit.

As I reached the peak at Coyote Summit, the course changed trajectory, and my downhill muscle groups gradually awakened to the joys of eccentric loading. Two other runners flew by me on the right and were quickly engulfed by darkness. At the same time I struggled to pull back on the reins and control my downward momentum after 13 miles of uphill running. Somewhere along the way I made my second aid station pitstop of the night for water, thanked the faceless volunteers, and before I knew it the mile 16 marker was bathed in the harsh glow of my headlamp. Halfway home! Despite the 13-mile ascent in my rearview mirror, I knew the second half of this 51K would be the toughest, as carbohydrate stores ran low and muscle fatigue set in.

I had no way of knowing that a mile later, I’d be longing for the simple discomforts of lactic acid buildup and carbohydrate depletion.

Katie after finishing E.T. Full Moon 10k

Triumphant 10K’er and alien bounty hunter Katie flashes her latest prey

Where ankles fear to tread (Down but not out)
Soon I crossed the first of two cattle guards, the left edge of which was covered with a slender wooden plank to allow runners across. I consider cattle guards a necessary evil… several can be found along the Nimitz Way trail in Berkeley’s Tilden Regional Park, and they’re the single biggest downside to trail running in Tilden. I’d hoped never to run across another cattle guard after leaving Berkeley – and now I remember why.

The second cattle guard appeared in the vicinity of mile 17. A reflective sign just before the guard warned of its existence, and I prepared to cross the wooden board in the same place as the first guard. Except the board wasn’t there, and my brain momentarily hiccuped as it registered that the board – roughly the same rust color as the guard – was displaced a couple of feet to the right relative to the first guard. I planted my left foot and cut sharply to my right in order to access the board and negotiate the guard.

And that was when my ankle – as well as my race – took a literal turn for the worst.

I’m no stranger to sprained ankles. Indeed, the sprained left ankle has been the bane of my running existence since high school basketball, and I’m well versed in the pain and shock that follow a tweaked ankle. I am, literally and figuratively, a loyal alum of RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation) University (go Owls!). But it had been at least two years since I’d last sprained an ankle, and I’d hoped that all my ankle strengthening exercises had signaled an end to the familiar treatment regimen that had become almost second nature.

The Little A'Le'Inn, a Rachel NV landmark, served as finish line for E.T. Full Moon Midnight Marathon

The Little A’Le’Inn, a Rachel landmark, awaits runners on the other side of the finish line

Given my history of ankle injuries, I knew I was in trouble even before I hit the ground on the opposite side of the cattle guard. But for the sake of both race and psyche my pride kicked in, and I immediately transitioned into denial mode, telling myself to “rub some dirt on it!” (coach speak) while at the same time trying to convince myself that 15 more miles was eminently do-able. As much as I wanted to hop over to the side of the road and collapse in a bitter heap, I knew from experience what the consequences of that decision would be – if I were to stop running even momentarily, the ankle would rapidly swell, I’d be unable to put any weight on it, and…

Through the rapidly descending fog of swirling emotions – pain wrapped in anger, swathed in disgust and shrouded in uncertainty – the decision was an easy one. I hadn’t driven over five hours by car, ridden another 2.5 hours by bus and completed 17 miles including 13 uphill, just so I could go home with my first-ever DNF (Did Not Finish). Truth be told, I still cringe at the thought of my tendinitis-induced DNS (Did Not Start) at Leadville last summer. No, I’d come to run. And barring the ankle coming detached from my leg and rolling off into the sagebrush, I planned to run across that finish line under my own power.

At the same time, I did intend to run – I had no interest in watching slower runners pass me by as I ambled along in “race-saver” mode and eventually finished well off my prerace goal of five hours. So as I fought my way forward, I focused all my remaining energy on maintaining my ~9:00/mile pace.

I rationalized my decision to continue by telling myself that I couldn’t very well stop running and just lie on the side of the road, staring at the stars and elevating my ankle until someone found me and drove me to the finish line. But as I concentrated on my footfall one uncomfortable step at a time, the conflicted voices in my head each argued its case, until finally my self-preservationist side struck a deal with my competitive side: I’d run the race, and I’d finish the race, but the race I’d run and finish would be the marathon, not the 51K. The marathon, to my mind, seemed a perfectly reasonable endpoint and the ideal compromise. And admittedly, I shed not a single tear at the realization that I wouldn’t have to run an extra 5.5 mind-numbing asphalt miles in the dark.

Hangin’ with the locals at the Little A’Le’Inn

In any case, this would be a different sort of challenge than any I’d faced before. And from the moment I staggered to my feet on the far side of that cattle guard, the tiresome distraction of running along a desert highway under a full moon gave way to a single-minded determination to keep going, to maintain pace, and to avoid another glitch. I had no idea how stable my ankle was or how long it would allow me to continue this charade. Worst case scenario would be the ankle calling it quits far from the finish, thereby ensuring a DNF and leaving me an easy target for an alien tractor beam. At the same time, I tried to find and focus on this cloud’s silver lining: Sure every step is painful… but at least it’s a consistent, reliable pain. Ok, so maybe more of a lead lining?

The unanticipated shock to my system also sent my in-race nutritional strategy out the window. My stomach was now in such upheaval that it was all I could do to stomach the occasional swallow from my bottle… and I knew I wouldn’t be needing any of the gels I’d brought along.

Reaching the brightly lit mile 20 marker, where the half marathoners turned in to the finish line, my headlamp momentarily blinded Katie, who was waiting on the side of the road to cheer me along. Being careful to let neither face nor gait betray my discomfort, I quickly informed her I’d decided to drop down to the marathon distance. She nodded in perplexed agreement, wished me good luck and off I went, one painful 10K out-and-back standing between me and rapture – as well as the blowback from one very pissed-off appendage.

Those final 6.2 miles were a hardcore lesson in perseverance, and I would have sworn that a sandbag now hung from my left knee. But as the field thinned out and the blackness of my surroundings became more complete, I was able to admire and appreciate the stunning celestial landscape that filled the canvas of the eastern sky. At last, here was the argument to be made for running in Rachel. The last 6 miles of a marathon is a difficult time to focus on anything, let alone our place in the universe, but only in Southern Utah and Yosemite National Park could I ever recall my naked eye wielding such power over the night sky. Keep going, the questionably supportive voices implored. You’re almost there.

Slowly, in what felt like the running equivalent of water torture, each successive mile ticked by (did those mile markers keep moving back?), as the heaviness in my ankle diffused up my leg and into my entire body. This was a very different “wall” than I’d hit in any previous race, but even so it was a wall… my brain knew it, my body knew it, and only a finish line at this point would shut them both up. And then it’s there, in the distance, undeniable and unwavering, a life-affirming beacon that draws closer with every edema-inducing step – my wish being granted.

Mike Sohaskey with his hard-earned medal after finishing E.T. Full Moon Midnight Marathon 2013

Ow my ankle ow my ankle – oh, is it picture time? No problem!

As the eventual 51K winner glides by me looking very much the gazelle that he is, I momentarily entertain the thought of chasing down the marathoner roughly 20 yards ahead of me. Stupid thought, I decide… what if he or she wants to race me to the finish? A shredded ankle and public humiliation, in one fell swoop! I must have sprained my brain on that cattle guard, too.

Release your tension, confront your pain, let Its radiance guide you, yes that’s it! feel Its warmth sustain you, Its compassion embrace you, Its omnipotence protect you…. Gingerly I make the right turn off the Extraterrestrial Highway, and 20 yards later I’m crossing the blue finish line mat, that symbolic threshold from dark into light. At the same time, I’m wholly surrendering both mind and body to the indescribable relief that floods every synapse. “3:56:40,” silently announces the impassive red-numbered clock timer above the finish line, in agreement with my Garmin. So at least I’ve avoided any “missing time” from a UFO encounter or alien abduction.

Squinting into the soft resplendence of finish-line lighting, my gaze is met by an unblinking pair of impassive black eyes set in a featureless green, unside-down teardrop of a face. Certainly the face isn’t human, nor had I expected it to be. Yet fear, like darkness, has no place here. Gratefully I accept the alien-head medal presented to me, and surrender the timing chip on my shoe to a second volunteer. The wide, expressionless eyes on the medal gaze silently up at me while the soothing voices in my head continue to reassure me – Welcome home, your long journey’s over, it’s time to heal. My outstretched hand gently caresses the otherworldly face in an awkward mix of exhaustion and wonderment. Was it worth it? I ask myself in that same moment, though I have no doubt it was. I step forward unsteadily, into the light and beyond.

Nothing could be finer than to see the finish line-a in the morning
(with a tip of the cap to Gus Kahn and Walter Donaldson)

What happens in Rachel…
As usual, Katie’s smiling face and boisterous cheers greeted me as I crossed the finish line. She’d had a strong race of her own, running the entire 10K and surpassing her goal of 80 minutes with a finish time of 1:16:51. Given the darkness, the warm conditions and the fact that she hadn’t run as much as four miles since 2011, it was an impressive performance. And she admitted to being glad she’d run, rather than riding the bus as a spectator or even staying behind in Vegas.

She couldn’t have been as glad as I was. Because I knew that for my crippled ankle, what happened in Rachel would not stay in Rachel. After letting the official timer know I’d dropped from the 51K to the marathon, I confessed my predicament to Katie and hobbled over to the folding tables set up in the finish area just outside the Little A’Le’Inn (say it aloud), a three-room motel, souvenir shop and restaurant that serves as the hub of Rachel’s tourist traffic. And there I collapsed in a chair, where highly competent EMTs mobilized by Katie wrapped my foot and ankle in a large ice pack held awkwardly in place by several iterations of tape. The human body, it occurred to me as they worked, isn’t conveniently built for icing. Thanks again, fellas! Much appreciated.

After 20 minutes I removed the ice pack and, in an effort to increase my comfort level, lay flat on my back on the graveled concrete with my ankle propped up on a chair. The ankle was now throbbing aggressively – even the most short-lived comfort was illusory, and I being to shiver violently in a brutal mix of residual chill from the ice pack, and shock at the damage I’d knowingly inflicted on myself. Now the voices in my head, once encouraging, began to abandon their sinking ship. WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? they demanded. They had a right to know, though unfortunately I had no good answer.

As I lay on the ground listening to the sounds of finish line celebrations and reunions all around me, Katie brought me Gatorade and took pictures, and I discovered two pieces of uplifting news on an otherwise dark and emotionally stormy night. First, the pain and swelling in my ankle were largely confined to the lateral (outer) rather than the usual medial (inner) side, meaning my diligently strengthened ankle hadn’t simply betrayed me to the same injury I’d suffered so many times before. No, the “good” news was that I’d injured the ankle in a whole new way! And second, I’d managed to maintain a respectable 9:23/mile pace after spraining the ankle (8:54/mile before), enabling me to finish 12^th overall and second in the men’s 40-49 age group.

You had to know this picture was coming

Despite Katie’s positive review, my bitterly uncooperative stomach wanted nothing to do with the Little A’Le’Inn’s postrace breakfast buffet. Even more telling, on the bus ride back to Vegas it would take me 15 minutes to finish a single banana, in contrast to my usual 15 seconds. Clearly postrace nutrition was going to be an issue. Fortunately I’d done a solid job of prerace carbo loading, which very likely carried me through those final miles as I tried to find my happy place.

From my vantage point on my back, I heard Joyce announce fellow Antarctica traveller Rich Ehrlich as the winner of the men’s 60-69 age group in 5:07:35. Congrats, Rich! And then it was time to board the bus for Vegas. Awkwardly pulling myself up off the ground, and now unable to put any weight on the ankle, I relied first on Katie and then on a benevolent volunteer to help me over to and up the steps of the bus.

Thus began the long and sleepy-eyed ride back to Vegas, the calico hills now peacefully rendered in the first golden rays of the rising sun. While many passengers quickly assumed the “eyes closed, mouth open” position, I spent the better part of the ride trying to elevate my ankle and alleviate discomfort, which required monopolizing my personal space and (with her permission) most of Katie’s.

We entered the Las Vegas city limits just before 8:00am, though even at that early hour suffocating heat already blanketed the city. The combination of stifling heat, mounting fatigue and still-throbbing ankle sent waves of exhaustion washing over me… or maybe that was just my body’s reaction to being back in Vegas.

Luckily we were able, on our second try, to find an open CVS that stocked crutches, enabling me to regain mobility for the rest of the day. Sort of. Because I was quickly reminded of another Vegas exclusive: with everything spaced so far apart, it takes forever for an individual with two healthy ankles to get from their hotel room, through the smoke-filled casino and to their destination. This maze-like arrangement makes Vegas a decidedly subpar place to be handicapped.

We were treated to quite an electrical storm on our drive home

And so, after a clumsy but long-overdue shower, a visit to the Caesar’s Palace brunch buffet (itself nearly a mile long) and a five-hour nap, we decided to take advantage of our bewildered circadian rhythms, plus the lack of heat and traffic, and make the drive back to Los Angeles under cover of darkness. Four hours and several impressive lightning storms later, we pulled into our garage in Marina del Rey. Crutching my way slowly up the steps of our multi-level townhouse, I collapsed in our bed with my ankle supported by three pillows. As consciousness faded, the Nevada desert and Area 51 suddenly seemed light-years away.

As I write this ten days later, the swelling in my ankle has subsided and the remaining soreness is gradually fading. The foot and ankle feel stable, and I have no trouble balancing on them for two minutes at a time. I plan to try running again next week. In the final analysis, I guess all’s well that ends swell.

I’m proud that I was able to grit my teeth and gut out my toughest marathon yet, while still finishing in under four hours and placing well within the top 10% of finishers, including second in my age group. And I’m satisfied with knowing I gave everything I had to give, and left it all out in the Nevada desert. Would I have broken five hours if I’d had the chance to finish the 51K healthy? And would I have run a faster marathon if I’d been pacing accordingly for the entire race? “Likely” and “probably” would be my answers, although the frustration of not knowing will forever gnaw at the back of my mind.

After all, the truth is still out there.

Trust us, all those stories about extraterrestrials in Area 51 are just silly mythology.

PRODUCTION: Joyce and her Calico crew did a terrific job of bringing together and pulling off what has to be a very difficult-to-organize race. Coordinating the bus schedule alone would have addled my brain, and yet to my knowledge, all four races went off without a hitch. Calico’s blend of detail-oriented professionalism and low-key vibe lent the race a much-appreciated “trail running” feel. The t-shirts (from Greenlayer Sports) fit nicely, and the eye-catching, glow-in-the-dark medal is definitely a collector’s item. As far as food, Katie gave the postrace buffet at the Little A’Le’Inn a thumbs-up.

Not surprisingly, my main recommendation for future races would be to COMPLETELY cover each cattle guard to ensure safe footing. This shouldn’t be difficult, and if it spares even one runner’s ankle will be well worth the effort. My only other disappointment – and even that may be too strong a word – would be in the choice of Hammer as the lead sponsor. But much better Hammer than no sponsor at all, and my aversion to their products (particularly HEED) is simply personal preference. Unfortunately my limited postrace mobility prevented me from properly thanking Joyce and all her superb volunteers, but I’ll do so here (thanks, Joyce! thanks, volunteers!) and look forward to running with the Calico crew again soon. Even if it does mean another stopover in beautiful Las Vegas.

BOTTOM LINE: Chuck summed it up best in his postrace text: I had a swell time at the E.T. Full Moon Midnight Marathon. I have to admit that even with a healthy ankle, running on asphalt for several hours in uninterrupted darkness before and after a 2.5-hour bus ride isn’t my ideal racing scenario. But I’m glad I ran in Rachel, for the novelty as well as the opportunity to run with Calico Racing. If you’re intrigued by the prospect of running by moonlight, I can’t imagine a better place to do so than Area 51, or a better crew to do it with than Calico.

For an inspiring perspective on running through injury, or if you tend toward schadenfreude, check out Dan’s recent experience at the North Country Run 50-Miler.

E.T. Full Moon Midnight Marathon medal (glow-in-the-dark)

The E.T. medal moonlights as a night-light

FINAL STATS:
August 18, 2013
26.09 miles (the final 9+ miles on a sprained left ankle) in Rachel, NV (State 4 of 50)
Finish time & pace: 3:56:40 (first time running the E.T. Full Moon Midnight Marathon), 9:04/mile
Finish place: 12/141 overall, 2/20 in M(40-49) age group
Race weather: clear, dry and warm (starting temp 88°F), with an intermittent cool breeze
Elevation change (Garmin Connect software): 1,129ft ascent, 843ft descent (starting elevation 4,523ft)

I credit my speedy mile 21 to the adrenaline spike from a Katie sighting

A Moment of Claire-ity

Posted: August 2, 2013 in CATCH-ALL
Tags: Buck Institute, Ed Whitlock, Edith Bunker, exercise and aging, longreads, Marina del Rey running, running octogenarians

If you run, you are a runner. It doesn’t matter how fast or how far. It doesn’t matter if today is your first day or if you’ve been running for twenty years. There is no test to pass, no license to earn, no membership card to get. You just run.
– John “The Penguin” Bingham

A long walk on a short pier – actually, the south jetty in Marina del Rey

So far so good… lower body strong, upper body loose, stride fluid, breathing rhythmic, hands relaxed, man it’s warm today, run in the moment, focus on the now, don’t stress the later, hold that posture, own that pace, damn it’s warm today, train fast to race fast, you’ve got this, breathe in, breathe out, keep it up, keep it up, keep it –

“EXCUSE ME!”

It sounded almost apologetic. Forceful to be sure, yet oddly apologetic, this appeal that jarred me out of my mental cocoon, silencing my internal coach and interrupting the audiobook narrative playing in my earbuds. Now? questioned my startled brain, annoyed at its train of thought being so suddenly derailed. Really? I’d only completed 2-1/2 miles of my planned 15-mile “progressive” run, so-named because my pace would progressively quicken over the duration of the run.

Today’s progressive run called for five miles at an 8:00/mile pace, followed by five miles at a 7:45/mile pace, and finally five miles at a 7:30/mile pace… a challenging enough run without sunny skies and temperatures in the mid-70s (not accounting for humidity). I’d not even reached the beachfront yet, with roughly half a mile still to go past the upper-crust apartment buildings that line Via Marina. And already this new distraction?

Despite the prevalence of smartphones these days, people still stop me to ask for directions while I’m running. Normally they’ll pull over and flag me down from a car, though occasionally someone on the sidewalk will wave to get my attention. Maybe they figure I must know where I’m going, since I’m clearly in a hurry to get there. Or perhaps they think they’re doing me a favor by letting me stop to rest. Treadmill runners, this is one advantage I’ll concede to you – unless they’re after your phone number, nobody’s stopping you to ask for directions.

In any case, being stopped mid-run because someone can’t read a map is irritating. If you just woke up on the sidewalk with “Memento”-like amnesia, or if your infant child is stuck up in a tree, then I’m happy to stop and help. Otherwise, please consult one of the many other (casually strolling) individuals who are inevitably available to answer questions and point you in the right direction. Those white cords sprouting from both ears are the universal sign for “Me no talk now.”

But this time, I sensed as my brain reluctantly dragged my body to a sweaty halt – this time was different. Not only because of who had spoken, but because her follow-up question took me completely by surprise.

“Could you help me with my running?” asked the older woman smiling back at me from the sidewalk. “I’m sorry to stop you,” she continued, her voice like her face animated in apparent frustration. “I want to start running, but I’m doing it all wrong.”

I was taken aback – I might have been less surprised if she’d confessed to killing a man with a spoon. Admittedly, “glib” wouldn’t be among the top ten words I’d use to describe myself, so I spent the next several seconds grasping for words as I sized up both situation and speaker.

Despite the dark, rounded sunglasses that shielded her eyes and much of her face from the morning’s glare, my immediate impression was of a spry, recently anointed octogenarian with an easy smile. Copper-blonde hair peeked out in all directions from under a colorful head kerchief. Her casual, comfortable-looking marina gear included a lightweight, long sleeve navy blue blouse, simple beige slacks and white canvas shoes. Most striking was her pronounced New York City accent, a near-caricature that evoked childhood memories of Edith Bunker from the ‘70s TV show “All in the Family”. My overall sense was that among Father Time’s children, she must have been a favorite.

∞

Time conquers all. But it doesn’t conquer all equally, and one reason why is running. Just ask Canadian distance runner Ed Whitlock. At an age when most people would be happy to make it out to the mailbox and back under their own power every morning, Whitlock continues to rewrite the running record books. At age 72, his 2:59:09 finish time at the 2003 Toronto Waterfront Marathon made him the first – and still the only – septuagenarian to run a marathon in less than three hours. He improved on that time one year later at age 73, running the same race in a mind-blowing 2:54:48, the current 70-and-over world record. And seven years later he was at it again, setting the marathon world record for octogenarians with a 3:15:54 finish in Toronto at age 80. Whitlock also holds a slew of indoor and outdoor track records, including a 5:41.80 mile in Ontario at age 75.

I’d give my brother’s right arm to be able to run either a 3:15:54 marathon or a 5:41.80 mile at any point in my life.

Ed Whitlock shows off his medal after breaking the 80-plus half marathon world record in 1:38:59 at the
Milton (Ontario) Half Marathon on Sept. 16, 2012
(photo © 2012 Graham Paine/Milton Champion)

And apparently Whitlock isn’t fazed by the specter of his own mortality. He trains exclusively in a cemetery, running a paved 1/3-mile loop without any of the benefits that many runners now deem indispensable to their training – no coaches, training partners, massage therapists, nutritionists, specific diets, stretching exercises or weight training. He has professed to owning ten pairs of running shoes, which he said he alternates so they don’t wear out. By all indications, the shoes will wear out before the man does.

∞

I may not be much of a running coach, but I’m a decent judge of people. And intuition told me my spirited new friend wasn’t a lonely senior citizen looking for companionship or an ear to bend. She seemed altogether lucid and genuinely concerned about… something. Could this really be about running?

She repeated her conviction, this time with a twist: “I know I’m doing it wrong, and” – she gestured palms-up with both hands to indicate the sweaty fellow standing in front of her – “you just look so fabulous!”

Clearly this woman knew her stuff. But sincere or no – and I had no legitimate reason to doubt her – I couldn’t deny her infectious energy. “Have you done any running?” I asked, easing into my sudden mentor status.

“I’ve done some walking, but everybody around here drives, and that’s just not good for me. So I want to start running, but I know I’m doing it wrong.”

I offered a couple of pointers to get her started: first, that she run with good posture – in response to which she stood erect and simulated a slow-motion running movement – and bent forward ever so slightly at the waist. Her hips, I explained, would be the engine powering the machine. Second, I suggested she use her arms in sync with her lower body to drive her forward progress. As I demonstrated by jogging a few steps, she burst out as if she’d had a bet riding on this, “I knew I was doing it wrong!”

Trying to ease her mind, I quickly explained that there are as many different body types and running techniques as there are runners. And I stressed that it was more important to run comfortably than to focus too much on “right” or “wrong” technique. As long as she took it slow (I assumed this wouldn’t be a problem) and didn’t try to do too much, she should be fine.

My new friend looked like a cheerier version of greeting card icon Maxine

“How long have you been at this?” she asked, still smiling. I assumed she meant running, not offering questionable advice to strangers on the street. “Several years now,” I rounded off.

This answer seemed to jibe with her worldview, and she nodded. “How far should I go?”

I suggested she choose a nearby object – say maybe the street sign 20 yards ahead of us – then jog to that target (staying on the sidewalk, of course) and back again.

“What’s the difference between a run and a jog?”

Wow, she’s actually listening. By “jog,” I clarified, I meant a pace somewhere between a walk and a faster “run,” since it’s important to start slow and gradually build up speed over time.

“So I should jog there and back? I’ve been walking from the hotel, but I don’t know how far I should go.”

I reiterated that she should start by jogging to a nearby object – a street sign, a mailbox, a palm tree – and back, as many times as she felt comfortable. Then, after a few days of that, she should choose an endpoint slightly farther away and repeat the process, again based on her comfort level.

“So you think twice a day would be all right?” Sure, absolutely, if you’re comfortable with that and your body responds well.

“It still responds pretty well for 87!” she smiled brightly, straightening up and planting fists squarely on hips in her best superhero stance.

Now it occurred to me that I should probably be the one asking for advice.

∞

If youth is wasted on the young, then our best bet is to avoid – or at least delay – getting old. This approach is embodied in the concept of healthspan.

Whereas lifespan – a term everyone knows – refers to how long a person lives, healthspan refers to how long a person lives in the best possible health. The word first landed on my radar during a March 2012 visit to The Buck Institute for Research on Aging. The Buck, an independent research institute in Novato, CA, is leading the way in its mission to demystify the aging process and extend healthspan. What struck me during my conversations with Buck scientists was their collective conviction that aging – and the chronic diseases of aging – are not necessarily inevitable side effects of living. For a (slightly) more scientific introduction to the importance of healthspan, check out PhD and Buck CEO Brian Kennedy’s recent TED talk below:

Studies from other groups support this seemingly heretical notion. In a 2004 study published in the journal Circulation, Dr. Benjamin Levine and colleagues at the University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center in Dallas tested cardiac function in a group of endurance athletes with an average age of 68 who, like Ed Whitlock, had competed regularly since their 40s. Compared to sedentary individuals of comparable age, the heart muscles of the endurance group were more elastic and resisted shrinking, making them indistinguishable from a group of sedentary 29-year-olds tested in the same way. These findings led the authors to conclude that “prolonged, sustained endurance training preserves ventricular compliance (i.e. cardiac function) with aging and may help to prevent heart failure in the elderly.”

Similarly, James Fries and colleagues at Stanford University (arguably the greatest research institute in the world, ahem) published a 2008 study in the journal Archives of Internal Medicine, in which they tracked running frequency, disability and mortality in 538 runners and 423 “healthy control” individuals, aged 50 and older, over a 21-year period beginning in 1984. Notwithstanding the inevitable dropout rate in such “longitudinal” studies (40% in this case), their findings were clear: Habitual runners enjoy a “notable survival advantage” and, maybe more importantly, a significantly longer healthspan than their non-running counterparts.

∞

Surprised by her candid revelation, I instinctively grinned back and stammered out something I hoped would be received as a compliment – “Wow, I would not have put you at 87.” Really, tongue? That’s the best you could do on short notice?? I was relieved to see her wrinkled grin widen. “Yes indeed!” she said. “But I’m sorry to have stopped you… thank you very much, I knew I was doing it wrong.”

I couldn’t leave without a name, so I introduced myself. “I’m Claire,” she reciprocated and held out her hand, which I shook gently with one last word of encouragement: “Take it slowly, and you’ll do great.” This time, brain and tongue were solidly in agreement.

With that, I beeped my Garmin back to life and continued on my way, though the persistent heat and beachfront foot traffic would combine to quash the day’s overambitious time goals. My entire conversation with Claire had lasted less than five minutes… which, to my data-obsessed Garmin, meant five minutes of “lost time” it was unable to account for, unable to record, unable to analyze and regurgitate in its reliably reductionist manner.

To its owner, however, those five minutes were anything but lost. And over the next several miles, as my body transitioned into autopilot mode, I’d replay those five minutes in my head, mulling them over and carefully analyzing every angle and facet of our conversation, like a jeweler admiring a flawless gemstone he’d fortuitously discovered in a place he never would have thought to look.

“You only get 26,320 days, more or less. How will you spend them?” asks one running shoe company’s ad depicting the last vestiges of sand flowing through an hourglass. I may not spend my own numbered days running in that company’s shoes… but I do plan to spend them running.

Life is uncertain, life is unfair, and life – as we’re constantly reminded – is perversely unlong. It can’t be beeped on and off like a trusty Garmin (though I’m hoping for a firmware update soon). And not one grain of sand from the miles of beaches I run every week can add a second more to my hourglass. But if I can reach year 87 with my sand still flowing, and with the same verve and mobility as Claire, then I’ll look back on a life well-lived. And hopefully, when that day comes, some fabulous-looking lad will jog past me on the sidewalk, heed my wizened wave and allow me to instruct him on the finer points of proper running technique.

For now, though, I plan to spend what’s left of my 26,320 days – more or less – working diligently on my own technique. Up roads, down trails, over the river and through the woods, whenever and wherever I can… so that as new memories prove gradually harder to come by, I’ll have plenty of good ol’ days to fall back on. Even if I’m not the next Ed Whitlock.

“People underestimate what old people can accomplish,” a 73-year-old Whitlock said in a 2005 interview. “Old people are the worst in that respect. They let themselves be inhibited by age.”

Not Claire, though. Approaching the end of Via Marina, I glanced back one last time to see my first and only disciple shuffling – check that, running – with spine straight and arms pumping, toward the street sign that doubled as her designated turnaround. And I had to smile… not only at her comically exaggerated arm swing, but at her youthful resolve, her earnest refusal to act her age, and her heartfelt insistence that “I’m doing it all wrong.”

Because in that singular moment, I’d never seen running done more right.

Harding Hustle 50K (CA)

Posted: July 11, 2013 in 50Ks, RACE REPORTS
Tags: 50K races, Cleveland National Forest, Dirty Feet Productions, Michelle Barton, Modjeska Peak, Saddleback, Santiago Peak, Southern California trail running, Tucker Wildlife Sanctuary

I think there’s magic in misery. When you’re struggling … that’s when you feel most alive.
– Dean Karnazes

TRIVIA TIME: What does the Harding Hustle logo represent? Answer appears at the end of this post
(All correct answers earn a free lifetime subscription to this blog)

SPOILER ALERT: The Harding Hustle is ill-named.

With two months as a SoCal resident behind me and the entire summer ahead, it was high time to shift my racing season into gear. I figured I’d ease into the local racing scene and start with something to coax my slow-twitch muscles out of hiberation… maybe a family-friendly Rock ‘n’ Roll-type race with balloons for the kids, guest appearances by Dodgers and Lakers players, and a post-race concert by some band I used to’ve heard of like Ozomatli. Runners of all shapes, sizes and shoe fetishes would gather to showcase their new gear and immerse themselves in a civic spectacle of colorful sponsor booths, adrenalizing live music and and raucous spectating crowds. What better opportunity to soak in the festive life-force of my new running community? The sights! The sounds! The pageantry! The free energy bar samples!

If only, I thought ruefully as Katie and I approached Modjeska Canyon early last Saturday morning, our quiet Civic Hybrid moving smoothly past the even quieter rustic homes laid out along Santiago Canyon Road. The peaceful glow of impending sunrise, and the sleepy silence of our rural surroundings, served to arouse rather than calm the restless butterflies – and partially digested granola – filling my gut. The sublime promise of the day stood in stark contrast to the ominous reality of what I was about to do with it. Promising yet ominous, I thought. Prominous.

Our destination: the Tucker Wildlife Sanctuary in the Cleveland National Forest, a 460,000-acre chaparral-rich expanse in eastern Orange County, and – more relevant to us – the setting for Dirty Feet Productions’ Harding Hustle 50K trail race. The 31-mile race course would lead its prey runners to the top of Saddleback via an ascent of its twin peaks, Modjeska and Santiago, before following the same route back down to the finish. I was looking forward to this race not only as my SoCal inaugural, but also as an opportunity to exact some sort of running revenge for my first and only battle with the mountain six months earlier.

But what a difference six months would make. My initial outing on Saddleback had ended unceremoniously after a four-mile ascent, when an unexpected blizzard – the snowy kind, not the Dairy Queen kind – had forced me to do something I’ve only ever done in extreme conditions: cut short a training run. Mountain 1, Mike 0. So then, reasoned my twisted trail-running brain, it seemed almost fitting that my return to Modjeska promised the opposite extreme – a true trial by fire, with 90+°F temperatures ensuring a nearly 70°F difference relative to that bizarre December day. If I was going to step up and even the score on Saturday, then the mountain was damn well going to make me earn it.

Suddenly Antarctica – and the coldest race of my life just three months earlier – seemed very long ago.

High pressure was building in my brain thanks to forecasts like this

The 72 hours leading up to race day had done nothing to ease my mind, as doomsday-dealing meteorologists filled my head with graphic predictions of the impending climatic apocalypse. A heat wave the likes of which the Western U.S. had never seen. Scientists carefully monitoring the mercury in Death Valley – historically the hottest place on the planet – where temperatures threatened to top 130°F. Record high temperatures up and down the West Coast.

Already one foot race had succumbed to the atmospheric pressure: the folks at Calico Racing, who boldly advertise their Running With The Devil Marathon in Boulder City, NV as “Held in summer thru the dry Mojave Desert, athletes will be challenged to contend with high heat,” canceled the race due to concerns about excessive heat. I don’t care if Satan himself shows up wearing a visor and Nathan hydration pack – if your race has “Devil” in its name, you can’t cancel under any circumstances.

I comforted myself with the news that the Western States 100-Mile Endurance Run from Squaw Valley to Auburn CA, would be conducting business as usual on Saturday. With hundreds of trail runners eager to endure 100 miles of blood, sweat and tears through the Sierras in 100°F heat for a chance at a silver belt buckle, why was I sweating what basically amounted to a fun run by comparison?

Besides, running up and down a mountain in scorching temperatures would provide a sense of whether two months in SoCal had improved my Bay Area-depleted heat tolerance. Given a red blood cell’s average life span of ~120 days, I no doubt still had some thin Bay Area blood coursing through my veins. Twenty years spent growing up in Texas now seemed a lifetime away, and I was eager to resuscitate my affection for crazy heat. Whereas advice columns in Runner’s World or on Active.com consistently advocate early-morning runs to avoid midday summer heat, I’ve always preferred to run when the sun is high in the sky and with my Mom’s mantra of “That can’t be good for you” looping in my head.

I’d done what I could to prepare for the day’s heat: visor, arm sleeves, fingerless gloves and a neck gaiter would not only shield my pale skin from the sun’s onslaught but also, as I learned at the Mount Diablo 50K last year, absorb and hold the cold water I planned to douse myself with at every aid station. Sunscreen covered all exposed regions. Both handheld bottles of Skratch Labs mix were frozen solid from their two days spent in the freezer. I’d even heeded easy-to-follow nutritional advice from a recent issue of Trail Runner, and blended some cherry/lime juice with crushed ice in an attempt to drop my internal body temperature ever so slightly and extend my time ‘til exhaustion. Short of borrowing Frozone’s super suit, I’d done about all I could to buffer myself against the oppressive heat.

Mike Sohaskey - no paparazzi before Harding Hustle 50k start

Hey! No paparazzi in the staging area!

We’d planned to arrive at 5:30am for a 6:00am start. But characteristic “Who knew THAT was there?” L.A. freeway closures forced us to spend 15 harried minutes touring the back streets of Long Beach, so that we didn’t pull into the Tucker Wildlife Sanctuary until 5:45am. Fortunately we still beat the 5:30am shuttle bus by at least ten minutes, and Katie was able to find parking near the start. Because the 30K and 15K races wouldn’t start until 7:30am and 9:00am, respectively, the staging area at sunrise belonged to the sparse crowd of 50Kers, for which the two provided porta-potties proved to be sufficient (I easily accessed them twice in 15 minutes). Yet another benefit of low-key trail races!

Chuck and Laura arrived shortly after us. Chuck, still rehabbing a hamstring injury, had volunteered to photograph the race from a vantage point near the start line, so he immediately set off up the mountain to scope out his position. Meanwhile, Laura informed us that she’d probably drop down from the 50K to the 30K distance after she’d inexplicably decided to run a local marathon THE PREVIOUS DAY.

If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad… (miles 1 – 10.5)
After a brief delay to accommodate runners on the late-arriving shuttle, race director Jessica – looking SoCal-fit in a black tanktop – gathered the small contingent of 50K runners around the start line. She asked how many of us would be running this race for the first time, in response to which a surprising number of hands shot up. Nodding and with a knowing smile, she told us to be smart and careful up on the mountain (bit late for that…). Then, at 6:18am, the 2013 Harding Hustle was officially underway.

Harding Hustle 50k 2013 - start line pep talk

Drawing a (start) line in the sand: The 50K runners take their marks as Jessica offers encouragement

The lead pack – five male runners and ultrarunning phenom Michelle Barton, whom I’d met at Griffith Park last year – immediately surged ahead up the Harding Truck Trail, while I fell in behind them among the top ten. Certainly I’d expected this immediate ascent, which spurned my naïve attempts to catch my second wind… but that awareness did little to ease the initial discomfort as I huffed my way like a chain smoker up the steady grade. Staying to the inside as I rounded one early curve, I smiled to myself and thought, Yeah, run those tangents… that’s what’s going to save you today.

All around and above us, sun-baked chaparral comingled with scattered green shrubbery, each waging its silent war for control of the mountain. About half a mile up the trail, I saw Chuck and flashed an exaggerated “happy runner” smile that I was pretty certain would fail me at that same point 30 miles and several hours later.

My racing strategy for this day was simple: make hay while the sun didn’t shine. Given the early start time and limited shade, I’d resolved to get up the mountain as quickly as possible, before the unchecked sun wrested control of its dominion and beat my best-laid plans into submission. Once I reached Modjeska Peak, 11.5 miles and 4,000ft away, then I’d worry about the next 19.5 miles. For now, though, only the first 11.5 mattered.

With that in mind I set what felt like a fairly brisk pace up the mountain, stopping only briefly at the first aid station (mile 4.6) to pour ice water on my head, neck and arms, a ritual I’d repeat at every opportunity.

Holding my own on the first hill, in 2nd place among the long-sleeved contingent (photo credit Chuck)

While the lead pack of male runners quickly vanished from view, I managed to keep Michelle – who held a sizable lead over the closest female – within my sights until shortly after mile 3, at which point I realized I was actually gaining ground on her. Then I was on her heels. Then, in a fleeting moment of surrealization, I actually passed her. “Good job!” she encouraged, as she would each time our paths crossed during the race. I was psyched I’d been able to stay with her for any length of time on these her hometown trails, but I knew my lead would be short-lived, particularly with so much downhill still ahead of us. Sure enough, she overtook me during a downhill stretch between miles 7 and 8, and that would be the last time we’d trade places as she kicked into “Barton gear” and dusted me. But those four miles had been the highlight of an otherwise arduous – and at times seemingly endless – climb.

At the Maple Springs aid station (mile 9.1) I filled a small Ziploc bag with ice, folded it into my neck gaiter, and wore it in that position – with periodic refilling – throughout the race. So far, I was doing a much better job of managing the day’s heat than I had at Mt. Diablo.

Except that, well, there really was no heat. At least not heat like we’d been led to expect. Because a funny thing happened on the way up that mountain – apparently someone forgot to tell the sun the race had started. I ran the vast majority of the first nine miles in shade. As the course wound its way around the mountain, only occasionally – and then transiently – did it expose itself to the eastern sky. Not until I reached Maple Springs did the sun finally fight its way over the mountain and start to flex its muscle. But nine comfortable miles was significantly more than I’d expected, and I didn’t envy the late-starting 30K and 15K runners who wouldn’t be so lucky. That mindset did an about-face at mile 9, however, as the 30K and 50K courses went their dramatically separate ways, the 30K reversing course back down the mountain while the 50K set its sights on the summit.

If you’re a lover of symmetry, there’s no better race for you

Here comes the sun (miles 10.5 – 19.5)
Once the sun came out to stay the 50K course bared its fangs, with two ascents of Modjeska Peak (elevation 5,384ft) and one ascent of Santiago Peak (elevation 5,687ft) lying in wait. The latter would take us to the summit of Saddleback. These three out-and-back ascents comprised a stretch of nine miles at roughly a mile above sea level. I’d been so focused on the weather in my pre-race prep that the possibility of an elevation vexation had never occurred to me. Granted we were only a mile high – not like we were scaling the Rockies here – but together with the persistent grade and the mounting heat, the elevation added yet another brick to the ever-increasing load I was hauling.

Fortunately the third aid station (Modjeska, mile 10.5) was positioned at the juncture of these three out-and-backs, so that 50K runners passed it a total of four times (see “Production” below for more about this excellent aid station).

I was feeling upbeat as I passed this aid station on my first climb up to Modjeska Peak. Here, though, the terrain quickly transitioned from moderately rocky to “glacial moraine” rocky, and my pace slowed as I cautiously picked my way uphill over the sharp and loosely packed rocks scattered across the trail. I was taking care to lift my feet so I wouldn’t misstep and end up kissing the rocks, and this combined with the now-constancy of the sun’s rays sapped much of my remaining energy reserve. It didn’t help that the sun shining from behind cast my shadow across the rock-strewn terrain ahead of me, shrouding my next three steps in deep shade that contrasted harshly with the near-blinding glare of its surroundings.

By the time I reached Modjeska Peak and the barely accessible turnaround point, indicated by white flour arrows amid a pile of boulders, I was good and ready for the next mile of downhill. Unfortunately nobody had bothered to clear out the rocks and smooth out the ground behind me, so the descent was almost as tenuous as the ascent had been. This sure felt like more than two miles.

Mike Sohaskey - early in Harding Hustle 50k (2013)

Getting my “giddy runner’s face” out of the way early (photo credit Chuck)

Finally I reached the strategically positioned Modjeska aid station, soaked my upper body in ice water, and followed the slight downhill grade toward Santiago Peak. Just as I was beginning to enjoy running downhill on the hard-packed dirt, the trail realized its mistake and reversed trajectory on its way to the summit. Doing some muddled math in my head to pass the time, I calculated that the out-and-back to Santiago Peak would chew up just over six miles, considerably more than the relatively short ascent of Modjeska Peak. These would truly be the “grin and bear it” miles of the race.

Mile 14, and I continued to shuffle along at a slow but steady jogging pace. Once, then twice, I stubbed my foot on rocks embedded in the trail, stumbling briefly each time before catching myself. Then, as if I were a prize fighter and the first two stumbles had simply been quick jabs to set up the mountain’s right hook, I slammed my foot solidly into a barely-there rock and went sprawling on my right side across the dusty trail. Hopping back up with an embarrassed string of curses, I dusted myself off and shuffled on. No other runners in sight. No blood, no foul I reflected, before looking down at my dirt-brown palms to see a small scarlet circle seeping through my glove. Now we’re trail racing, I thought wryly as I pushed forward. Fortunately, my ego had sustained most of the damage from the fall, and that wake-up call would be my only taste of the trail on this day.

But I’m nothing if not a quick learner, and my spill told me it was time to slow down and power-hike a short distance to refresh my legs and regain my stride. The fourth- (previously second-) place male passed me moving slowly in the other direction, saw me hiking and huffed, “So you blew your load too, huh?” I guess, I thought vexedly, if you call running uphill as hard and as smart as I could for as long as I could before succumbing to the effects of unrelenting heat “blowing my load,” then yeah, I guess that’s what I did. I wondered whether he’d be greeting every runner behind me with that same uplifting pronouncement.

At last the antennas of Santiago Peak rose ahead of me, and with one last uphill thrust I reached the summit of Saddleback in 3:06:08 and in 11^th place, 24 minutes behind overall leader and eventual winner Ramiro Santos, and ten minutes behind Michelle. As I shuffled by with the aid station in my sights, a volunteer working the checkpoint with clipboard in hand exclaimed supportively, “Great job 141 [my bib number], you’re making this look easy!” If by “this” you mean “suffering,” then yes I’d have to agree.

Michelle Barton at Harding Hustle 50k 2013

Michelle Barton was the queen of the mountain in easily winning the women’s division (photo credit Chuck)

Despite my fatigue and semi-overheated state, the nearly 360° sweeping views of Orange and Riverside Counties that greeted me at Santiago Peak were expansive and rejuvenating. Taking some photos with my mental camera, I turned my attention to the aid station where I repeated my dousing ritual, downed a cup of ice-cold Coke to spike my blood sugar and reloaded my Ziploc bag with ice. Thanking all the mile-high volunteers and with their collective cheers propelling me forward, I directed my course back down the mountain.

I reached the juncture of the Modjeska and Santiago Peak trails – which I could’ve sworn they’d moved back since my last visit – without further incident, briefly recovered in the shade of the aid station awning, and turned my sights toward Modjeska Peak once more. This was it – one final ascent awaited me before 11.5 miles of nearly continuous downhill. With tortoise-like efficiency I power-hiked most of that final mile up to Modjeska, my legs now ill-suited to tackle the precarious rocky terrain at a jog. Accessing the turnaround point was just as taxing the second time, but I allowed myself an energized pump of the fist as I made a deliberate 180° turn and started back down the implacable mountain. Next stop, I mused exhaustedly, the finish line.

Soon the trail spat me out at the now-familiar Modjeska aid station, where I snacked on two orange slices, refilled one water bottle with an unidentified electrolyte mix (yes, I should have known better, but it sounded appealing at the time), and turned my back on the twin peaks of Saddleback. See you again soon?, I could almost hear them ask amusedly. All that lay between me and a 50K PR was a smooth downhill jaunt to the finish. Or so I thought.

Chuck surveys the landscape and its runners from his photographic perch (photo credit a sneaky Katie)

What goes up, must come down… eventually (miles 19.5 – finish)
My biggest miscalculation of the day would be in looking forward to that “smooth downhill jaunt.” I figured that with gravity at my side, I’d be able to maintain a leisurely but consistent downhill jogging pace from the Modjeska aid station, maybe overtake a couple of other runners along the way, and finish strong.

Alas ignorance, in this case, was not bliss. The final 10.5 miles quickly became the most soul-sucking of the day. With the sun rapidly approaching its zenith and saturating the course, I experienced a generalized lethargy… not fatigue as such, but rather a curious heaviness of movement. My quads felt leaden, my lungs felt leaden. I breathed in short shallow breaths and, as had been the case at Diablo, any attempt to breathe deeply was met with protest from my internal organs. I began to power-hike increasingly lengthy stretches – as much as a mile at one point – until finally my woolly brain traced the cause: this wasn’t heat exhaustion per se that was crushing my hopes of a negative split… the air was simply unbreathable. The intense heat had warmed the air to such an extent that every breath weighed heavily in my lungs and left my mouth as dry as if I’d been chewing on cotton balls. My muscles felt depleted of oxygen, not unlike (although not as dramatically as) the final two miles of the Pikes Peak Ascent. Despite my recent heat training, I’d been unable to prepare for this.

The rhythmic splut, splut, splut of the slush-filled Ziploc bag in my neck gaiter echoed my footfalls as I ran. At one point, presumably while running with my mouth open, I started to drool but quickly caught myself, thinking Whoops, better hold on to that, I may need it later.

Ramiro Santos leading Harding Hustle 50k (2013)

Overall 50K winner Ramiro Santos selflessly absorbs the sun’s rays away from his fellow runners (photo credit Chuck)

I extended my stays at the last two aid stations (miles 22 and 26.5) as I paced in circles, trying to get comfortable in my own skin while avoiding the temptation to collapse in a chair. The Maple Springs aid station offered little room under its awning for runners seeking shade, so there I dumped my ill-advised electrolyte drink, refilled with water, removed my second bottle of Skratch Labs mix from my pack (awesomely, it was still cool after starting the day frozen solid), and moved on.

The final aid station at Laurel Springs had run out of potable ice by the time I arrived. There I loitered a bit longer, assuring a park ranger I was good to go despite my obvious discomfort and the dirt covering my right side. At last, with a feeling of resigned reluctance, I continued on my way, knowing those final 4.6 miles to the finish would likely be the longest of my life.

It’s amazing how much resistance even the slightest uphill can provide when you’re ill-prepared to handle it. I was forced to power-hike most of mile 25, as well as the final short sharp ascent just after mile 30. Soon after, though, I turned a corner to see Chuck – was this the happiest I’d ever been to see him? – still manning his sun-drenched photographer’s post. I offered him my half-full water bottle but he declined, and I switchbacked my way down the mountain as he yelled encouragement. Excusing my way past three 30K runners who were blocking the trail, I surged down the home stretch, where the Harding Truck Trail dumped me right in front of a smiling crowd of one – Katie! Raising both water bottles in triumph, I made an immediate right turn and floated across the final 20 yards of asphalt, her emphatic cheers carrying me across the finish line (like the start, a chalk line scrawled on the ground) in 6:33:45.

Mike Sohaskey - nearing end of Harding Hustle 50k (2013)

Gravity, take me home! Cruising down the final descent (photo credit Chuck)

I’d bested my Mt. Diablo 50K time (my previous PR) by 66 minutes, and despite the unforgiving heat had felt better doing it… though in its defense, Diablo had pummeled its guests with nearly 3,000ft more of elevation gain. In any case, my insistence on running small races with strong fields is doing nothing to help my overall race percentile.

Immediately a watchful volunteer hurried over to offer me an ice-cold bottle of water. “Where you going?” the woman sitting at the official timing table asked alertly as I turned away from the young volunteer proffering my medal. “Just walking it off,” I assured her. And that I was, though those first few moments after crossing the finish line – when swelling pride meets diminishing adrenaline – are the never-get-back moments I try to always appreciate and never take for granted.

The three R’s: Rest, Recovery and Revenge
In the end, Furnace Creek in Death Valley topped out at 127°F on Saturday, falling short of its own world record high of 134°F set a century ago. Closer to home, though, the thermometer at the Tucker Wildlife Sanctuary read 98°F as I crossed the finish line, and one forest ranger reported a reading of 107°F near Santiago Peak.

The heat had wreaked havoc on my in-race fueling strategy. With my stomach refusing to cooperate, I’d forsaken all the nutrition in my pack and eaten just two orange slices over the course of 31.5 miles. I did, however, stay reasonably well-hydrated with bottle after bottle of water and Skratch Labs mix, the latter generously provided by my running buddy Jimmy up in the Bay Area. I’d definitely recommend it as a light and easy-to-drink alternative to heavier, sweeter electrolyte mixes.

After gratefully accepting my medal, I spent 30 minutes or so sprawled out on my back staring up at the underside of a tree. There I dreamily scrutinized the geometry of each leaf in my field of vision while Katie and Laura thoughtfully brought me water and Gatorade. After starting with the 50K runners, Laura had finished her 30K in 4:21:37, an impressive effort considering she’d run a full marathon just 24 hours earlier.

Mike Sohaskey after finishing Harding Hustle 50k (2013)

Nurse! We need 50 cc of fruit punch Gatorade over here, STAT!

As for the 50K, Ramiro Santos won the day in 4:57:19, the only runner to finish in under five hours. Maybe more remarkably, he did it dressed in black long sleeves and black pants. As expected, Michelle Barton dominated the female division in 5:31:33, finishing 50 minutes ahead of her closest competition. Afterwards, she declared the race “so hot it was like a mini Badwater.” She should know – she conquered the self-proclaimed “world’s toughest foot race” back in 2010.

On our way home we took a detour to Long Beach to take advantage of my favorite post-race recuperative tool – the jacuzzi-sized cold plunge at Chuck and Laura’s gym. Based on my own research (i.e. calling around), theirs is the only gym near us with a cold plunge. Hard to believe considering its inarguable healing power and the density of runners in this area. Make no mistake, at 48°F the cold plunge is neither a comfortable nor soothing experience… but the almost-immediate loosening of stiff muscles, and the lack of soreness in my legs the next day as I chased my niece and nephew, were well worth those few seconds of intense pain that had me gritting my teeth and hopping from foot to foot. I think the term Katie used to describe my facial expression after each plunge was “wild-eyed.”

For the rest of the afternoon, my internal organs took turns protesting whenever I coughed, hiccuped or sneezed. The same had happened after Diablo, so I chalk it up somehow to the heat. But I’d be interested to know if anyone else has ever experienced similar post-race symptoms. Fortunately my body temperature was only slightly elevated that evening as I lay in bed formulating a training plan to improve my heat tolerance – after all, the Harding Hustle won’t be my only hot weather race here in SoCal. As I drifted off to sleep, I tried to recall whether our gym has a sauna…

Bottom line, what a Saturday for the ages: Although there’d been very little hustling on my part, I’d renewed my rivalry with Saddleback, ascended its twin peaks three times in near-100°F heat, absorbed the worst that the mountain and its conspiratorial sun could throw at me (except snakes, there’d been no snakes), and ultimately thrashed my 50K PR time by over an hour. All in all, I’d rate the day a resounding victory for the good guys. Mountain 1, Mike 1.

I’d say we need a rubber match.

Harding Hustle 50k course - Google Earth rendering

Google Earth rendering of the Harding Hustle 50K course (Click on the map for a larger image)

PRODUCTION: Saddleback is the undisputed star of the Harding Hustle, and Jessica and her crew did a commendable job of ensuring it took center stage. The course – for the most part a single easy-to-follow trail (the Harding Truck Trail) with few diversions – was well-marked with pink ribbons and white flour in appropriate places, and I can’t imagine any runner took a wrong turn. The race started 18 minutes later than its scheduled 6:00a.m. start time to accommodate the late-arriving shuttle and other minor delays. And while normally I wouldn’t (literally) sweat a late start time, in this case every minute counted as we raced the sun up the mountain.

Race organization was competent yet decidedly low-key, in keeping with the ethos of trail racing. No sponsor booths, no swag bags filled with coupons destined for the recycling bin, nothing but a simple “START/FINISH” sign set up in the vicinity of the actual start and finish. Chuck and one other photographer (I think, though I have yet to see his photos posted) were positioned along the course; Chuck made his photos freely available online after the race, as did several volunteers at the various aid stations.

The four aid stations strategically positioned along the course were well-stocked with ice, electrolyte drink and GU – some aid stations offered other sugary snacks as well, such as oranges and soft drinks. The Laurel Springs aid station had run out of potable ice by the time I arrived, though a cooler full of non-potable ice was still available for dunking hats and body parts. The post-race spread included several hot food options, though unfortunately my stomach’s continuing policy of isolationism meant all food options were eschewed in favor of Gatorade, and plenty of it.

Laura, Mike Sohaskey and Katie after Harding Hustle 50k

Laura, Katie and I work on our post-race tans, with the “START” behind us and no “FINISH” in sight

As for swag, Jessica provided race t-shirts from Greenlayer in two attractive color options, maroon/white and olive green/yellow. Unfortunately, because so many runners registered after she’d placed her initial t-shirt order, she ran out of the green/yellow version in my size before I could claim one. No worries, though… she assured us in her post-race email that she’s placed another order, and more t-shirts of the appropriate size should be available in a few weeks.

Most importantly, we runners owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the folks who freely donated their time and energy to sit outside for hours in the sweltering sun and suffocating heat, all to support us runners. Talk about a thankless job, I don’t care how many free race entries they’re getting for their efforts. They were one and all volunteerrific, from the folks who tirelessly worked the aid stations to ensure every last runner was taken care of, to those who congratulated and took care of us once we arrived back at the start/finish area at the Tucker Wildlife Sanctuary. In particular, Gary and Joe at the Modjeska aid station were amazing – I can’t say I’ve ever taken the time to introduce myself to volunteers at an aid station before, but these guys were that good. Four times I passed their aid station, and four times Gary was like a perpetual motion machine – filling bottles, icing down hats, and even offering to hold my water bottle during my first two-mile round trip up to Modjeska. He greeted runners as they approached, asked what he could get them, then hastened to fill their request as efficiently as possible. I rarely get service like that when I’m tipping 20%.

So a huge shout-out to Gary and Joe, and to all the volunteers without whom races – and especially out-of-the-way trail races like the Harding Hustle – would never happen.

Chuck likes to ask after a race, “What would you have done differently if you were in charge?” In the case of the Harding Hustle, not a whole lot actually, since constructing a climate-controlled dome over Saddleback is probably more of a long-term project. My main modification would be to start the race earlier than 6:00a.m… with sunrise at 5:44a.m., a 5:30a.m. start time wouldn’t be unreasonable. Although this year’s heat was admittedly extreme, a race on Saddleback in late June will more often than not qualify as a “hot weather race” (Jessica’s words).

One addition I might make – and this is something the Brazen Racing folks did at the Mt. Diablo 50K last year – would be to offer free onsite medal engraving (name and finish time) to all 50K runners, and nominally priced engraving for 30K and 15K runners. This may be an unusual request, but in the aftermath of Mt. Diablo I thought it was a cool touch that said “You kicked some serious ass out there today.” Given that I paid the same registration fee ($95) for both races, this proposal doesn’t seem extravagant. It’s not like I’m asking for a post-race IT’S-IT here…

While I’m at it, I might go ahead and rename the race. Since we’re so close to Hollywood, maybe call it the “Close Encounters of the Thirst Kind” 50K. Or sign on Dos Equis as a sponsor and relaunch it as the “Stay Thirsty, My Friends” 50K – with the added bonus of a sponsor beer tent in the finish area. Or, as a less radical but more honest departure from the current name, I might suggest the “Hardly Hustle” 50K. Did I mention it was hot out there?

View from Santiago Peak – if you look carefully, you can see all the Garmins melting below
(The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dalí, 1931)

GEAR: My Columbia arm sleeves and gloves admirably did their job of protecting my skin and absorbing cold water, but the game changer I’d recommend to anyone running a similar race would be the neck gaiter. My Buff gaiter was light enough to travel surreptitiously, UV-protective enough to re-buff the sun, and flexible enough to cradle a slush-filled Ziploc bag in place for over 20 miles. It literally saved my neck.

Again I wore my first-generation Merrell Road Gloves on Saddleback to ensure I’d have consistent ground feel and traction regardless of the terrain. The v1.0 Road Gloves are lightweight but with nicely grippy Vibram outsoles that perform well in wet, dry, and even arid conditions. My feet are always very happy in them. The Harding Hustle was, however, the first time the Road Gloves’ lack of a protective rock plate has become an issue, as I realized two days later when bruises developed on the soles of my feet. Fortunately the bruises didn’t affect my training, and within two days my feet were again bruise-free. Hopefully what doesn’t kill my soles only makes them stronger, since I plan to wear my Road Gloves on the trails for as long as they hang together. Now if only Merrell made a “smart” version that lifted itself over rocks to keep its user upright…

BOTTOM LINE: If you appreciate a low-key, challenging trail race and aren’t deterred by the possibility of spontaneously combusting on the course, the Harding Hustle is your cup of (hot) tea. I can definitely see myself taking another stab at the mountain, just as soon as my selective memory kicks in and rebrands the experience in my mind as the “Harding Happy Hour.” Thanks to the Tucker Wildlife Sanctuary (which received a portion of the race proceeds) for allowing a bunch of Pig-Pens like us to use their facilities, and much appreciation to Jessica for staging a memorable and well-organized day of fun on some excellent trails.

Harding Hustle 50k (2013) race medal

FINAL STATS:
June 29, 2013
31.5 miles on Saddleback in the Cleveland National Forest
Finish time & pace: 6:33:45 (first time running the Harding Hustle 50K), 12:30/mile; average moving pace, 11:55/mile
Finish place: 15/33 overall (40 starters), 4/10 in M(40-49) age group
Race weather: weather only a cactus could love; sunny with temps ranging from 75°F (start) to 98°F (finish) and a reported high of 107°F on Santiago Peak
Elevation change (Garmin Connect software): 5,808ft ascent, 5,805ft descent

TRIVIA ANSWER: The image represents an Afro, which together with the race’s name evokes the Hustles, or disco dances, that were popular in the 70s.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly: a year of East Bay running

Posted: June 27, 2013 in CATCH-ALL
Tags: Berkeley bumper stickers, Berkeley Psychic Institute, East Bay running, Golden Gate Bridge, Iron Horse Trail, longreads, Moeser Road, scenic Bay Area views, Turkeytown

I think, therefore I am.
– René Descartes

What could be good-er than a sunset view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the Berkeley Marina?

Since the inception of BC&H 14 months ago, one question bounces around my head a lot: did I start to blog because I notice things, or do I now notice things because I started to blog? If Descartes had aired his thoughts on WordPressicus back in the day, would he have positioned the above tenet as “I think, therefore I blog” or maybe “I blog, therefore I think”?

I tend to think it works both ways – hopefully I have something to say in the first place, or I wouldn’t bother writing. And with every run, I diligently observe and catalog details big and small… not because I see it as my responsibility to the blog, but because that’s just my brain doing what my brain do. I blame heredity – the most convenient target –plus twenty years of scientist training that’s messed with all the neurons bumping around inside my head.

In any case, over the past year I’ve committed to memory – both neural and digital – a number of notable moments from my time spent exploring the East Bay on foot. And since Katie and I recently decided to pick up stakes and move down to the Los Angeles area, I figure now is as good a time as any to unload share my personal experiences and more-or-less random musings on the good, the bad and even the ugly of a year spent running in the East Bay and beyond:

∞ Track day = payday: One summer afternoon, while knocking out mile repeats on the Cal (UC Berkeley) track, I glanced down as I finished a set to see a $5 bill lying in the middle of lane three, silently minding its own business but clearly planning its escape. Still breathing hard from my mile effort, I reached down to pick up the orphaned bill, only to discover I’d missed a zero and that I was in fact holding a $50 bill.

Glancing around incredulously – left, right, left again, more carefully than if I’d been crossing Highway 101 on foot – I realized that none of the parents or kids loitering around the track were frantically digging through their pockets, or counting the contents of their wallet, or walking around scanning the ground like they’d just lost a contact lens. Two teenagers sat on a low wall 12 feet away, laughing loudly and completely unaware that I’d just run the most profitable mile of my life.

After pocketing (or rather, Amphipod-ing) the bill, I turned my momentarily lapsed attention back to my recovery lap, already in progress. I like to think my windfall was an apology from the running gods for all the unattended children and selfishly oblivious parents I’d weaved to avoid during my countless workouts on that track.

∞ And while I’m talking track workouts: Gotta shout out to the intrepid squirrel who one day elected to stand right in the middle of the local dirt track, gnawing away on an acorn while I and other runners sped by him on each side. Peace, love and happiness for all nature’s creatures… Berkeley in a nutshell, I thought.

∞ A question for the Berkeley Psychic Institute, after I spied this sign on a run through downtown: Not to sound cynical, but why the doorbell? If you’ve earned the title of psychic, wouldn’t you simply sense that I’m standing outside your front door? Or does that logic only work when a spirit comes a-callin’?

Berkeley Psychic Institute

∞ Sorry Bay Area, this doesn’t involve you: Hey Hammer Nutrition, I get the cutesy marketing opportunity, but practically speaking why are your gel packets shaped like awkward bloated hammers? Isn’t it bad enough that your Heed drink tastes like cough syrup? I’d imagine that as prospective packet designs go, that hammer design scored above only the velcro gel packet, inside-out gel packet and gel packet with pump dispenser among focus group participants. Nothing says “endurance runner trying to minimize clutter” like an extra inch and a half of utterly useless packaging:

Fortunately they didn’t name the company “Jigsaw Nutrition”

If your poorly conceived packet design reflects your desire to distinguish Hammer from the more user-friendly offerings of PowerBar, Clif Bar and GU Energy, then your efforts are paying off and I thank you – your packaging allows me to quickily distinguish and avoid all Hammer Gel products at my local REI.

∞ As a trail running and minimalism aficionado, I’ve decided to title my not-soon-to-be-released autobiography Zero Drop Dirty. Or if I happen to suffer a debilitating running injury between now and then, Zero Drop Hurty. Don’t even try, fellow trail runners… I’ve already trademarked both.

∞ Speaking of minimalist running, I saw this advice posted to an online running forum on training in minimalist shoes: “Do start out slow and you will avoid sore angry mussels.” I resisted the urge to post my own “Clam up with your shellfish comments” response.

∞ When you gotta go: One typically cool Bay Area afternoon, while running down very steep Moeser Road in El Cerrito, I suddenly felt nature’s call – loud, unmistakable and clearly not willing to wait until I got home. Noticing two outdoor facilities in the park to my left, I veered off in that direction only to find both bathrooms inaccessible behind a locked fence (if I may digress for a moment on my own blog: this obnoxious practice by communities and businesses of making toilets inaccessible to the general public is regularly repeated across the East Bay and nowhere else I’ve lived. It seems to stem from a conditioned fear that someone who doesn’t belong there may actually happen by and want to USE the facilities. On longer runs around Berkeley and Oakland, I frequently found myself on the lookout for homes being remodeled, so I could use the generally unlocked porta-potty in their front yard.)

Anyway… between the time I’d sighted the bathrooms and the time I’d realized they were locked, my brain had upped the ante and begun writing checks my bladder couldn’t cash. So then I had no choice but to sneak off into some nearby bushes in that same park, just below an embankment. Fortunately the coast was clear – the park was empty as I hurried to take care of my business quietly and discreetly. But then, as I stood awkwardly amidst the sparse foliage and passed the physiological point of no return, I heard the squeals and laughter of children – many children – running and playing above the embankment no more than 50 feet away. It hadn’t occurred to me that the park might be connected to a playground which, due to the steep grade of the road, was situated above the park.

My brain instantly filled with the sorts of horrific images that might fill any normal brain upon finding its charges partially exposed and within throwing distance of an active playground – images of me exiting the bushes to find ten stern-faced police officers with guns raised, ordering me to pull my shorts up where they could see them; images of reporters asking my brother, “So urine no way surprised by his arrest?” and Chuck responding with “Not at all, I knew the truth would trickle out eventually”; and images of letters received in prison in my poor mother’s handwriting, chastising me for not wearing clean underwear when I was arrested (in my defense Mom, running shorts are made to be worn without underwear…).

Luckily though, I exited my shadowy cover of bushes into a still-empty park, and so was very – I guess the word would be relieved – to continue on my way without any pee-nal consequences.

∞ Citizens of the People’s Republic of Berkeley tend to treat their cars chiefly as mobile billboards for their left-leaning/wordy/esoteric viewpoints, and the city’s bumper stickers provide more entertaining reading material than many a town’s library. So I rarely pass up an opportunity while running to break out the handy flip phone camera:

bumper stickers

∞ And what says “East Bay” more than spotting a “I Hella ♥ Homos” bumper sticker on a pickup truck, the same week a fellow named Sonny Dykes was hired to be the new Cal football coach?

Sadly, I wasn’t quick enough to snap this picture myself before it sped off (Etsy.com)

∞ Though not a bumper sticker, the “Drive Like Your Kids Live Here” sign is another variation on the obnoxious “Baby On Board” theme… so I’d like to tip my cap (while at the same time not condoning vandalism) to the unidentified wielder of a can of red spray paint up in the Berkeley Hills, who with a few strokes changed this sign’s intent by 180°:

Drive Like Your Kids

∞ Now for the ugly: While running the Iron Horse Trail in 86°F heat, I passed a small cluster of concerned onlookers gathered around two paramedics who were attending to a man lying on his back in the middle of the concrete path. A quick glance told me the man’s short-sleeve shirt was unbuttoned and spread open… but it was the wide smear of crimson across the trail that momentarily unnerved me, and I resisted the morbid impulse to glance at his face. Fortunately the paramedics seemed to have the situation under control. And so I ran on, as runners always do.

∞ Potential ugliness turned memorable meeting: Just over a mile into a 22-mile February training run along that same Iron Horse Trail, I found myself following a dirt alleyway behind a row of homes, with close-set backyards and driveways to my left and an eight-foot-high chain-link fence to my right. Suddenly I felt an electric charge ripple through me as I was greeted by two pit bulls bounding toward me out of the nearest driveway, one of them midnight black and the other sporting a brownish-black coat (for which I soon learned the appropriate term – “brindle”). I quickly steered toward the fence and for about three. long. seconds. debated whether to start climbing. Then I realized the animals were acting curious rather than threatening – no barking, no bared fangs, no guttural threatening growls. Which was reassuring, given that both muscle-bound canines were now standing on their hindlegs, pawing gently but firmly at my legs and hips as my heart continued to skip beats.

Still I was too – I’ll go with “timid” here – to present a friendly façade much less a set of fingers, until with relief I glanced up to see a wiry 20-something Latino fellow wearing a black hoodie pulled over his head, leisurely following the dogs down the driveway while calling them to his side. The dogs’ caretaker was also the owner of extensive tattoo work that radiated up his neck to his face, as well as to the knuckles on his hands. In another time and place, this might have struck me as a menacing scenario.

But any fleeting unease was swiftly quelled as I watched the two animals rush over and zealously lick their master’s face. He in turn patted and stroked their backs with an intensity that could only be described as – true love, I thought. Clearly they were his pride and joy. He smiled up at me from his kneeling position, he and I shook hands, and he proceeded to tell me at length about his two boys as I warmed up to the playful pooches, stroking and patting each one’s solid, muscular back.

Now that the warning sirens in my brain had stopped wailing, I was able to relax and appreciate the two pit bulls for what they were – beautiful, august creatures built like furry brick walls. It seemed inappropriate at that moment to think of them as dogs, the same catch-all term used to describe dachshunds, chihuahuas and labradoodles. Their owner told me how he’d brought the animals with him to California from Harlingen, a town at the southern tip of Texas, close to the Mexico border. He spoke softly, but the pride in his voice was loud and clear as he talked of his companions – how he’d raised them from puppies, how one of them had been featured in a photo shoot for Life magazine, and how he had a sweet-tempered female lounging around inside the house as well.

After several more minutes spent admiring and amusing his sturdy canines, we exchanged our goodbyes and I continued on my way, though I already knew the rest of that day’s run would be a dog by comparison.

∞ On urban animal encounters: Running through a neighborhood just north of Berkeley, I swung a left turn from a residential stretch onto a bustling, four-lane avenue. Lost in thought, I absentmindedly glanced over at a busy gas station on the corner, then looked up again just in time to avoid a head-on collision with a 4-foot-tall and prodigiously round turkey. I hesitate to say which of us would have gotten the worst of a collision, but the turkey seemed to take it all in stride. He jerked his head up at me, looked back down, looked back up, then strolled past as though I’d just stopped him to ask for directions and he had somewhere to be.

Sheepishly I glanced around to gauge whether any bystanders had witnessed this exchange… only later did I learn that a whole rafter of wild turkeys lived across that bustling street, in a fenced-off area dedicated to sustainable urban agriculture and appropriately known as “Turkeytown.” Turkey sightings in Berkeley aren’t uncommon – I’ve seen several around town and in the hills. But after 42 years of life experience including four in college and several more in graduate school, this was the first time I’d ever had to tell myself to back away from the Wild Turkey.

∞ Orange you glad that bridge is there: I could list it first, or last, or anywhere in between… but the Golden Gate Bridge will always be the gravitational field around which my Bay Area running routes orbit. My favorite road course in the East Bay, up along Grizzly Peak and Skyline Blvd, owes much of its allure to its panoramic views of the San Francisco skyline and the city’s defining international orange landmark. Even Oakland Airport officials publicly acknowledge on which side of the bay their bread is buttered:

(photo credit wedistill.com)

And with that, for now at least, I bid farewell to the Bay Area as my primary residence. I’m eager to probe the untapped running potential of Southern California, with its beaches and coastline as far as the eye can see, and weather that hasn’t required long pants since our arrival two months ago. Eager to see new places, meet new running buddies, explore new opportunities and generally feel a new vibe that’s still very much California.

I think, therefore I am going to like it down here. Let me know if you’re ever in the L.A. area… I’d be happy to offer a guided tour of my favorite SoCal running routes!

Looking back: Mt. Tamalpais in Marin overlooks the East Bay and Mt. Diablo (standing tall in the distance)

Paul Butler: Not a race out of place

Posted: June 8, 2013 in CATCH-ALL
Tags: 50 States Marathon Club, Antarctica Marathon, longreads, marathon running, Marathon Tours, Seven Continents Club

Our greatest glory is not in never failing, but in rising up every time we fail.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

Paul Butler is to marathons what Ryan Seacrest is to hair — not one out of place.

I met Paul and his wife Sharon on our recent Antarctica Marathon adventure. Actually, I met a lot of people on our trip, a dizzying array of endurance types with remarkable racing résumés. Some older runners had completed over 100, over 200, over 300 marathons in their lifetimes, while several less veteran runners were clearly headed down that same path. As the temperamental ocean swirled around us, so too did stories of marathoning exploits that circled the globe, in some cases more than once. These were restless minds and bodies forever in search of The Next Big Challenge.

So why, on a ship full of hyperaccomplished running juggernauts, did my focus gravitate to Paul Butler? After all, Paul — a 61-year-old dentist from Center City, Philadelphia — had run “only” 56 marathons prior to boarding the Akademik Sergey Vavilov bound for Antarctica. Compared to some of his fellow passengers, whose medal collections could be melted down to build a life-size Optimus Prime, Butler’s own collection of race bling is relatively modest and could reasonably hang from both sides of one sturdy doorknob (my preferred method of showcasing medals).

Speaking of juggernauts…

No, it wasn’t necessarily the quantity of his marathons that attracted my attention; it was their quality. Because Paul may be, without exaggeration, the most efficient marathoner in the history of the sport. His pre-Antarctica total of 56 marathons incorporated all 50 states plus Washington D.C., as well as six different continents. He’s never run two marathons in the same state nor — aside from North America — on the same continent. He’s run his hometown Philadelphia Marathon only once (although he has competed at shorter distances in the city). Unlike the rest of us, he doesn’t choose a marathon based on what his friends are running, or its proximity to his home, or because he’s easy prey for modern-day race organizers who promise a one-of-a-kind finisher’s medal to anyone who completes all three races within a series.

So it was that on the morning of March 30, only 26.2 miles in Antarctica stood between Paul and a résumé that would make even the most dehydrated marathoner salivate: membership in both the 50 States Marathon Club and the Seven Continents Club, as well as one of the more compelling personal stories in a sport rife with fascinating characters and amazing accomplishments. Antarctica would appropriately serve as the coup de grâce to his marathoning career.

At least, that was the plan. But as we all quickly learned on the Last Continent, sometimes the best-laid plans of ice and men…

Paul’s own best-laid plans went awry at mile 20 when, with 6.2 miles to go in a 15-year journey, his Antarctica Marathon came to a premature end. And four days later, on the Vavilov’s stomach-churning return voyage across the Drake Passage, as most passengers struggled with the concept of “upright,” I seized the opportunity to chat with him in the ship’s library, to learn more about his meticulously executed racing past, his unexpectedly bittersweet present, and his uncertain post-Antarctica future. I’ll let him fill in the details.

Paul and Sharon Butler, aboard the Akademik Sergey Vavilov

(The following conversation took place on April 3, 2013; the original transcript has been edited for brevity and clarity)

Mike S: What motivated you to start running in the first place?
Paul B: I was a runner in elementary school, in the 5th and 6th grade, and then I gave it up until I was in the Army, in Germany. I was married with three children, and I wanted to get myself into shape and be job-worthy before I came back home to the States and looked for a job. So my wife Sharon and I started jogging around the American base in Germany. We both lost about 40 pounds and got back in 1980 in great shape.

MS: So you came back from Germany and settled down in Philadelphia?
PB: Yes. And then sort of forgot about running until my youngest son was going to be bar mitzhvahed. In our congregation, you then do something charitable. I got something in the mail from the Leukemia Society — you raise money, and they’ll pay your way to a marathon. So I chose the inaugural Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon in San Diego in June 1998.

We sent out letters to raise money, and our whole family went — the six of us, Sharon and I and our four children. I think we raised about four or five thousand dollars for the Leukemia Society.

That got me hooked, to do a marathon. And I was disappointed – I think I did it in 5 hours 45 minutes. I expected to finish, but I developed blisters. So then after that was over, and I was disappointed in my time, I said “I’m going to try this again somewhere. Hey, there’s one in Las Vegas, let’s go to Las Vegas.” And I actually finished that in under 5 hours, like 4 hours and 59 minutes. I really ran hard at the end and all my muscles spasmed, and Sharon had to take me back to the hotel room in a wheelchair. That’s how horrible it was.

So then I decided, I like doing all this stuff but I’m not going to kill myself anymore, I’m just going to finish. I had 3,600 frequent flyer miles built up from my credit card, and I took all six of us to Vermont. And I ran pretty good, just missed five hours by under a minute.

And we said, let’s go to some different places, doing these marathon things. When I got to about eight or nine, I saw something about the 50 States Marathon Club. That got me really motivated, and I ran over 40 marathons between 2002 and 2009. Sometimes I did 12 a year, and one time I ran two marathons on consecutive weekends.

So that’s what I did — I decided just to finish, not to hurt myself, not to worry about whether I finished in five hours or seven hours. And I just kept doing them.

San Diego, 1998: the race that began a 15-year marathoning journey

MS: And always used your running as a reason to travel with the family and visit another state?
PB: Well, the kids went with us to Vermont and then to Alaska — the Mayor’s Midnight Sun Marathon in Anchorage in June. We made it a family vacation where we did the marathon first and then flew up to Barrow, took the train down to Fairbanks, and did the whole thing for a couple weeks. It was great.

The trick was planning everything, because I only did one marathon in every state. My last one was supposed to be in Atlantic City. So my whole family, all my friends came out… and that year they canceled the race last minute because they didn’t have a sponsor. Luckily for me there was another race that weekend, the Asbury Park New Jersey [Relay] Marathon. I’d never been to Asbury Park, so that was a new place to see, and it was their inaugural run.

But the bad news was, there was a nor’easter that weekend — it was 40 degrees, the wind was sort of like this [indicates the lurching ship], and it was raining heavily I’d say 90% of the time. It was a horrible day to do a marathon. I wouldn’t want friends and family to come out in that weather, but a lot of them did. So a lot of my family was able to see me finish, but the odd thing was… less than a minute before I crossed the finish line, two of my kids were swinging my oldest grandson back and forth and dislocated his shoulder. So when I crossed the finish line hardly anybody was there, they were all worried about him. Luckily, a family member who’s a physician was able to reset my grandson’s arm, so everything was ok.

After that, I didn’t think about running marathons anymore until February or March 2010. I had built up a ton of frequent flyer miles to run all these places in the states, and I discovered you could fly from Philadelphia to Dublin for 20,000 miles. That was a really good bargain, since it was in October during low season. And the weekend I picked out, the Dublin Marathon was that weekend.

Even M.C. Escher would have been impressed by how Paul made all the pieces fit

MS: So you hadn’t thought about running the continents?
PB: No, not until that point. And I said well, I can do a marathon in Dublin. On the 50 States Marathon Club website, under “Membership” it has “Conquering the Continents.” I saw that not many people had done all the states and all the continents, and I said wow, that’d be a pretty neat thing to be one of those people.

We can’t take too much time off work, so we did several of the international races as a four-day trip — leaving on a Thursday night, arriving on Friday, sightseeing on Saturday, marathon the next morning and then leave that night. We did the same thing with Marathon Tours for their inaugural marathon in the Outback in Ayers Rock, Australia. That one had an eight-hour finishing time — that’s my kind of marathon, I always try to get the slowest. Dublin was also eight hours. So I signed up for that [Ayers Rock] and it worked out great, it was a nice marathon.

And then Phuket in Thailand — I did that in 2011, and that was the worst race ever, ever, ever. I wear orthotic inserts all day when I work and during races too, and they’d never bothered me before. But in Phuket, it was so hot and humid that I developed horrible blisters, and the orthotics kept irritating the blisters. I didn’t really know what was going on the whole race, until I got home and saw what had happened… I kept thinking there were stones in there or something. But I had blisters — I peeled the whole thing off the back of my foot, from the bottom of my foot, both feet.

The bottom line was that after about 5 miles, I was limping… and I limped the whole way, 26.2 miles. But I finished, and that was my slowest finish time, like 7 hours 15 minutes. I crossed the finish line, and I was like the last one to finish. I knew I wasn’t going back there to do it again — I had to do it. So that was gratifying, the fact that I did it.

Then I ran Mt. Kilimanjaro the following February, Easter Island in June, and the Marine Corps Marathon [in Washington D.C.] was in there at some point. And I was done last June, after Easter Island.

I signed up for Antarctica probably three years ago. I was signed up for 2014, and Thom [Gilligan, President/Founder of Marathon Tours and Antarctica Marathon race director] called me a year and a half ago to ask, “Do you want to move up a year?” Believe it or not, I trained harder for this race than I did any other race because I knew it was going to be more difficult. I like to run on a treadmill, and that was probably my downfall — even though I would run 15, 16 miles and elevate it every once in a while to get used to hills, it just wasn’t like this. You can’t duplicate this on a treadmill. [laughs] So that was probably my downfall. This was supposed to be 57 and done, and… now it isn’t. But I did get a half marathon medal, I did 20 miles, I just… I would never come back here, I would never do this again.

Paul (wearing bib #20) greets the camera during the Antarctica Marathon (photo credit Anita Allen)

MS: There are companies that fly into Antarctica, race immediately and fly out again. Would you ever think about doing that?
PB: I probably would… because it’s going to gnaw at me for a while, that I didn’t finish it. I can’t help it — no matter what anybody says to me, it’s going to bother me. Even though it’s the same medal, and it’s going to be up on my wall, it doesn’t mean the same in my heart. I know there are two other races that fly in here, so I would definitely do that. But we can’t really afford to do it this way [by ship] again. Our house needs to be painted, the bathroom needs to be redone, and we put that off so I could do this. Who knows, I’m only 61, there are a lot of guys here older than me who finished a marathon, so… I’ll see.

MS: So then what’s next? Will you keep running, maybe start over?
PB: Well, I’m going to still run, but I have no marathons planned. I signed up for the Broad Street Run in May — Philadelphia has a Broad Street 10-mile run which is the best, most successful and most popular 10-miler. They have like 40,000 runners, and it’s a lottery like the New York City Marathon. It’s a nice easy run, and I’ll do that. And then I’ll see. I’ll look into… I know I’m not going to not look at the website for those two other [Antarctica] marathons. But I have to find out, is there a time limit on that one? I don’t want to go there and get yanked off the course in 6 hours 15 minutes if they’re only giving you six hours.

I’ve been emailing my daughter, who’s a professional trainer. She’s done a couple marathons with me in Hawaii and Florida, and she was a professional basketball player. When she was in high school, in the state semifinal game, her team was behind by two, and as the point guard she was dribbling down court for the tying or winning basket with five seconds left. She was dribbling down, and the ball dribbled off her knee, went out of bounds, and that was the end of her high school career. She said, “Dad, that haunts me all the time.” Not every day — she has three boys of her own now, she’s got a nice life, great husband, but every once in a while she thinks about that ball dribbling off her foot, just like I’m going to think about me stopping at the 20-mile mark and not finishing this race. She says things happen: “You know, whatever caused you not to have the energy to go on, it happened. Just like I dribbled off my foot, I can’t go back to change it.” Like the guy who makes the last out in the World Series, you know, or the guy who drops a perfect pass in football.

MS: So you decided to stop the Antarctica race yourself, you said?
PB: Yes, it was my choice. I guess I looked ok, and Thom said “Paul, I’m stopping all the runners after you, and we’re going to monitor you.” I was on that harder loop [out to the Uruguayan base and back] at the 20-mile mark, and I saw a hill. At the 20-mile marker there was a big dip right there, and I had already fallen twice, I’d really hurt myself [indicates his wrist].

I said to myself, I’m going to fall if I try to go over that hill, and I’m never going to get back up to go the other way. And there were still hills beyond that. I just felt that I was going to hurt myself. I’d already fallen twice, and I didn’t want to really cause any problem for me or anybody else getting me out of there. I just didn’t feel confident… I lost my confidence. Because I wasn’t out of breath, I just didn’t have the inner strength.

MS: So… you mentioned Phuket, but would this qualify as your most challenging race?
PB: The course in Phuket wasn’t crazy hard, it was just the feet that got me in trouble there. I never professed to be a great marathon runner, but this is the first I had to drop out of. I always finished every race — even if I had to walk it, I always had that strength to finish. This one just… like I said, I trained for this one more than any other marathon, and I didn’t take it seriously enough, even at that point when Thom sent that email about “You’d better train for the hills.” The ice and the hills just got to me.

For 18 runners, crossing the finish line in Antarctica secured their place in the Seven Continents Club

MS: Do you have a most memorable race?
PB: I like Vermont because it was a tough course that I finished pretty well, for me — a little over five hours. Actually, that was a beautiful course. Marine Corps I liked also because I did a pretty good time on that, and once you do that, you feel like you’re a real Marine, you know? [laughs] Every race I felt really good about because I’m not a super athlete. I’m sure I’m 20 pounds overweight. In my mind it’s hard to even walk a marathon, and I usually would run more than half of it, then run and walk the rest of the way.

But I always felt that I was able to pick my races. I couldn’t pick this one, this was it — this was the one, I couldn’t change it. I always thought I could do what I had to do with this one. Because I talked to a few people who had done it, and they said “Thom will let you finish as long as he sees you’re going at a good pace.” And he did… he was going to allow me to finish. I made the choice to stop. And that’s not like me.

Bob [a fellow runner] picked me up when I fell. He saw me go down the second time, and I didn’t get up right away. I wasn’t knocked out, but I was like in shock, like where am I? He yanked me up and asked me if I was ok, and I said yeah I’m fine, and I kept on going at that point.

MS: What’s been your favorite destination, not necessarily for the race itself, just a place you visited? 
PB: Actually, believe it or not, Mount Rushmore. There’s actually two marathons there, Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse [MS note: the Mt. Rushmore Marathon was discontinued after 2008]. I chose the Crazy Horse Marathon because it’s more downhill. If I can go fast on the first half — I usually walk a lot of the second half — I’ll finish in a good amount of time. I love that course, and Sharon loved to see Mt. Rushmore.

These races have given us chances to see the whole country. When we went to do the Lake Okoboji Marathon in Iowa, we took a three-hour side trip and saw the Field of Dreams, from the movie. Every time we went somewhere we tried to see an attraction. Even if we had to drive a long distance it was worth it, because you never know when you’re going to go back to these places.

MS: What’s your PR?
PB: It’s like 4:59:02 I think, something like that. That was in Las Vegas. I figure there’s no way I’m ever going to get under four hours, so that’s fine for me.

MS: Have you run any trail races, or do you stick to roads?
PB: No, I don’t do any… in fact, I would consider this a trail race, I think it should be advertised as a trail race. Whether it’s muddy or icy, it’s still a trail race.

This definitely has the look of a trail race (photo credit Anita Allen)

MS: Do you run any other distances?
PB: I’ve done the Broad Street Run many times, the 10-mile one, and I do a few half marathons in Philadelphia. But not much lately. I really just tried to do marathons, and now it’s a new part of my life, so I haven’t really figured out what I’m going to do next.

MS: Do you do any other sports besides running?
PB: I played basketball with an adult league for ten years. When I decided to do this running thing I gave it up, because in this league guys like you – younger guys – would come in and play, and they would play for real real. I was scared I was going to get hurt… so I decided just to make sure if I was going to hurt, I was going to hurt myself [running]. So I might try that, I might go back and do the basketball thing.

MS: Have you sustained any injuries through all of this?
PB: Yes, this happened about two months ago — I switched shoes, I didn’t do it right away, but I did a 15-mile run, and after the run this big toe got totally black. I had to go to this podiatrist who saved me many times in my running career. He gave me some shot and had to slice between the nail and the thing, and the thing bled out. I was able to still run, and it finally eased up, but that sidelined me for a couple weeks about eight weeks ago. So that’s the worst of my injuries.

MS: Wow, so no shin splints, no stress fractures, no tendinitis, no plantar fasciitis, nothing too serious?
PB: I did… in 2001 I had a problem with plantar fasciitis, and I didn’t run for about a year. I must have bought three or four different gadgets to try to cure that, and the orthotics finally helped. That was all my injuries. It wasn’t all easy, but I never had knee problems, I never had shin splints, never really had hip problems.

Yeah, I was pretty fortunate. And I always say to myself that if I could lose 20 pounds and keep it off forever, I probably would’ve been a really good runner. Because I had no knee injuries, no problems — but I didn’t have the self-control, I enjoy eating too much. I’m a vegan, but I eat a lot of that too.

MS: If you were to start on day one and do this all over again, would you do it the same way? Would you do anything differently?
PB: For my whole running career?

MS: Yes, from San Diego, 1998.
PB: No, it was such a great run. I spent so many hours planning to make sure I could get all the states at a certain time to finish up Saturday [in Antarctica]. It was all planned out, and it took so much effort — enjoyable effort. It was a good part of my life, 15 years. And who knows what the future’s going to bring. I swore to everybody this was going to be my last marathon… I said “This is it, I’m not doing anymore.” It takes up a lot of time; I wake up at 4:00 in the morning on the treadmill, I’m running two hours before I go to work, and then I’m falling asleep at 7:00 at night. I know if I were to say to Sharon right now, “Let’s not paint the house, let’s not fix this,” then she would go with me, she would do this again… she would. But it’s not fair. She’s given up enough at this point, and she was at every finish line, every finish line.

Reunited at the finish: while Paul raced, Sharon provided support as a volunteer (photo credit Anita Allen)

MS: As far as advice for other runners who look at you and say, “Wow, 56 marathons, I couldn’t even run one,” or really anybody who’s looking at some kind of daunting challenge, would you have any guidance for them?
PB: Yes, I would. I think anybody could do it, could do what I did. I don’t consider myself a great athlete. But I bought this book called The Non-Runner’s Marathon Trainer, written by two professors from the University of Northern Iowa who taught a course about training for a marathon as part of their college curriculum. It was a 16-week course, and they gave you eating advice and training advice so that any non-athlete could get through a marathon. So I read and followed the training guidelines in that book for the first three or four marathons. And it worked. So anybody who’s not a real athlete, buy that book.

MS: Is there any other race that you really want to run, that you have in mind?
PB: No, there’s a whole bunch of stuff that’s going on in my life right now. But I’ll be thinking about Antarctica… definitely that’s going to be on my mind, and who knows what’s going to happen.

The Last Marathon (Antarctica), Act 2

Posted: May 3, 2013 in Marathons, RACE REPORTS, Seven Continents
Tags: Akademik Sergey Vavilov, Antarctica Marathon, Drake Passage, King George Island, longreads, Marathon Tours, Oceanites, One Ocean Expeditions, Seven Continents Club, South Shetland Islands, Southern Ocean, Thom Gilligan

A ship in harbour is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.
– William Shedd

Continued from Act 1:

The 14th Antarctica Marathon (Saturday, March 30)
Race morning arrived in the usual manner, with Andrew’s comforting voice reminding us over the Vavilov‘s PA that it was time to run a marathon on the coldest, highest, driest, darkest and windiest continent on Earth. Hooray! Fortunately the day promised to be optimal (in the Antarctica sense of the word), with temperatures hovering around a balmy -5°C (23°F). More importantly though, wind speed was a near-negligible 12 knots (14 mph), assuaging my concerns that I’d be stumbling 13.1 miles through an unforgiving headwind (and the other 13.1 with a brisk tailwind).

I inventoried my gear one last time. All race-day nutrients – energy bars, gels, etc. – had to be removed from their original packaging and all paper wrappers left on the ship, in accordance with the 1991 Protocol on Environmental Protection to the Antarctic Treaty. This wasn’t a problem, since for convenience sake I always liquify my race-day nutrition in my water bottle. Per Thom’s instructions I’d prepared two such bottles, which I planned to leave at the start/finish area.

In a dining hall alive with the clatter of breakfast dishes and the buzz of pre-race jitters, I waited as long as possible to eat my usual stomach-sanctioned meal of granola and peanut butter, which I’d brought with me from California. Several steps stood between us and the starting gun – the donning of the tomato-red Wet Skins that would keep us warm and dry, the loading of the zodiacs, the short ride to King George Island, the process of funneling everyone from zodiac to start line – and with 4+ hours of running ahead of me, I wanted to maximize the nutritional payback of my carefully choreographed breakfast.

blue iceberg

The first zodiacs launched at 7:15am, with 12 passengers per zodiac. After a short 5-minute ride under gray skies and across smooth water, we beached near Bellingshausen Station and stepped ashore for the first time in 3½ days. Two Gentoo penguins splished and splashed in the water nearby. Stepping out of my Wet Suit, I could still feel the ground swaying underfoot as I tried to coax out my land legs. Moreover, the residual effects of the Transderm patch that I’d removed 36 hours earlier continued to wreak havoc on my short-range vision. Discomforting as my still-dilated pupils were, I was confident they wouldn’t upset my ability to run in a straight line for several hours.

How does a warm-weather Californian train for a marathon in Antarctica? Much as I hate to divulge trade secrets, here it is: I bought stuff. More specifically, windproof stuff. Compared to my typical all-season California running attire, I felt like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man in my three upper-body layers (REI wool base layer, synthetic Under Armour mid-layer, Columbia wind- and waterproof outer jacket) and two lower-body layers (REI fleece-lined tights, Pearl Izumi lightweight running pants), plus balaclava that I was hoping to shed early in the race.

Talk about happy feet… Rich’s own have carried him through over 300 marathons

Katie – who as a spectator would be doubling as a volunteer – was even more polar-ready, given that she’d be standing around for an indeterminate amount of time. She wisely wore her Wet Suit and rubber boots at all times, together with her Arctic Parka from The North Face that was so down-filled and poofy, I entertained the thought of hanging bricks from her sleeves so she wouldn’t blow away.

As Thom announced two minutes to start, the One Ocean crew hurriedly set up plastic buckets lined with green trash bags to serve as makeshift latrines. Fortunately I’d been able to attend to my most pressing needs on the ship, and after a lightning-quick stop at the latrine I jogged to the start line. For many of the bundled-up runners gathered beneath it, the unassuming white canvas banner represented the culmination of a lifetime of marathon-inspired blood, sweat and tears (with more to come). For others of us, this would be continent #2. And for two runners, this would be their first marathon on any continent.

This is how I envision an Antarctica Walmart on Black Friday (footage courtesy of Anita Allen of Marathon Tours):

Regardless of what road you’d taken to get there, Thom’s starting-gun cry of “GO!” triggered a collective release of whole-body tension, as the slow-moving stampede of runners – including members of the Russian and Uruguayan bases – followed the leaders along the dirt and up the initial ascent. And almost immediately, I dismissed all thoughts of a sub-4:00 finish. The first mile (which, given the course layout, we would be running six times) was an absolute mess. This was trail running at its damnedest. The deep, hardened ruts carved by the Bellingshausen ATVs, combined with the sporadic patches of ice, brought to mind the frozen-over ribcage of a recently excavated T. Rex.

Footing in places was unpredictable at best. Trail running typically demands that your eyes constantly scan the ground two steps ahead for your next foothold. But on King George Island, it also became necessary to anticipate several steps beyond that, as the course at several points became an exercise in “Choose Your Own Adventure”: foot-deep powdered snow to your left, slushy ice straight ahead or a seemingly frozen-over stretch to your right. The demand for constant vigilance gradually took a mental and physical toll and led to lapses in attention, resulting in either (best-case scenario) choosing the more difficult and treacherous route, or (worst-case scenario) a hard and jarring fall on slick rocky terrain.

Mike Sohaskey running Antarctica Marathon 2013

Just a boy and his balaclava, out for a springtime jog

And fall people did: this edition of the Antarctica Marathon might appropriately have been subtitled “There Will Be Blood”. Many runners fell multiple times, sustaining scrapes and bruises of varying severity. Two women broke their falls with their faces, yet soldiered on with impressive battle wounds that testified to their toughness. And post-race rumors circulated that one runner had even suffered broken ribs (yes, plural). I was among the fortunate few to speak of “fall” rather than “falls” – I got too aggressive and lost my footing during my second loop of that first out-and-back, landing on my backside and bouncing right back up again. No blood, no foul. But in homage to March Madness going on back in the states, I adopted a mantra of “survive and advance” that served me well at all remaining icy stretches.

Although the prevailing concern had been shoe-sucking stretches of gooey mud, as it turned out postponing the trip until late March (i.e. closer to winter) meant that most of the would-be muddy bits were now iced over. Every once in a while I’d hit a slushy patch and submerge my foot, though fortunately wet feet never became a concern. I think by mile 4, most runners – myself included – gladly would have swapped the ice we had for the mud we didn’t.

Whether it was due to the half-week spent on the ship, or my racing in lower-body layers for the first time ever, I could quickly tell that on this day my legs wouldn’t be their trail-running best. Fortunately I wouldn’t need them to be – this wasn’t the Chicago Marathon, and the only PR to come out of this day would be Thom’s post-race press release. I’d run (and specifically trained) on tired legs many times before… the question wasn’t whether I’d finish, it was whether I’d do so before the other 40-something-year-old males on the course.

(Top) Overall winner Alan Nawoj leads the way up another icy hill (photo credit Anita Allen);
(Bottom) Third-place finisher & women’s champ Inez Haagen appropriately sports bib #1

Whereas the first 4+ mile stretch out to the Uruguayan base and back was fairly brutal (though with a striking glacier view to distract the mind), the second out-and-back was much more manageable. After a mile or so of smooth footing on dirt, a series of undulating hills led past the Chilean base and out to the second turnaround near the Chinese base, where yoga guru Liz sat waiting to cheer us on. Her enthusiasm was a welcome pick-me-up.

With one iteration of the course under my belt, I shed my balaclava and passed through the start/finish area to a chorus of cheers from the most amazing volunteer contingent on the continent. And as soon as I began my second ascent of that first nasty hill, the assorted aches and pains that had nagged me throughout the first nine miles faded – the lifelessness in my legs, the tightness in my left adductor, the overstretching of my arch that comes and goes in my Merrell Mix Masters. Even the Patch-induced fog around my head lifted… maybe I’d succeeded in sweating out the residual scopolamine. In any case, it all vanished. And finally I was back to doing what I do – I was running. On rugged trails, and up and down hills. In one of the most mythical and breathtaking places on the planet. Life was good.

Gentoo-men, start your engines! Footage with narration by Martin Evans on the marathon course (thanks, Martin!):

Not that I was running every step with my arms raised and fists pumped. To be sure, I was enjoying and appreciating the scenery of the course, stopping briefly to breathe in the views and snap a few photos along the first two out-and-backs. But other runners did a much better job of flipping their switch to carpe diem mode. Luckily the course layout was motivating for the frequent opportunities it afforded me to see my fellow runners. Because everyone seemed to be having (cue Dirty Dancing soundtrack) the time of their lives – even the lead runners greeted passing runners with a smile and a wave. Although in passing, I did overhear one of several marathoners with a cold-weather Canadian pedigree admit, “I wish I could fast-forward the next three hours.”

Some fatigued runners inevitably narrowed their focus later in the race to conserve energy; after the 17-mile mark, for example, I acknowledged and encouraged everyone I passed with the same silent thumbs-up. But a surprising number of runners I passed during my final out-and-backs still looked like kids riding a roller coaster for the first time – eyes wide, arms raised, huge grins seemingly painted Joker-style across their faces (Why so serious?, their body language seemed to ask). I admired and respected their live-in-the-moment mindset, in part because I couldn’t relate to it. The faster I run a race the more I enjoy it, with few exceptions (I can’t think of one right now). My overall enjoyment of a race is, in large part, a function of how long it takes me to get to the finish line. I realize expectations change, often in ways we can’t predict, and I know it won’t always be this way… but for now it is. I can live with that.

We interrupt this running program for some polar humor

Regardless of continent, no trail race would feel official without my taking a wrong turn. Despite Thom’s clear warnings to stay watchful for arrow signs and not blindly follow the person ahead of us, I unwittingly slipped into auto-pilot mode during mile 14 and blindly followed the person ahead of me. Ginger, who had recently passed me and was running a strong race, blew by the Chilean airstrip and had almost reached the base itself before realizing that neither the Chilean airstrip nor that large red building on her left was part of the course. I’d just reached the airstrip when she turned to look over her shoulder, and I gestured in sweeping windmill-type motions for her to turn around. Fortunately she did, and as I reversed course I saw yet another runner on auto-pilot heading our way. Retracing my steps to the suspect turn, I continued on my way and within minutes was passed by Ginger again, this time for good.

And that’s how I turned this into my own personal 26.5-mile Antarctica Ultramarathon. And yes, there was a runner named Ginger on Gilligan’s ship, as well as at least one (assistant) professor.

By my third time around the course the temperature had begun to drop, and the icy uphill stretches along miles 18 and 19 had refrozen and become even trickier to negotiate. This third out-and-back to the Uruguayan base was the low point of my race, as reflected by the uninspired 13:07 it took me to complete mile 19. Did you run in Crocs?, I could hear the peanut gallery back home asking.

Official "aid station" for Antarctica Marathon 2013

The official Last Marathon aid station

Once I passed through the start/finish area for the final time and approached mile 22, I could see – check that, feel – the light at the end of this tunnel. As the course approached its final uphill at mile 24.5, I was able to push the pace enough to pass two runners (was he in my age group?) who looked – as I had felt 5 miles earlier – to be running out of gas. Surging down the final stretch past the Russian base, I felt that unmistakable sensation of “This is why I run” wash over me as Katie and her fantastic fellow supporters cheered me across the finish line in a time of 4:29:50.

The raw, electric thrill of accomplishment overwhelmed me as I embraced Katie and then my fellow Mike from California, with whom I’d trained in Buenos Aires and who had run an inspired race, finishing fifth overall in a time of 4:20:26. One of the younger volunteers handed me a medal still folded up in its plastic bag, which was perfectly fine with me – by that point he could have handed me a lump of frozen penguin guano and I would have thanked him giddily.

Mike Sohaskey finishing Antarctica Marathon 2013

Lookin’ for someone to hug after just missing a Boston qualifier by a mere 1:14:50

After hanging around the finish area to bask in the moment, take a few photos and cheer across the next two finishers, Thom encouraged me to change out of my wet running gear and into dry clothes. And as soon as I pulled on a dry base layer, I could feel my body temperature start to drop. My shiver reflex kicked in, and the feeling drained from my fingers and toes as I hurried to don my cold-weather gear. Ewan of the One Ocean crew sprang into action, jamming hand warmers into my gloves, zipping me into my parka and Wet Suit (since my fingers had lost all dexterity), and directing Katie and me to a waiting zodiac. As I’d later learn, Thom and the One Ocean staff were carefully monitoring all finishers after marathon winner Alan and runner-up Billy each ended up in the Russian medical tent with hypothermia.

Whether it was the warm glow of accomplishment, or more likely the dry clothes and hand warmers, by the time the zodiac reached the ship my body temperature had self-regulated. Maybe, as I’ve referenced before, I really am chasing the endorphin dragon. But if I could just bottle the pride and elation that gripped me as I crossed that finish line….

Instead, I settled for five blissful minutes in the Vavilov sauna, followed by a hot shower that, if it didn’t quite bring me back to life, at least made me feel a lot less undead.

Mike Sohaskey and Katie Ho at finish line of Antarctica Marathon 2013

Admittedly I was too euphoric to check, but I’m pretty sure that’s Katie inside that Antarctic sumo suit
(photo credit Anita Allen)

The Vavilov continued its spiritual rebirth as more and more runners returned with stories to tell, memories to share, and wounds to heal. Some of these wounds would be psychological, as with the dozen or so runners who found themselves unable to complete the marathon and were credited with the half marathon instead. And 78-year-old Wes, appropriately fearful of falling, walked off the course for the first time in his 201 marathons. Runners – particularly runners willing to travel to the end of the earth – are understandably a proud bunch, but hopefully all bruised egos, like their physical counterparts, will heal with time.

When the dust settled, 60 of the 72 runners who started the marathon, finished. This may sound harsh or arrogant, though that’s not my intent – but the truth is, there’s a lot to be said for a race that not everyone finishes. Inextricably wrapped up in its unsurpassed beauty is the harsh reality that Antarctica is a brutal, unforgiving backdrop for any activity, much less a marathon. You can admire and respect it from afar, you can agree to its singular demands, you can formulate the best-laid plan to overcome it. But at the end of the day you don’t choose this race, it chooses you.

Joao’s prediction had been correct, of course; with the race in our stern-view mirror, the mood aboard the Vavilov lightened considerably. But the revival wouldn’t be immediate, and the bar/lounge would masquerade as a quiet zone for one more evening while the rest of the ship surrendered itself to the inexorable force of post-marathon exhaustion.

Even without the icy patches, the undulating course would have left a lasting impression

To the victors go the handshakes: BBQ and awards ceremony (Sunday, March 31)
Official results weren’t immediately posted, so as Sunday afternoon rolled around I wasn’t sure where I’d finished overall or whether I’d placed in my age group. I knew the top five finishers, but beyond that I was in the dark as to who finished where, much less how old anyone was. I knew that Winter, who’d finished shortly after me, was 14 years old, but that was pretty much the extent of what I knew.

So I was looking forward to the world’s frostiest BBQ and awards ceremony that afternoon on the ship’s third deck. The food choices – who can say no to macaroni and cheese? – were excellent, the drinks were on ice (seriously, they were on ice), and after lunch had been served Thom stepped to the microphone to present the awards. Rather than having a prepared list of winners, he seemed to collate the overall results in his head on the fly, and there were long pauses – and the occasional incorrect winner announced – as he arranged each set of age group winners in his head before making the call. Standing on that deck, I was glad I’d invested in a kick-ass parka. Thanks, Patagonia.

Mike Sohaskey, winner of M(40-49) division for Antarctica Marathon 2013

Thom (center) congratulates me and Maarten Vroom (great running surname!) on winning the men’s 40-49 division

Alan Nawoj (33) from Boston was the overall marathon winner in an astonishing time of 3:29:56. Billy Nel (27) from Australia finished second with his own crazy-fast time of 3:37:48. And Inez Haagen (49) from the Netherlands, the first women’s finisher who has now won five marathons on five continents, rounded out the sub-4:00 finishers (and won the “non-hypothermic finishers” subdivision) with an impressive 3:41:52. Amazingly, Inez accomplished this mind-boggling feat at age 49, a number I had to read three or four times on the overall results page and which I still don’t actually believe. Among the runners, I particularly enjoyed watching her and Alan as we passed along the course – each has a smooth, flowing stride that even gravel-strewn patches of black ice couldn’t suppress.

Winter ran a strong race of her own, crossing the finish line in 4:49:45 and seizing the title of youngest runner to complete a marathon on the White Continent. As such, she remains on track to conquer her larger goal of becoming the youngest runner to finish a marathon on all seven continents before she turns 15 next year. And more importantly, she’ll raise a whole lot of money for prostate cancer research while doing it.

Despite finishing a solid hour (actually 00:59:54) behind Alan, I managed to win the men’s 40-49 age group in 4:29:50. In fact, all three Mikes on the roster – me, Mike Hess (34) and Mike Ahrens (62) – won our age group. ‘Tis a powerful and athletic name, that one. As their name was called, each winner stepped to the front to receive their award: a handshake from and photo op with Thom. This was, needless to say, the source of some playfully snide commentary from several age group winners, who’d clearly been hoping for something more, well, medal-y.

Thom with the top 3 women finishers: (left to right) Ginger, Winter and Inez

The awards ceremony culminated with the presentation of Seven Continents Club medals to those 18 marathoners and half-marathoners for whom Antarctica had been their 7th racing continent. That was, fittingly, one proud and beaming group. Like the Antarctica Marathon itself, the Seven Continents Club was Thom’s brainchild. As a runner I’d known of the Club for some time, but only recently did I become truly cognizant of its existence. My own motivation for wanting to race in Antarctica was my twin desire to (a) visit Antarctica, and (b) race in every compelling locale we visit. The Seven Continents Club provides the appealing opportunity to race in places we’re already inclined to visit, as well as in some intriguing, out-of-the-way settings we might not otherwise consider. I can definitely envision myself as a member of the Club someday.

The Last Great Continent (Sun – Tues, March 31 – April 2)
Once the marathon ended and the Vavilov left King George Island behind, our collective stress melted away – and for once, Antarctic thawing was a good thing. Wes’s sweatshirt spoke for nearly everyone with its proclamation of “GOOD-BYE TENSION, HELLO PENSION”. People animatedly recapped their race day from start to finish and swapped stories from the course. Runner-up Billy claimed the marathon “makes Comrades look like a baby,” a comment quickly dismissed by Comrades veterans Rory and Billy’s father Pieter. Jeff from Manhattan Beach summarized his thoughts succinctly, saying he felt “like I was beaten with a stick.” Susan from Nova Scotia proudly labeled it her “best personal worst ever.” And still others compared (and re-bandaged) open wounds.

For the remainder of our trip, we’d have the opportunity to stash our running shoes and immerse ourselves in Antarctica. And for those who have yet to visit, the best description I can manage is “nature porn.” Every stark, pristine landscape looks as though it were professionally airbrushed for maximal effect – visual features, textures and lighting coalesce in seemingly unreal ways. Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart might just as easily have been a naturalist talking about the Antarctic wilderness when he wrote, “I can’t define pornography, but I know it when I see it.”

Fournier Bay

Over the next three days we would:

witness unique, dramatically lit landscapes – deep blue icebergs framed against a backdrop of solid gray skies and unblemished white peaks – that looked more like Superman’s home planet of Krypton than unspoiled nature. Staring up from the quiet of our floating zodiac at the exquisitely oriented layers of ice and snow, it was mind-boggling to think these layers had been accumulating, building to their present-day dimensions, unperturbed for… ever? Plus or minus a few thousand years.
visit Gentoo penguin rookeries (and sighted Adelie and Chinstrap penguins) in Mikkelsen Harbor and on Cuverville Island. Like most of the group I was fascinated by these goofy-looking, -sounding and -acting birds, many of whom passed their days conserving energy while waiting – in a race against time – for their swimming feathers to replace their down covering.
experience some of the most awe-inspiring moments of our lives in Neko Harbour and Fournier Bay, courtesy of breaching minke whales and several intimate encounters with humpback whales. The humpbacks curiously chose to stay and socialize with our kayaks and zodiacs, either of which the whales easily could have flipped had they been of the mind to do so. To appreciate the combination of power, grace and empathy that the humpback embodies, check out the video below that I filmed from our zodiac.
get up-close and personal with Weddell seals, Antarctic fur seals, crabeater seals, and even a leopard (penguin-munching) seal. They may not get the attention afforded their whale and penguin brethren, but the Antarctic seals never ceased to amaze and amuse.
hear Assistant Expedition Leader Mark – check that, Maahk – entertain and fire up his audience with his account of how an encounter with a humpback whale – and looking the gentle creature right in the eye – changed his life. Mark was like a man possessed as he told his story: he was animated, he was jazzed, he was pumped, and you couldn’t help but be inspired by his energy and sense of purpose.

Antarctica is a land so completely devoid of artificial noise – no distant voices, no traffic, no machinery, no hum of electric power lines – that you soon realize: every sound out here matters. And it’s worth your time to listen. No static, no background noise, only nature as it has been for thousands of years. What you see is what you get, and if you don’t like what you see… well, Antarctica doesn’t care. And it’s not changing for anyone.

When I say “Antarctica,” chances are you think “cold.” And yes, admittedly it’s cold down here. But if you’re willing to close your mouth, open your mind and embrace your insignificance, then air temperature won’t be your lasting memory of this place. Because that’s what this continent asks of its guests: feel free to keep your muddy boots on, but leave your first-world problems at the door. In subtle, sublime ways that extend beyond the forced reality of the Drake Passage, Antarctica is a land of shifting perspectives.

The many faces of penguins (clockwise from upper left): fat and contemplative, fat and curious, fat and proud, fat and frenzied

On the evening of our final full day in Antarctica, John Bingham hosted a live auction to benefit Oceanites, a non-profit science and educational foundation that collects data for the Antarctic Site Inventory. Oceanites recently lost their National Science Foundation funding and one-third of their total funding when the Sequester kicked in. All proceeds from our auction would go to benefit Oceanites, and runners answered the call with generous and in some cases above-and-beyond contributions. John started fast at a decidedly un-penguin-like pace, kicked it into gear – “I told ’em I could have us out of here in 30 minutes!” – and in no time flat had found homes for mile markers 1, 13 and 26; the start/finish line banner; a “one-of-a-kind” (turns out there were two) nautical chart of our voyage; an author-autographed biography of Frank Wild, Ernest Shackleton’s right-hand man; and the opportunity to present the wake-up announcements over the ship’s PA on the final morning of our journey.

I took advantage of the silent part of the auction to score mile marker 20, a nice round number that to me signifies a key milestone in every marathon effort.

John Bingham & Mike Sohaskey at Antarctica Marathon auction for Oceanites

(Left) Auctioneer John Bingham raises money for Oceanites as Jenny Hadfield tracks the results (photo credit Maarten Vroom); (Right) The closest I’d come to taking home a penguin

Queasy come, queasy go (Wed – Fri, April 3 – 5)
During the auction and dinner that evening, the Drake Passage flexed its muscles once again as we bid the White Continent goodbye and set our sights once again on Ushuaia. Quickly picking up where it had left off, the Drake rocked the ship with renewed ferocity – silverware clattered to the floor in the kitchen, diners had to side-step broken glass, occupied chairs slid several feet across the dining hall floor (much to the horror of the adults and the delight of the kids), and before dessert was served, half of those seated at our table had excused themselves to go lie down.

By 10:00pm the Vavilov resembled an abandoned ghost ship as people hunkered down in their cabins to ride out the “Drake Shake.”

Looking to preserve our vision during the return voyage, Katie and I both chose to forego the Transderm patch in favor of Dramamine, which worked well for me at a dose of one pill every 12 hours. No drowsiness, no blurred vision and no seasickness. Howl as it might outside the portholes in our cabin, the Drake would have to look elsewhere for easy prey.

Mike Sohaskey, Rory Steyn & Katie Ho on Vavilov in Antarctica

Coming together with like-minded folks like Rory, Nelson Mandela’s former chief of security and a 12-time Comrades Marathon finisher, was a highlight of the trip

But life on the Vavilov those two days was anything but comfortable. As near-hurricane force winds buffeted the ship, the theater that played out from our front-row seats on the bridge could well have been Mother Nature’s production of “The Sound and the Fury.” And again I felt very, very small. Credit to the One Ocean staff, they tried to keep our minds occupied… but even if you’re not prone to motion sickness, it’s hard to keep your head in the game when the world is constantly shifting beneath your feet. With the ship rising and falling unpredictably I felt like a human accordion: tall and stretched-out one second, short and compact the next.

But even the Drake couldn’t stifle all productivity. Fortunately I had the opportunity during this time to sit and talk shop for a few minutes with Jenny Hadfield. And I’m glad I did – her professional voice of experience was graciously shared and greatly appreciated. I had questions about writing and blogging, and she shared her own story of how she’d gotten started in the exercise physiology field and had gradually transitioned to a now-successful writing career (her popular advice column “Ask Coach Jenny” offers training tips and can be found on the Runner’s World website). She’s not only a terrific professional resource but also, like nearly everyone I met on the Vavilov, a genuine and thoughtful person.

We were all urged to submit our ten best Antarctica photos, and that evening Nate the great photographer of the One Ocean staff presented a slideshow he’d compiled (in record time) from our selected images. Complete with its own soundtrack, the slideshow was a tour de force that alternately had the audience laughing, cheering, ooh-ing and aah-ing. Best of all, the One Ocean staff provided each passenger with a USB jump drive containing – among other info – the slideshow, daily newsletters, staff bios, nautical briefing logs and spreadsheet of wildlife sightings from the previous ten days. I probably should have saved myself (and you) a lot of time by just posting all the data from that jump drive in place of this recap.

They may seem bumbly fumbly stumbly on land, but… proceed to perceive a pleasing pack of porpoising penguins:

It’s been ice to meet you (Fri – Sat, April 5 – 6)
Our voyage culminated that evening with the Captain’s Dinner – salmon, hooray! – in which the Captain of the Vavilov was appropriately recognized by all and presented with a marathon finisher’s medal by Thom. Throughout the meal glasses were raised, gratitude was expressed, egos were stroked and the microphone rarely sat silent. Thom invited Winter to say a few words and she acquitted herself well, reminding us about Team Winter and urging everyone to commit their running to a cause important to them.

After dinner we set about trying to repack our once-efficiently crammed bags, a task that felt like trying to shove toothpaste back in the tube. And the next morning we awoke before the sun in Ushuaia, where we began the dual process of reacclimating to civilization and saying our sentimental goodbyes. Sadly, I realize some folks I’ll never see again, though my cyber-stalking skills will stay sharp. But the world isn’t big enough to contain these runners’ passion for their sport, and I look forward to (pun intended) running into some of them again in other states, in other countries and on other continents.

Katie Ho leading penguin line in Ushuaia

Katie knows how to pick her running battles (Ushuaia)

Clearly Antarctica was a life-changing whirlwind of firsts and lasts. And add one more to that list: it was the first time we’d traveled with a group of highly motivated, like-minded athletes… though hopefully it won’t be the last. Opportunities like this one don’t knock – or in this case email – very often. My thanks to Thom Gilligan and an anonymous iceberg with paint streaks on it floating somewhere in the Southern Ocean.

Eventually, 38 hours after last waking up on the Vavilov – and following a 3-hour delay in Ushuaia, 3½-hour flight to Buenos Aires, 4½-hour layover in Buenos Aires, 11-hour flight to Dallas/Fort Worth, 3½-hour layover in DFW (1½ hours once we cleared customs and security), 4-hour flight to San Francisco, one-hour train ride to downtown Berkeley and one-mile walk with our bags slung over our shoulders or trailing behind us – we found ourselves standing, exhausted but triumphant, on the doorstep where we’d started Mike and Katie’s excellent adventure 17 days earlier. Climbing the short flight of stairs inside our front door, I dropped my bags on the top step and exhaled for what felt like the first time since Argentina. Then I did what I always do when I don’t know what to do next.

I went for a run.

The sun rises over Ushuaia and sets on our Antarctica adventure

BOTTOM LINE: Assuming I’m talking to running enthusiasts here, my summary statement is simple: run the Antarctica Marathon at least once in your life. Unless of course you’re a compulsive type-A personality (and running attracts them like no other sport) who hates surprises, then you might want to skip this race.

It’s not an inexpensive outing, but that’s hardly surprising… you get what you pay for.

Was it the most challenging race I’ve run? No, that distinction still belongs to last year’s sunbaked Mount Diablo Trails Challenge 50K. But it was certainly challenging enough. Preparation-wise, it’s important to bear in mind that the Antarctica Marathon is a bona fide trail race, which places it outside many runners’ comfort zone. Unfortunately, if you want to race on this continent it’s not as though you have a slew of choices – you can’t just opt for the road version of the marathon. Sensible expectations will go a long way toward optimizing your Antarctica Marathon experience.

PRODUCTION: Thom and his Marathon Tours crew of Scott, Anita, John and Jenny did a commendable job of orchestrating all aspects of the Antarctica Marathon – from regrouping on the fly after the Great Iceberg Attack of ’13 to their near-flawless race day execution. I certainly didn’t envy them their pre-race field trip over to King George Island to set up the course, with subfreezing gale-force winds blasting them in the face while they struggled to pound each marker stake through several inches of surface ice. But set it up they did, and come race day the course was well marked (my own personal detour notwithstanding) and pretty much dead-on accurate at 26.2 ± 0.1 miles.

Other companies have hurried to cash in on the demand from runners seeking to run a marathon at the bottom of the world. But no other company can boast Thom’s breadth of experience and connections in Antarctica. At least two companies offer a one-day Antarctica experience in which they fly into King George Island, immediately organize a marathon and then fly out the same day. To me that would feel like scoring tickets to the Super Bowl, showing up at the stadium and then watching the game on the TVs in the concourse. Sure you could say you were there… but were you really there?

Apparently my expert editor on all things Antarctica grew tired of penguin pictures

My main critique of the Antarctica race experience would be the post-race awards. For example, the finisher’s medal should vary from year to year, and should always include the year of the race (or barring that, complementary engraving on the back of the medal that includes name, finish time and year). There’s no excuse for the fact that the Antarctica Marathon medal has remained the same for at least six straight years now (dating back to the image I found online of the same medal from the 2008 race). This is particularly true when you’re hosting a group of dedicated, goal-oriented runners, many of them 50 States/Seven Continents Club members for whom race bling is all-important, and deservedly so.

In addition, it would be nice if age-group winners merited distinct medals – for example, a penguin holding up one flipper or two to signify first or second place – to accompany the handshake and photo-op that currently await them. I’d be happy to receive one retroactively. I feel like these are easily implemented suggestions that would enhance the race experience, even in Antarctica.

UPDATE (15 May 2013): As a runner hell-bent on maintaining forward progress no matter what, I rarely back-pedal… but in this case I’m happy to make an exception. Yesterday I received in the mail – no doubt delayed in transit because we recently moved – a stylish plaque emblazoned with the Antarctica Marathon logo and engraved to commemorate my first-place finish in the men’s 40-49 age group. Clearly I had no idea of this impending accolade when I wrote the above sentiment, and I certainly understand why the Marathon Tours crew wouldn’t want to lug 100 race medals plus roughly two dozen plaques down to Antarctica. And so I stand appreciatively corrected.

Overall, given their professionalism and intimate knowledge of the running community, together with their catalog of compelling international marathons, I look forward to traveling with Thom and his Marathon Tours crew again.

Liz of OOE secures a kayaker, then requests a rowing implement with the order to “Paddle me!”

But in the end, the One Ocean Expeditions staff (and the largely unseen Russian crew members of the Vavilov) were the stars of this show. Andrew and his 12-person staff did everything in their power to ensure our Antarctica experience met – and in most cases exceeded – expectations. Without exception, every member of the OOE staff was highly competent, professional, knowledgeable, experienced, entertaining, happy to answer questions and just plain fun to be around. Granted I haven’t traveled to Antarctica with any other cruise company, but I can recommend OOE without reservation. Based on conversations with and body language of other passengers, I’m confident the vast majority would echo my thoughts.

As with any successful race, the volunteers were a key element of the Antarctica Marathon. No doubt I wasn’t the most happy-go-lucky and responsive runner out on the course – and they had to see me six times in my 4½ hours – but Kathy and her crew (Katie, Sharon, Sally, Wayne and company) stood by the start/finish line for the ENTIRE race, and were there to cheer emphatically and shout their support after every out-and-back. I never dreamed that Katie would willingly – and dare I say happily – stand idly outside in Antarctica for five hours. Yet there she was, smiling broadly and cheering loudly every time I passed. Kudos to her solid layering strategery, Arctic Parka and Wet Skin for keeping her toasty and for inspiring that kind of gumption.

Rating the Antarctica Marathon experience based on the race t-shirt feels a bit like rating a 5-star restaurant based on the embroidery of the napkins. But since I’m clearly not one to cut corners in recapping a race, here goes: the t-shirt is nice. Very nice. And colorful, as long as you’re a fan of baby blue. It’s a high-quality tech t-shirt with mesh shoulder and side panels. And if you happen to like the Antarctica Marathon logo emblazoned on the back, then you’re in luck, because the Marathon Tours crew has an assortment of race-related apparel available for purchase in Buenos Aires and on their website.

Antarctica Marathon medal (2013)

For other (more concise) perspectives, check out Jenny Hadfield’s “10 Reasons to Run the Antarctica Marathon” on the Runner’s World website, as well as Winter’s report on “A World Record in Antarctica, and Much More” at Athleta.net.

FINAL STATS:
March 30, 2013
26.5 miles (including an unplanned 0.3-mile detour) on King George Island, Antarctica (continent 2 of 7)
Finish time & pace: 4:29:50 (first time running in Antarctica), 10:10/mile
Finish place: 8/60 overall (73 starters), 1/10 in M(40-49) age group
Race weather: penguin-pleasing cold, low winds (starting temps in the low 20s)
Elevation change (Garmin Connect software): 2,023ft ascent, 2,031ft descent

For a race in which my major concern was NOT doing the splits, these aren’t so awful

The Last Marathon (Antarctica), Act 1

Posted: April 28, 2013 in Marathons, RACE REPORTS, Seven Continents
Tags: Akademik Sergey Vavilov, Antarctica Marathon, Drake Passage, King George Island, longreads, Marathon Tours, One Ocean Expeditions, Seven Continents Club, South Shetland Islands, Southern Ocean, Thom Gilligan

Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.
– Emmett “Doc” Brown, “Back To The Future”

(PREFACE: This is not a blog post in the usual sense. Rather, it’s my attempt to chronicle an amazing adventure in two acts, and to – “demystify” is the wrong word – inspire an appreciation for a remarkable ecosystem that’s much more than an alien land of ice and snow. For anyone seeking an even more detailed account of the Antarctica Marathon and its history, I’d recommend John Hanc’s book, The Coolest Race on Earth. And for time-challenged readers who simply want the gist of our journey, I’d recommend skipping all the cumbersome words and sticking to the pictures. Whatever your preference, thanks for reading!)

More so than any month in recent memory, March was a month of firsts. Or maybe more accurately, it was a month of lasts.

Cut to the morning of February 26, and the last place I expected to find myself a month later was exactly where I found myself a month later: joining upwards of 100 highly motivated runners – including one celebrated back-of-the-packer with the all-too-appropriate nickname of “The Penguin” – aboard a Russian research vessel headed toward the South Pole to race The Last Marathon on the Last Great Continent. All under the watchful eye of a leader named Gilligan.

As absurd as a “spontaneous” trip to Antarctica sounds, that’s exactly what this would be. Sometimes, truth really is stranger than fiction… and even less likely.

Damn the icebergs, full speed ahead!
Rewind to the morning of February 26, a morning that began like any other: my spring racing plans were gradually taking shape as I contemplated a return to either the L.A. Marathon – one of my 2012 racing highlights – or the Oakland Marathon, site of my half marathon PR (1:34:02) last year. Also in my sights were one or more upcoming trail races with my favorite local racing outfit, Brazen Racing.

Yep, spring 2013 was falling into place… until the following e-mail message hit my Inbox, and my best-laid plans went out the porthole:

dear Mike,

The ship that we had chartered for the 2013 Antarctica Marathon to depart in a couple of days has been damaged by an iceberg.

We have rescheduled the trip using the sister ship, the Akademik Vavilov which we have chartered many times in the past.

You are currently waitlisted or confirmed in the future for the Antarctica Marathon. Are you interested in confirming space for these new dates in 2013?

[details omitted]

It always is an adventure. Please advise as soon as possible since most of the confirmed passengers have rescheduled for the later dates. We will have a few spots available.

Please contact us immediately if you are interested.

Thom Gilligan
Marathon Tours & Travel

My immediate reaction was probably similar to yours… 101 years after the Titanic kissed the bottom of the ocean, actual operating ships are still colliding with icebergs? My secondary response, though, was one of adrenalized bewilderment – Antarctica? On such short notice? Was this a legitimate option for us?

In short – yes, it was. Due to the large number of runners vying for a limited number of slots (roughly 100 per year), the Antarctica Marathon typically requires years of advance planning and a lengthy sojourn on the Marathon Tours waitlist. As referenced in their e-mail, we’d entered the waitlist in mid-2012 and in doing so had confirmed our spot – for 2016. So we figured to have three more years to plan for this trip.

Take me to your freezer!

Thing is, I hate procrastination, and putting off until tomorrow what I can do today. Paradoxically, I have a lot of patience – research science and delayed gratification go hand-in-hand. But Antarctica promised to be the opportunity of a lifetime. Cliché as it may sound, life really is too short, as we were starkly reminded by this past week’s tragic events in Boston. Who knows where we’ll be and what we’ll be doing three years from now?

And although I wouldn’t classify myself as a “bucket list” runner, I do have a short list of three marathons that I consider must-do events: Boston, New York City and Antarctica. What did it matter that neither Katie nor I owned a legitimate cold-weather jacket, or that I’d only run in tights once in my entire life? At least we wouldn’t need any vaccinations or immunizations for this trip… I’m pretty sure penguin fever is both unpreventable and incurable.

As the nail in the coffin of March normalcy, we found ourselves in a relatively obligation-free time of personal and professional transition (another post for another time). Thus the awesome realization dawned on us that yeah, March was actually the perfect time for a frigid flight of fancy. And within two days, we’d committed to join 98 other adventure-seekers on an unanticipated journey to the Last Great Continent. Thankfully, our voyage was scheduled to last a bit longer than a 3-hour tour.

And so it was that on March 21, after a highly successful raid on the winter clearance racks at our local REI, The North Face and assorted outlets, Katie and I found ourselves on a flight bound for Buenos Aires, Argentina, where our 17-day adventure would begin. With little time for pre-trip research and little idea of what to expect (other than the obligatory requests to “Bring back a penguin!”), our ignorance was bliss.

So, just sit right back and you’ll read a tale, a tale of a fateful trip….

ARGENTINA (Fri – Tues, March 22 – 26)
Since this is ostensibly a running blog, I’ll limit my thoughts on the Autonomous City of Buenos Aires to the high (and low) points of our 5-day visit – though use of the word “concise” here would be disingenuous:

Overall, we had a lively visit to Argentina’s capital city – which wasn’t a foregone conclusion, given that I have virtually no interest in soccer, tango dancing or huge slabs of beef. But with its European-inspired architecture, socioeconomically diverse neighborhoods, thriving theatre industry and plentiful green spaces, Buenos Aires is a culturally vibrant city and a terrific place to explore on foot. Fortunately, my sub-fluent yet functional Spanish proved good enough to point us in the right direction and keep us out of trouble.

El Obelisco in Plaza de la República, Buenos Aires (photo credit: Mike Sohaskey)

Good morning, good afternoon and good night in the Plaza de la República:
El Obelisco stands on the site where the Argentine flag was first hoisted in Buenos Aires in 1812

Architecturally, the city is a dynamic and captivating mix of old and new. Highlights of our bus and walking tour included the ornate mausoleums of La Recoleta Cemetary (where many notable Argentinians including Eva Perón are interred), the politically charged Plaza de Mayo (site of La Casa Rosada, mansion and office of the President of Argentina), and the recently renovated Teatro Colón (famed opera house which Pavarotti once praised for its “perfect” acoustics). And not surprisingly, images of favorite son Cardinal Archbishop of Buenos Aires Jorge Bergoglio, a.k.a. Pope Francis, now adorn the city.

For a city of Buenos Aires’ reputation and importance, however, I was disappointed by the state of abject disrepair in which many of its sidewalks find themselves. In many places it looked as though The Avengers had been filmed in the city and nobody had bothered to clean up the rubble. With a marathon on the horizon and after several near tweaks, I felt fortunate to get out of Argentina with both ankles intact.

Photo collage of Buenos Aires highlights (photo credit: Mike Sohaskey)

Buenos Aires illustrated (clockwise from upper left): La Casa Rosada, executive mansion and office of the President of Argentina; plaque marking Eva Perón’s tomb in La Recoleta Cemetery; tango demonstration in the Recoleta district; one of the city’s many neglected sidewalks; colorful Caminito street in the neighborhood of La Boca; steel sculpture of Evita on the north facade of the Social Development and Health Ministry; the steel-and-aluminum Floralis Genérica sculpture in Plaza de las Naciones Unidas

As a runner, I was impressed by the number of Porteños (locals) out on the weekend walking, running or cycling through the city’s many bustling parks. The typical Porteño I saw certainly was not built like someone whose daily diet consists of at least two large servings of beef – I’d guess the average Houstonian weighs roughly the same as 1.5 Porteños.

Speaking of food, the only part of each day I didn’t look forward to were the meals, for instance the vegetarian pizza we ordered for dinner one evening that arrived smothered in ham (I assumed the pig had been an herbivore). In addition, the extra – and not insignificant – fee that several restaurants charged for “table service,” coupled with their insistence on serving and charging for bottled water despite the potability of the local tap water, amounted to epic scams.

I don’t usually fault cities for their names, but “Buenos Aires” is a conspicuous misnomer. Granted the city was originally recognized for its “good airs” (or more likely, its “fair winds”) way back in the 16th century, but these days it would be like changing Omaha’s name to Ocean View, Nebraska. Collectively, the carbon monoxide-induced asphyxiation from urban traffic (particularly the large number of freight trucks headed to and from the port), the secondhand asphyxiation from the local smoking population, and the impenetrable char-grilled asphyxiation from the parrillas (barbecue grills) bordering the Reserva Ecológica where I ran on two occasions, combined to ensure that my lungs never got too comfortable in their pleura.

This was the top Google search result for parrilla, the catch-all name for the city’s popular BBQ grills.

By keeping close tabs on our cameras and backpacks, we were able to depart Buenos Aires with our wallets and all other personal belongings intact. Unfortunately, not all our fellow runners were so lucky… we heard of at least two cameras being stolen from dinner tables, and one trusting fellow (a fellow Bay Area native, in fact) lost his wallet to an elaborate pickpocket ruse involving fake bird droppings on his head, two helpful bystanders with a towel and an immediately accessible getaway car.

We meet at last (Sunday, March 24)
Our third evening in Buenos Aires featured the Antarctica Welcome Banquet Dinner. Here we met Thom Gilligan, the founder and leader of Boston-based Marathon Tours, as well as the four members of his race crew who would be joining us in Antarctica: Scott and Anita, respectively the General Manager and Environmental Officer of Marathon Tours, as well as the husband-and-wife team of John “The Penguin” Bingham and Jenny Hadfield, both well-known to the running community for their books and popular columns in Runner’s World and elsewhere.

John opened with some remarks about The Last Marathon, the first organized sporting event in the history of Antarctica. Thom then said a few words about “Antarcticer” (his Boston-based pronunciation) and introduced our upcoming adventure with the brutally honest classified ad ostensibly posted in the London Times by explorer Ernest Shackleton, in preparation for his 1907 Antarctic expedition:

Musical accompaniment for the subsequent slideshow included Dido’s “White Flag,” with its (so we all hoped) tongue-in-cheek chorus of “I will go down with this ship.” After the slideshow, Thom asked for a show of hands as to who had run a sub-3 hour marathon in the past two years. Three hands went up. He then asked for a show of hands from runners in the 3:00 to 3:30 range – three or four more hands went up, including mine. Although I knew this wouldn’t be a typical marathon, in that the 50-59 and 60-69 age groups would be the most competitive, I knew there would still be plenty of representation by the younger demographics, and I was shocked to find myself immediately seeded so highly.

But for me the most striking realization of the evening, which I hadn’t fully appreciated to that point, was the dedication and commitment of every person in that room. True we were all headed for Antarctica, and that in itself set this room apart. But whereas running for most people is a hobby, a way to alleviate stress and stay fit, for this group it was a lifestyle, an obsession in the healthiest sense of the word. And while not everyone in that banquet hall may have possessed the stereotypical “runner’s body” (that’s why it’s a stereotype), I’d be reminded in the coming week that mind really does matter.

Thom Gilligan introduces an excited group of marathoners to what lies ahead

That evening I met seemingly normal, well-adjusted individuals who had run over 100, over 200, over 300 marathons. I met several individuals who had raced in all 50 states, on all 7 continents, and yet had never run a trail race. I met Winter, a 14-year-old Junior Olympian from Oregon who’d formed Team Winter and resolutely set a goal to run a marathon on all seven continents in support of prostate cancer awareness, after her father was diagnosed with the disease in 2008 and passed away less than a year later. I met Wes, a 78-year-old lifelong Purdue Boilermaker who’d run 200 marathons (including 100 in the past decade) and in 23 European countries, and for whom Antarctica would be his 7th continent and final marathon. I met Rory, a charismatic and “Jo-burg proud” South African who had completed the notoriously grueling Comrades Ultramarathon 12 times. I met Brendan, a running coach and 50 states/6 continents finisher from Chicago who’d failed in his first bid to complete the Antarctica Marathon three years earlier, and was back to exact his racing revenge. I met the Canadian duo of 70-year-old Georgine and her son James, and was amused to discovered that she was the runner in the family who had persuaded her hockey-playing son to join her in running the Antarctica half marathon. And I met many others whose stories I’d hear and whose lives I’d share over the next two weeks.

As nonchalantly as most people would discuss their kids’ soccer game, conversations centered around questions like “How many continents is this for you?” and “Have you run Kilimanjaro yet?” The Great Wall of China, Machu Picchu, the Arctic Circle, even Antarctica already in a few cases – my travel companions had left their footprints, literally, on nearly every conceivable destination on the planet.

I had to admit… these were my kind of people.

Destination: Antarctica (Tues – Thurs, March 26 – 28)
Fast-forward 36 hours, and after one more day spent appreciating the many faces of Buenos Aires, we found ourselves on a flight to Ushuaia (pronounced Oos-why-uh by the locals), the southernmost city in the world and the capital of Tierra del Fuego at the tip of South America. As the plane touched down in Ushuaia, the cheers from the locals onboard and the sight of the woman seated next to me crossing herself suggested our adventure had begun earlier than planned.

Katie and Mike Sohaskey in Ushuaia, Argentina

It’s the end of the world as we know it… and Katie and I feel fine

After a brief layover and stroll around this sleepy port town we boarded the Akademik Sergey Vavilov, the Russian ship (and one-time research vessel) that would – barring an unforeseen iceberg encounter – carry 105 passengers, 41 crew members and 13 expedition staff to our destination across 600 nautical miles and a particularly gnarly stretch of open ocean that we’d soon come to know all too well.

With rainbows and mist-shrouded peaks dominating the landscape, we “threw ropes” (set sail) at around 6:00pm local time on Tuesday and slowly made our way out of the Beagle Channel. From that point forward, responsibility for our well-being fell squarely into the hands of the 13-member staff of One Ocean Expeditions.

Akademik Sergey Vavilov in Ushuaia port (photo credit: Mike Sohaskey)

In the Ushuaia port, the Akademik Sergey Vavilov awaits its human cargo

As it turns out, we couldn’t have entrusted our safety and well-being to a more competent, experienced and entertaining group. As the Managing Director of Canadian-based One Ocean Expeditions, Andrew Prossin would be our solidly-in-charge Expedition Leader whose soothing voice and Canadian sensibilities would greet us first thing every morning with his wake-up announcements over the ship’s PA. In addition, at each meal he would set our expectations as to weather (always unpredictable), changes to the itinerary and opportunities for wildlife sightings. His understated cry of “hooray” which punctuated the end of his announcements became a rallying cry for the entire ship.

His One Ocean staff would be an appropriately eclectic collection of three fellow Canadians (Derek, Zoe and Nate); one Australian (Ewan, the kayaking king); a Dane (Louise, our hotel manager); a Welshman-cum-South African-cum-Australian (Mark, passionate whale conservationist and Andrew’s Assistant Expedition Leader); one far-North American (yoga guru Liz, whose “Alaska girls kick ass!” sticker immediately attracted my attention); one Portuguese (all-important mixologist Joao); and chefs Jeremy, John and Mike who, together with pastry chef Elizabeth, embraced and conquered the unenviable task of creatively providing three meals a day, every day, while hundreds of miles from the nearest grocery store or farmer’s market. Before this trip I’d never eaten, much less looked forward to, daily lunch dessert.

The One Ocean Expeditions staff included Expedition Leader Andrew (with microphone), Liz, Mark, Ewan, Nate, Zoe and Derek

Katie and I spent the first hour onboard familiarizing ourselves with the ship’s layout and idiosyncracies, including the less-than-romantic bunk beds in our third-deck cabin that prevented me from sitting up straight in either bed.

The next two days belonged to the Drake Passage, the necessary evil of open water between the Beagle Channel and Antarctica that would test every passenger’s sea legs, not to mention their seasickness meds. We both chose to use the Transderm Scopolamine patch, a nickel-sized prescription patch applied behind the ear that prevents motion sickness for up to three days. Which it did admirably well, the main drawback being the side effect of dilated pupils that messed up our vision something fierce. As a result, neither of us felt quite like ourselves during those two days crossing the Drake, as our literal inability to focus prevented productive behaviors such as reading or writing.

This is your brain on scopolamine (left); normal undilated pupil shown on right for comparison

Unfortunately, all postcards had to be submitted before race day if we wanted them to be postmarked from Antarctica. And so I found myself seated in the lounge of a wickedly swaying boat with one eye closed, squinting through my open eye Popeye-style as I tried to stabilize both hand and vision long enough to write legible quips about what an awesome time we were having at a destination we hadn’t yet reached. Lucky family members will no doubt wonder (assuming the cards ever arrive) how many shots of tequila preceded my postcard-ing sessions.

Luckily the One Ocean and Marathon Tours staff had planned other, less cerebrally taxing distractions to pass the time. Among these, Thom talked about the history of his brainchild, the Antarctica Marathon; John held court and lightened the mood with his entertaining perspective on life as a back-of-the-pack runner; Derek laid down mad knowledge on “Birds of the Southern Ocean”; Liz provided historical context in detailing the ill-fated Scott/Amundsen “Race to the Pole”; and Nate capped the evening with “Marine Superstitions,” after which nobody was caught whistling aboard ship.

Check out this footage of life in the Drake Passage (a.k.a. the “carbo-unloading zone”), filmed through the porthole in our cabin:

By Thursday evening we’d more or less cleared the Drake Passage, crossing the Antarctic Convergence and the 60th parallel south to enter the Southern Ocean. Soon after that we approached the South Shetland Islands and specifically King George Island, site of Saturday’s upcoming race. At that point even our first whale (fin whale, to be exact) sighting of the trip couldn’t disguise the fact that the natives were getting restless.

As race day approached and hours spent aboard ship accumulated, the restlessness and nervous energy among the passengers continued to build. The most tangible reflection of this mindset may have been the bar/lounge on the upper deck of the ship, which experienced two sparsely populated evenings as normally relaxed, sociable runners morphed into their water-swilling, teetotalling pre-race alter egos. Our bartender Joao was perplexed by but resigned to this transformation, which he’d clearly experienced before. And his voice of experience predicted a significantly more laid-back ambiance once the race was over. I raised my water bottle in agreement, and in a toast to more carefree days ahead.

Keeping expectations at (Maxwell) bay (Friday, March 29)
With the planet’s southernmost continent within sight at last, the harsh reality of where we were and what we were about to do finally hit home. Stepping out on the sixth floor deck to gaze upon King George Island – so close and yet so far – I was greeted by the stinging sensation of a million frozen, finely honed razors slicing right through me. My skin and two lightweight layers were defenseless against the Antarctic wind. And to think that tomorrow at this time, I’d be running 26.2 miles in this. Let the mind games begin…

Despite the initial cold shock, the consensus adjective of the day to describe our first encounter with Antarctica was simply “indescribable.” A picture may be worth a thousand words, but in this case one would have to suffice.

The plan for the day called for Thom and his crew to make their way across Maxwell Bay to King George Island early that morning to set up the race course. Meanwhile, the rest of us would finally make an excursion off the boat and potentially even stretch our legs on land at some point. Ah, perchance to dream…. Instead, the Antarctic winds did what the Antarctic winds do, churning up the water and making conditions unsafe to launch the zodiacs (the rigid inflatable boats used to transport people from ship to shore). It wasn’t until 1:00pm that the wind died down enough to launch the boats and send Thom’s crew (plus ATVs) on their way to King George Island. Many of us watched as the zodiacs made their not-so-long yet slow voyage across the bay and toward the Russian base at Bellingshausen Station.

The zodiacs approach the Russian base on King George Island, on their way to set up the marathon course

This in itself was uplifting news, because again this was Antarctica, where even the seemingly straightforward process of getting off the boat couldn’t be taken for granted. Still fresh on everyone’s mind was Thom’s unsettling tale of his 2001 Antarctica Marathon expedition, when uncooperative weather had seized the day(s), only to have the passengers seize it right back. After several days of thwarted attempts to launch the zodiacs in rough waters, a consensus decision had finally been reached that the show must go on, and that the marathon would be run ON. THE. DECK. OF. THE. SHIP. Apparently one of the passengers that year had been a qualified race distance certifier, and he mapped out a 26.2-mile course that comprised 422 laps around the upper deck. The race was run over a 24-hour time period, and don’t ask me how each runner kept track of his/her number of laps completed. Most strategically, the ship had been moored such that the anchor just touched the continent of Antarctica, thereby validating the venue. Thus went the story of how the 2001 Antarctica Marathon was staged under the most challenging conditions to date, a testament to human fortitude and resolve that exactly nobody on our ship had any interest in repeating.

Speaking of human fortitude… with our plans for an afternoon expedition foiled, everyone gathered in the bar/lounge to watch “Crossing The Ice,” an intimidating/inspiring documentary about two Aussies and one Norwegian who found themselves competing against each other to become the first persons to complete the trek to the South Pole and back unassisted. I then retreated to the basement gym to, if nothing else, get the blood pumping and stretch my legs before I’d have to use and abuse them the next day.

Antarctica Marathon 2013 pre-race briefing (photo credit: Mike Sohaskey)

A weary Thom addresses a roomful of restless runners during his pre-race briefing

After dinner – the last supper before the race, which happened to coincide with this being Good Friday – Thom stepped to the microphone for his pre-race briefing looking ruddy and dog-tired from his afternoon excursion. He informed us that the hilly course would consist of two different out-and-backs that marathoners would run three times, with the start/finish line separating the two. The first out-and-back would take us past the Russian base, then out to the first turn-around point at the Uruguaryan Artigas Base and back, while the second out-and-back would lead past the Chilean Eduardo Frei Base and out to the turn-around at the Chinese Great Wall Station before retracing its steps. There would be icy (if not muddy) patches to negotiate that Thom estimated at around 5% of the total course distance. And based on today’s course conditions, he and his crew would be strictly enforcing the 6-1/2-hour time limit – anything longer and we risked hypothermia.

Google Earth rendering of the Antarctica Marathon 2013 course (credit: Mike Sohaskey)

Google Earth rendering of The Last Marathon course – thanks to Dan, from whom I stole the idea;
my personal detour can be seen leading toward the airstrip near the yellow church
(Click on the map for a larger image)

As we’d suspected, the day had been a rough one for Thom and his crew – John predicted that if we’d had to run the race that day in those conditions, nobody would have finished. But he concluded the briefing by injecting a shot of humor, warning the room that “Bandits (runners who race without paying an entry fee) will be pulled off the course.”

Back in my cabin I systematically organized my apparel, bottles of Cytomax/GU, Garmin (don’t be silly, of course GPS works in Antarctica!) and thoughts for the day ahead. And I realized that realistically, I had no idea what to expect. Cold to be sure, but beyond that I had zero expectations: could I run a sub-4:00 marathon in these conditions? Probably not, though “probably not” wouldn’t stop me from trying. Runners are notorious for downplaying expectations – case in point, those ultra-competitive types who qualify for the Boston Marathon and then vow to treat it as a “victory lap”.

But this time, I realized as sleep engulfed my upper bunk – this time I really was out in the cold.

Continued and concluded in Act 2… with an actual race report!

Blisters, Cramps & Heaves

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