My camera DNFed at the Ozark Trail 100

Julie "Sunday Hawk" Toft (L) and Debbie "Wheat Hawk" Webster prop me up long enough to show off my new belt buckle at the finish of the inaugural Ozark Trail 100. photo courtesy of Stuart "Ozark Trail Hawk" Johnson.

"You ran the hundred-mile race?" asked Jane, the pretty, brown-haired hostess at the Country Kitchen restaurant in Cuba, Mo.

I'd just walked in for breakfast Monday morning after the race wearing my Ozark Trail 100 technical race shirt with the graphic of "Horace the Hillbilly," as I call him, emblazoned across the front.

"You are well-informed," I said. "I didn't think anyone knew about this race outside our small community of runners. And yep, I did it."

"We had a woman in last night. Her legs were black and blue. When I asked who beat her up, she told me about the race," Jane explained. "Now we better get you seated and get some carbs into you, poor thing!"

"Oh, you got it wrong about the 'poor thing'," I replied easing into the booth with only the slightest grimace of pain. "It's huge fun. You run all day and night through the beautiful hills and woods with like-minded people. And every five or 10 miles there's an aid station set up with wonderful things to eat and drink, staffed by volunteers who treat you like a rock star, even if you're the slowest runner there. It's the greatest."

"Well," said Jane doubtfully, "that woman looked like she'd been through an experience."

"Yes, the race directors want you get your money's worth."

"Let's make sure you get your money's worth," Jane said. She sent the waitress right over.

I ordered a big omelet breakfast. As soon as I finished eating, my perky waitress, came back, and getting my check ready, asked me how everything was.

"It was great," I said. "Could I get the same again?"

I was a hungry Henry, no doubt about it, but that two-breakfast appetite was 30 hours and 53 minutes -- my finishing time -- in the making.

The appetite, and the race, started at 6 a.m., Saturday, Nov. 6. We began in the dark woods, beside a country road and lighted starting and check-in area, after a nearly two-hour bus ride from race headquarters. That was the Bass River Resort in hilly, some might even say mountainous, Mark Twain National Forest.

Race Director Paul Schoenlaub said "go," and about 140 hopefuls headed down the Ozark Trail into the woods. Our goal -- to get back to the resort, a hundred miles away by trail in 32 hours or less.

As usual I stayed back to photograph the start. I was one of the last three runners to leave the starting area, but once going, I darted ahead, clicking pics of runners as I went.

Though temps were warm, we hit pockets of chilled air nestled in the bottoms of deep ravines as the giant conga lines traced the snaky trail.

At the 8-mile aid station, I did a double-take. I'd spied a sign that read -- no kidding -- "Gary Henry -- two picture minimum."

My friends, Stacy and Kyle Amos, and Tony Clark, who staffed the station, put the sign up, because in their opinions, I waste too much time taking pics of the volunteers and runners instead of getting my aid station business done, and getting back in the race.

Well, first order of business – get a shot of that sign!

I got it in the view-finder, clicked, and a ghastly electronic tone sounded, and a message flashed across the view-finder screen: "Card full."

What? Impossible! I know it wasn’t full, because I remembered deleting all the pics off it last Saturday. I even got in trouble with my spouse Karen for messing with it while she thought I should be raking leaves.

So, the camera failed! Or, perhaps I should have reformatted the card after emptying it.

I surrendered the camera to Tony and was done taking photos. "My camera is dropping from the race," I told him. "It DNFed."

As if to taunt me, the race then provided non-stop scenes of captivating beauty and drama that I couldn't photograph.

The first 20 miles or so especially provided opportunities for the "dramatic rebound from a bad fall" shot. The steeply up-and-down trail in this section was largely trip-hazards.

For instance, running behind Wes Schloman, from Missouri, I watched in horror as his right foot slid neatly under a root stretched across the trail just like a trip wire.

I recall it in slow motion, but it occurred so fast that it was done before I even fully registered it was happening. Wes hyper-extended straight out, anchored by his caught foot, and went straight down with a whump!

A puff of trail dust rose around him.

He turned over and got up, grinning sheepishly, ok. Not even any blood.

My turn came a few miles later. I'm not sure what caught my foot, but down I went, head first. I partly cushioned my fall with my face. Opening my eyes, I saw the large root ball of a fallen tree, one of millions on the course, inches from my snout.

"Are you all right?" the runner behind me inquired anxiously.

"Oh, I meant to do that," I responded, getting up and dusting off. "I thought I saw an animal in that root ball, and dove in for a closer look. I think it was an, umm--"

"A badger?" the runner suggested.

"Yes, exactly, a badger,"I said.

Ultrarunners are well-known for helping each other like that.

Soon after, I caught up with champion marathoner and ultra-runner Amy Palmiero-Winters, Hicksville, N.Y. OT100 likely being the only race in which THAT could happen.

As sweet and unassuming a person as you'll ever meet, even under rugged conditions like we had in the Heartland 100 last month where she took first female in 18:54, Amy was at her temper's limit with this section's rocks, roots, holes, leaves, mounds, sticks, weeds and other obstacles, which were the worst I've ever seen on a trail.

They played havoc with the prosthesis she ran on in place of her lower left leg, amputated after a motorcycle accident.

Courage and strength she has in abundance, but Amy couldn't take two running steps together without something wrenching, probably painfully, the thin curved metal attachment and throwing her out of her stride.

She'd stopped to adjust the prosthesis, and as I passed, I noticed the blood all over her good knee.

I heard a noise behind me and turned to see. In frustration, Amy had hurled her water bottle and belt to the ground. My friend Willie Lambert, Topeka, Kan., was running with me. We stopped and Willie, ever the gent, retrieved the bottle for her.

Amy apologized for her fit of temper. Willie headed on, but I stayed back, ostensibly to see that she was ok, but honestly to get a little time with this somewhat legendary person, albeit with no camera!

I sure wasn't going to get a chance in any other race.

Amy explained she was angry because she was going to have to drop at the next aid station. Like most everyone in the race – and I heard later it had a 55 percent drop rate – she had underestimated just how viciously gnarly the course could get.

I told her she didn't have anything to prove. I said she was a hero to a lot of people, including me.

"That's what makes dropping so hard," she said.

We ran in fits of starting and stopping. Amy told me to go ahead because she had to walk, and didn't want to slow my race.

I was conflicted about leaving her. At least five miles of rough country lay ahead before the aid station. But when Amy told me to go on for the third time, I recalled the belt slammed to the ground, and I went.

I consoled myself with the fact that there were still plenty of other runners behind us in case she got into bad trouble. I learned later that Amy got out ok at the Sutton Bluff aid station.

I caught up to Willie and several other runners as they crawled across a tree-bridge over a fast-running stream.

I tried the tree-bridge, still spikey with limbs and tangled with vines, but didn't like it.

Instead, I plunged through the cool clear water. My feet had already begun to ache from the trail's constant pounding and twisting, and the knee-high water, though chill, felt great.

The streams on the course were the most beautiful I've seen in any race. They all had the clarity of lenses and the beauty of gemstones. Underground springs feed them, I learned later.

With temps rising into the 70s -- just the way Gar likes -- I didn’t mind the water-crossings. There were plenty. I saw many a runner kneeling down to splash in them.

The pretty water did, however, carry tiny invisible bits of gravel into my shoes. Much smaller than pebbles, their abrasive action over the miles eventually shredded my socks. At the 51-mile aid station, I discovered gremlins had vaporized the spare socks I was sure I'd brought.

Seventeen miles in, I hit the Sutton Bluff aid station, staffed by, among others, our own Lawrence Trail Hawks! Coleen "Lil Big Hawk" Voeks, Debbie "Wheat Hawk" Webster, Julie "Sunday Hawk" Toft and James "Skull Hawk" Barker, all dressed as hillbillies, in keeping with the OT100's "hillbilly hundred" theme.

They checked runners in and out, fetched food, drink and drop bags, filled bottles and packs and waited on runners like doting parents. As the first drop-bag and crew-access aid station, Sutton Bluff swarmed with action in the young, sunny day, but the Hawks and other volunteers there had it under control.

Throughout the race, when I talked about the Lawrence Trail Hawks to other runners, and mentioned Hawks staffed Sutton Bluff, the response was invariably along the lines of "Oh man, they treated me so good there! They were great!"

I refilled everything, ate, drank and got out to the same cheers that welcomed me in. Back up the hills onto a brief road section, then into the woods and single-track trail again.

The next 17 miles were good but slow. Though I pounded the downhills, feeling like I was doing a sub-8-minute-mile pace, the uphills stole all the time back again -- plus.

I tried to climb with some hustle, and thought I was doing it, too. But my arrival at the aid stations always seemed to time out at just slower than a 4 mph pace.

After Sutton Bluff, the trails relaxed a little. They continued hairy and technical by anyone's standard, and leaves hid the rocks, roots and stumps in most places, so you had to run by "feel" but at least they were no longer evil and predatory, with the trail torn and mangled by uprooted trees.

We ran through cool hollows, shaded by steep hillsides even at mid-day, along and through beautiful streams, and climbed up tall hills into bright, hot sunshine. Up top you could see the neighboring ridges, gray with thick leafless forest, here and there punctuated with a blaze of maroon foliage not yet fallen.

Then down again to another stream at the bottom of the hill, on crazy curving paths or zig-zagging switchbacks.

At the Stillwell Hollow aid station, 22.8 miles in, I caught up to the fabulous Beth Simpson-Hall of Wisconsin, personal trainer, Wasatch Speed Goat, and finisher (and often placer) in some of the toughest hundreds around, including Western States, The Bear and Leadville – just to name a few.

I immediately felt better about my pace!

Top ultrarunner Beth Simpson-Hall and I toast the race at 34.8 miles and nine hours in. I was really happier than I look in the pic. photo courtesy of Stuart "Ozark Trail Hawk" Johnson.

I tried to stay ahead of Beth. I've only finished one race ahead of her. And I did stay ahead for a while, though she reeled me in at each aid station, despite my best efforts.

We got to the 34.8 mile-aid station, Gunstock Hollow, about the same time. I pushed and it still took nine hours! But I was having a marvelous time. OT100 is a trail runner's dream, at least in the nice weather. RD Stuart Johnson took a picture of Beth and I toasting the race and the RDs.

"Where's your camera, Ultrastory?" Beth wanted to know.

"It DNFed at mile 8," I said. "But I already know it wants to come back next year."

Then, into the hills again, zoom down, splash through, march up.

On the forest floor between two hills I came upon a lovely young woman, stretched out in the leaves beside the trail, her legs, bent at the knee, up on a tree, as if to keep it from falling. Me with no camera, of course.

She was a runner, judging by the hydration pack.

"Are you ok?" I asked.

"I'm fine," she replied. "Just taking a time-out."

I kept going. The westering sun struck flashes and shimmers of white gold from the streams. Green moss everywhere glowed as if in some sort of hyper-reality. Even if I'd had my camera, I doubt I could have caught the quality of the light on moss and water, though I'd sure have tried.

The young lady's "time out" must've done its trick. She turned out to be Jen Foster, an accomplished hundred-miler from Arkansas, who soon caught and passed me.

Then, marching up a hill, I saw two runners sitting by the trail and heard what I thought was barfing. I approached to see Mike Samuelson, Tennessee. He wasn't barfing. He had painful muscle contractions, making him bellow. Paul Turner, Arkansas waited with him.

"Been taking salt?" I asked?

"Yes," he gasped. "I'm ok. Just a little muscle contraction."

The sum total of my medical expertise having been dispensed, I continued in the fading afternoon light. Up top the trail grew somewhat level, and I made good time, though Paul and a recovered Mike soon caught and passed.

Made the Brooks Creek aid station at 43.5 miles just before dark. As I fiddled with drop bags, in came Beth "The Terminator" Simpson.

I'd have shot her, if I'd had my camera.

The first stirrings of tiredness made themselves known to me here. Temps dropping gave me chills, so I put on the rain jacket from my drop bag.

Ate PBJs, boiled potatoes, and this great little candy called a "Cherry Mashie" (I think), and got going, hand-held flashlight lighting my way until I could get to my headlamp in my drop bag at the 51-mile station.

After about a half-mile of uphill, with more ahead, the jacket began to cook me. As I stripped off my hydration pack, folded and stowed the jacket, and fiddled with twisted hydrations pack straps, I saw lights coming up the hill after me.

I was pretty sure who it was, and I was right.

It was Beth, and a runner from Indiana, Mike Smith. I talked to Mike before the race. He'd just finished another inaugural race in October, the Oil Creek Trail 100 in Pennsylvania. Finished it, even though he hurt his knee at about 43 miles -- hyper-extended it, and tore something, I think he told me -- when his foot snagged the remnant of a small pipe sticking out of the trail. Didn't stop him.

Beth asked if I was ok, and when I said I was, kept going. Never saw either one again. Beth and Mike both finished about 20 minutes ahead of me.

Ran for awhile with Dennis Drey, New Mexico, another runner who got in about 20 minutes before yours truly. We talked football and running. He'd done Joe Prusaitis' killer non-supported Cactus Rose 100 JUST ONE WEEK BEFORE. He's 58. He's my hero.

Dennis and I got into a group of runners, with me leading, until I got off trail briefly and turned the lead over to Dennis. The gang included Willie Lambert. Willie struggled with the heat during the day, but with nightfall, had revived and was moving strong.

Also in the line was Elden Galano, who I met, ran with and photographed in the Heartland 100 with his lovely wife/crew Karen last month. After awhile, I let them all go ahead while I slowed to suck down Perpetuem and Hammer Gels.

Made 51, refilled everything, ate, put on the headlamp. It was a relief to have both hands free.

Crunched through the ever-present leaves in the dark on my way out. Ran with some other runners for awhile. Saw the moon rise, just over half-full, like a huge baleful orange eye.

This part of the race seems dreamlike to me. Two nights of little sleep preceded my race, leaving the window open for the dreaded sleepies to attack earlier than usual.

As I try to remember that sleepy time in the race, it's all a confused meld of forest, course markers, moonlight, stars, crunchy leaves, stumbling on rocks, and arriving at blessed aid stations.

Shouted out poetry to fellow runners, to stay awake, at one point. I think one of them was Paul Turner from Arkansas. Did I dream or hallucinate that he sang me a song about his Grandpa? I recall I liked it, whether it was real or not.

I think Willie caught up to me in there, somewhere, on a valley floor, along a deep, dry stream bed. How he got behind me, I don't know. I'd heard someone take a bad fall behind me. It was Willie. He bounced up and passed me.

I think it was at the 68.5-mile aid station I saw Elden, and he was done. Just not fun for him any more, he said.

It was still fun for me, though I wanted sleep more than a million dollars. The night was warm and beautiful, but the runners were slower than expected. Paul and Stuart decided to extend the cutoff at the aid station by 30 minutes, but I was already out.

Caught up to and ran a little with Jen Foster, but she went ahead when I stopped to fiddle with a twisted strap on my hydration pack. Tried to catch her, and passed a few other runners as a result, but no Jen.

Speeding downhill helped me stay awake, but as soon as I hit the uphills and walked, drowsiness piled on my shoulders like 10,000 pounds of down quilt.

The runners I'd passed now returned the favor.

Finally, at the top of a hill, I couldn't take anymore. I staggered to a tree and sat in the crunchy dry leaves with my back against the trunk, and my face in my hands.

I sensed people going by as I let the dreams come and frisk around in the front of my mind for a little. Feeling myself getting pulled into deeper, darker waters, I shook awake, and checked my watch. It only seemed like a second, but I'd been out five minutes.

Two lights approached as I stood up.

"Good job, looking good," I mumbled as they walked by.

"Thanks, but I'm just the course sweep," said one of the lights, a young lady.

That woke me up. I'd fallen in behind, but at the realization I was in last place and walking with the sweep, I said brightly, "well, now that I'm awake, I guess I'll trot!"

I took off, happy to note that the five-minute cat-nap had brought me back, at least for a little while. I passed several other runners again, all moving slowly, and met two more sitting on a log. I joined them for a few minutes – a runner and his pacer.

They both got up when I did.

Ran ahead, and found myself alone in the dark. Panicky about the proximity of the sweep, I spent less time verifying I was on course, and just followed what looked like the outlines of trail buried under leaves.

I breathed big sighs of relief each time I saw course markers.

The sleepies attacked in huge dark waves every 20 or 30 minutes. I fought them of with quick cat naps, some only a few minutes, none longer than five.

As the first tiny hint of dawn paled the night, I ran up a hill and into the 75-mile aid station. There, I got my first whiff of finish line. Smells better than fresh-baked apple pie on a crisp Fall afternoon.

There, I also saw Willie Lambert, ensconced in a camp chair, wrapped in a blanket, drinking something hot from a Styrofoam cup, looking at peace with the world.

"I'm done," he announced.

"But you were moving so good," I said.

"I've had it for this one, but you're going to make it."

The aid station volunteer piped in. "I think they're going to extend the cutoff at Berryman (81.5 miles), but you still don't have much time," he told me.

I grabbed something to eat. Don't remember what. With Willie's "Good luck!" ringing in my ears, I crashed back onto the course.

It's an interesting phenomenon. No matter how worn and exhausted you are running through the night, when the sun comes up you get a huge recharge. And so I did.

As the skies lightened, the sleepies beat a retreat, and I pushed forward. Legs still felt good. Big toe on left foot was badly beaten up, and growing sore, but that's really all I had in the way of pain.

I passed pairs of runners and pacers, all walking stiffly through the rising light. Get to Berryman, I thought. Berryman, Berryman, Berryman.

There, my friends Stacy and Kyle Amos, and Tony Clark waited for me in the aid station, and I knew they would put wings on me for the last lap.

Though it was just 6.5 miles, the section seemed like it took forever. I kept hearing voices down the trail that I thought had to be people at the aid station just ahead, but it never was.

Caught up to Lynn and Daryl Saari, Sawtooth Superior 100 finishers (Daryl 5 times), from Minnesota, walking. I'd met Lynn shortly before the start and several times on the course.

"Come on!" I told them. "We're almost there!"

"We'll never make the 7 a.m. cutoff," she said, dispiritedly.

"They’ll probably extend it," I replied. "I doubt they'll pull you from the race with almost seven hours left, and just 18.5 miles to go!"

I hustled on and came to a wide, knee-high water-crossing. It was COLD!

"Thank you, Paul and Stuart!" I yelled as I splashed across. Now I was wide awake, and running. Caught up to Tony Bierman, Illinois, and his pacer, a beautiful young woman, but couldn't stay with them.

The sleepies were gone, but the hungries attacked. I had to slow down for Perpetuem, Hammer Gel and Clip 2, all washed down with water. Snack done, I tackled the next hill, and traversing the top, saw signs for the Berryman aid station.

Bellowing out the tune from "Rocky" so Kyle, Stacy and Tony would know I was inbound, I trotted forward.

I checked in with the volunteer taking numbers. She complimented me on my "Rocky" theme, and sent me in to food and drink.

Stacy, Kyle and Tony, now up more than 24 hours, were there, working like machines. A big crowd of runners, including Yours Truly, had come in, seeking energy, with the race hours shrinking away.

Though wide-awake now, I was still traumatized by the sleepies. I was scared they could return any time. When I asked Tony and Stacy if they had something that could keep me awake -- I was hoping for Red Bull -- a can of said beverage was produced.

"This will give you some wings," Stacy said.

"Seeing you guys is what's giving me wings," I said, as I came up for air in between two gigantic guzzles of the Bull.

Heading out, I heard a strange noise from the Porta-Potty. Heaven save me from eating whatever that guy ate!

But the noise wasn't a fart. The Porta-Potty door swung open and out popped Kyle, with a big grin.

"I cheered you on from inside the Porta-Potty, something I bet has never been done before," he declared.

I pumped his hand in recognition of the new feat, though it didn't really compare to some of his old feats, like tying for 18th place with Tony in the H.U.R.T. 100 last year.

"Congratulations, Kyle, it's a new low," I said.

"Tell that guy to make sure he eats real food at all the aid stations," Kyle instructed me.

With a "Will do," I skipped into the final 18.5, next aid station at the 12-mile mark. I felt pretty good, thanks probably to the Red Bull, and made pretty good time (I thought). While picking my way down a steep, dry, convoluted stream bed, the young man Kyle wanted eating real food came by me.

I relayed Kyle's admonition, but didn't get much response. Could it be the lad had other things on his mind? He was Clark Benjamin, from North Dakota, who finished five minutes AFTER me. Should've taken Kyle's advice!

The morning warmed up nicely. About 4 miles into this section, I saw Jen Foster sitting by the side of the trail.

"C'mon, we gotta go," I said, giving her my hand and pulling her up. We trotted along together for awhile, but eventually Jen fell behind.

The aid station seemed like it would never arrive. I was sure it had been six, seven, eight miles or more. Finally, atop a hill, by a dirt road, there it was.

Amidst my eating, drinking, refilling and blabbing with the volunteers, Jen trundled in. Shortly after her, a dark-haired young woman arrived. I’d seen her several times Saturday afternoon, always ahead of me, smoking the downhills, and even taking the uphills without a problem.

I never did get her name or number, but she spoke with an rich, exotic accent, that I took to be French.

We left the aid station together, but she hobbled. That powerful stride of the day before was gone.

I asked about the accent, and she laughed, which was good to hear. "No, not French," she said. "Argentinian."

I asked how her how she was doing, and her voice clouded over.

"I can no longer run," she said. "I don't think I will get there in time."

She explained that she was a road marathoner (and a pretty good one, I bet), and that this was her first trail race and ultra.

"You're going to make it," I said. "Just stick with me." I'm no speedster, so I thought that might be possible. We had about five hours to make 11 miles and change. Normally, a snap, but on this course, who knows?

"I will try to stay with you as long as I can," she said, "But you must not slow down for me."

Having been through this once already with Amy, I just agreed.

She fell behind almost at once. I glanced back and it broke my heart to see that once-powerful little running machine struggling along at a pace I instantly saw wouldn’t suffice.

She'd come so far, through so much, and was so close.

The course didn't get easier as it neared the finish. Still the long, hard climbs, the technical rocky, rooty trail, sometimes exposed so you could see and try to avoid the foot-breakers, sometimes hidden by leaves so you couldn't see or avoid.

I hallucinated houses as I ran the trails, big brown wooden lodges that I saw out of the corner of my eye. When I looked to see if there were people on the deck cheering us on, it was just woods and hills.

Got in and out of the 7-mile, interestingly named "Henpeck Hollow" aid station with a big group, including Jen, and Lynn and Darrell Saari.

"Time to put this race to bed," I told Jen. "It's up way past its bedtime!"

With that I took off at what seemed to me to be a run, but which I'm sure was just a quick trot. I held it for as long as I could, slowing to a walk on the uphills, resuming the run as soon as the inline leveled.

A long, sun-exposed incline with about 4 miles and change to go slowed me down. For the first time, the heat probably in the 70s as we approached noon, ground on me unpleasantly.

Lynn and Darrell caught me near the top of the hill, and we went together for a ways. I was glad of their charming company. Earlier I asked them how they compared the OT100 to Superior Sawtooth.

"I'd say this one has beat me up worse," Daryl said, after some consideration. We found the dirt road leading to the finish four miles away, and trotted. The dirt road turned downhill, and Lynn sped up.

A truck roared by, not slowing down, immersing us in a dust cloud. I sped up, and Daryl fell back. Lynn was already way ahead, but I passed another runner and his pacer.

"Good job, almost there!" the pacer, a pretty, dark-haired young woman congratulated me. Her runner made a sort of animal noise of assent.

I charged on. It was sooo close. I crossed a low concrete bridge over one of the course's clear sweet streams, and thought for a minute of wetting my dusty dogs. By the time I decided against it, I was already past.

I was moving good now, but starting to wonder where the finish line was, when I heard a shout from behind me. Daryl, about an eighth of a mile back, was yelling and gesturing.

I yelled back, with a thumbs up, then noticed the cluster of trail-marking ribbons beside him. I'd gone off course, and if Daryl hadn't caught me, who knows!

I ran back to the ribbons, and onto a short, sandy road, and then to a grassy field where, at the end of a long, white fence, was a big sign with that best of all possible words, "Finish."

I tore in past a wooden observation stand, where Lawrence Trail Hawk Brad Bishop, Kansas City, stood yelling me in. Brad finished several hours earlier in his first hundred-miler.

I was DONE, and in every conceivable way.

RD Paul Schoenlaub held out a buckle to me, which, for some reason, I didn't think to take.

"What would you do for this buckle?" Paul asked me.

My foggy mind considered. Was it a trick question?

"Would you lift up your hand?" he prompted.

Ah! Take the buckle! "Yes I would," I said, and did.

Then, since there were two gorgeous blondes nearby, both ultrarunners themselves, and both wearing the snappy forest green OT100 volunteers' shirt, I asked if I could be photographed with them – Julie and Debbie.

We got the photograph. "If only my old Navy buddies could see me now," I wisecracked, as the two Hawks held me up between them like I was their arthritic 90-year-old grandpa.

Strength was rapidly draining.

They sat me down and got some of James "Skull Hawk" Barker's beans and rice into me, and some of Deb "Kettle Hawk" Johnson’s melt-in-your mouth sugar cookies.

It was good, and sure needed, but as I watched and clapped for the remaining 13 runners barreling in, what I really wanted was my camera.

It DNFed, but just like most of us who do, it wants to come back next year.

Rematch with Rocky
Gary's 2009 Rocky Raccoon 100 

It was 4 a.m., and everything hurt.

My pacer Tony Clark and I were about 90 miles into the 13th running of the Rocky Raccoon 100-Mile Endurance Run, held Feb. 7-8 in Huntsville State Park, Huntsville, Texas.

Soles of the feet felt like someone had taken a belt sander to them. Little muscles on the right side of my knees howled every time one of my feet ricocheted off any of the zillions of big raised roots criss-crossing the trail. Quads trashed.

Somehow, despite the lube-job that has worked in every other long race, I’d developed an unpleasant case of chafing you-know-where.

So basically, every step was, well, “zesty.”

Tony asked me how I was doing, but I was not about to complain. Tony did four years in the Marines, and has a bunch of tough 100s on his resume, including knocking off the HURT100 three weeks before, 19th place, in 31:48.

Not a guy I feel comfortable whining to about diaper rash or stubbed toes.

In reply to his inquiry, I just made a growling animal noise. Tony was critical though. “That doesn’t sound convincing, Gar,” he commented. I tried again with a little more ferocity, and met with approval – “That’s more like it,” he said. “You’re doing great, keep up that awesome stride,” and with Tony patiently marching alongside, I stumbled on beneath the great dark towering trees and frosty full moon toward the next aid station.

The trouble begins -- RR100 start

The trouble began 22 hours before in similar darkness. Two hundred and thirty nine of us toed the starting line for the hundred at 6 a.m., Saturday morning in pleasant temps – mid 50s, maybe? I was caught in mid-pack, where I’d been taking photos, and got off to a faster start than I liked.

But it was cool, I was rested, and the air was full of excitement, so I dashed along, caught up in the moment. Tried to get some pics, but the camera flash wouldn’t fire no matter what setting I had it on – auto, sports, night or available light. So after three miles, I put the thing away until first light, which wasn’t long in coming.

I DNFed at Rocky last year, largely, I believe because of not getting enough calories, and no pacer. I’ve never finished a hundred without a pacer – and never failed to finish one where I had a pacer. In the year since that DNF, I changed my eating habits to more real food and less gels and liquids in all my ultras. Worked well up to 100k – this was the first test in a 100-miler.

So at the first aid station, Nature Center, 3.1 miles into the lap, I ate some PBJ squares and banana and orange quarters, and flew on. Ran – too fast – with a guy named Tony from New York, and as the dawn came up, blabbed about races and mountains. He went ahead when I stopped to take care of personal biz.

The course was changed from last year. There were bits and pieces of familiar trail, but overall it was quite different. I liked it better. Seemed like there was more trail and less dirt road.

Ate more at the next Aid Station, Dam Road, 6.1 miles, and began what I’ve heard some say was the hardest part of the course – a 6-mile loop, starting and ending at Dam Road, with

number-takers at the halfway point. Here I met New Jersey ultra runner Jenny Chow, who would go on to finish sub-20.

JennyChow, New Jersey, sub-20

We had an interesting discussion, considering our respective finishing times. Jenny said slow is the way to go, while I said there’s nothing wrong with kicking up your heels a little in the early stages when you feel great. Time enough later for the death slog.

But Jenny’s point, I think, was that going slow enough early helps prevent the death slog. “Run slow, walk fast,” she advised brightly, as we tooled along through a rapidly warming sunny morning.

However, cheerful, perky Jenny seemed to be doing BOTH fast, and I had to let her go about 14 miles into the first lap, despite her charming company.

Got a big happy surprise at the Park Road aid station, about 15 miles in. Kansas City Trail Nerds crew and pacers were there with aid, encouragement and watermelon. My pacer, Tony Clark was there, along with Debbie Webster and Christy Craig. Debbie and Christy came to the race to pace and crew for fellow Trail Nerd Coleen Voeks, attempting her first hundred.

Coleen, daughter of Colorado Springs ultrarunner Bob Shaw, had only done her first official ultra, a 50k, in September. When the ultra-bug bites, the effects can spread pretty fast, evidently.

Also there, Laurie Euler, down to pace Nick Lang, who has a tale similar to Coleen’s of getting rapidly sucked into ultrarunning after a first taste. It was Nick’s first hundred, too. James Barker rounded out the gang. He paced another Trail Nerd doing his first hundred, Danny Miller.

Nick, Danny and Colleen hadn’t come through yet, so the gang was primed and loaded to take care of someone, when I rolled in. They gave me the royal treatment, feeding me, refilling the hydration pack, telling me how good I looked and how great I was doing.

Christie had watermelon pieces, which she gave me to help the PBJs go down. Delicious! Highly recommended – both Christie and the PBJ with watermelon chaser. I walked out with Tony, munching on bananas and oranges, loving life.

With first light, my camera had come out. I took a lot of pics, even while running fast with Jenny. My hope was that the shooting would slow me down a little. I wanted a first lap of about four hours.

Nevertheless, I trotted into the start/finish in 3:45, same time as last year. Waiting for me were Tony and my faithful spouse Karen, the Big K, also known as “Special K” to the Nerds. They refilled and replenished and got me out the door in about five minutes.

Just a few hundred yards into the second lap, I saw Trail Nerd Rick Mayo, there to crew and pace fellow “Kearney Boy” Gabe Bevan in his second Rocky Run. Gabe turned in a sub-20 last year, and was close this year. Rick is also a Rocky vet, having finished a few years ago in some incredibly fast time.

He was indignant when I stopped to take a photo of him – “it is a race, for God’s sake!”

Not long after that, I crossed paths with Coleen, Nick and Danny, and got pics of everyone but Coleen. She was moving too fast. Huge blissed-out grins on their faces, like bunnies who have just found themselves in the carrot bin. All the miles to chew on you could possibly want – and more. And more. And more.

I felt blissed out myself, running on a pretty course in close to – for me – perfect conditions. My fellow Trail Nerds and I had trained through the winter for this race in temps that were often single-digit with below-zero wind chills.

So 70 and sunny was sweet.

The fabulous Beth Simpson-Hall

Also got a nice shot of Beth Simpson-Hall finishing up her first lap of the hundred. Her spouse, Larry was doing the 50, and try as I might to get a shot of him, I missed every time. First met them in 2007, at Minnesota Voyageur. Larry is a Hardrock and Rocky Mountain Slam alumnus – but why wouldn’t he be, with the fabulous BSH to crew and pace?

Around 25 miles in, I passed Pennsylvania runner Jennifer Erickson, attempting her first hundred. She’s signed up for Massanutten, and thought it might be a good idea to try a slightly less challenging hundred first. Unfortunately, some kind of stomach virus hit her right before the race, and she was struggling with it.

Turned to take a pic of her as we left the Dam Road aid station, when a root actually reached up, grabbed my hydration pack and jerked me rudely to the ground. Very aggressive plant life on those Texas trails.

Jennifer fought a stomach virus -- and won!

Got a great shot of Jennifer anyway. I rose, dusted off my dignity, and told Jennifer not to worry, because it “always never gets worse,” and headed into the Dam Road loop for the second time.

The loop was one of my favorite parts of the course. Not sure why. Definite improvement on the 6-mile out-and-back section it replaced. The loop was like a microcosm of the course itself – rolling and rooty, with tall trees and Texas scrub, and a pair of friendly faces taking numbers at the halfway point.

I deeply enjoyed the 2nd lap. Warm temps, everyone you meet still smiling and happy, aches and pains not yet present. At the Park Road Aid Station, the Nerds gave me the royal treatment again. I knew the rough stuff was coming – that’s part of the fun – but for now, how great to be running and walking free across the land in the midst of Tribe Ultrarunner, the greatest tribe this world has ever known, all your needs seen to every few miles by friends and volunteers who treat you like a rock star! In a February summer, no less.

I’m not saying you don’t eventually pay-to-play; but that comes later.

On a twisty slightly uphill section a mile or so from the end of the 2nd lap, I met Darin

Darin Schneidewind, 50k to 100mi in 3 months.

Schneidewind, of the Topeka branch of the Trail Nerds, into his third lap. Tall and thin, you’d never guess that just a few years ago he was way overweight. Caught the running bug, and finished third in his first trail 50k in October.

Hanging with trail and ultrarunners, talk of hundreds grabbed his imagination. Almost before he knew what hit him, he found himself 40-plus miles into his first hundred, getting his photo snapped by yours truly.

Crewed by spouse Darci, Darin did great in his first hundred, logging 25 hours and change.

Just a little further on, I crossed paths with John Flagler, another Trail Nerd. This was probably the biggest migration south to Rocky in Trail Nerd history. John, all smiles and encouragement for yours truly, was happily engaged on his first hundred as well. Unfortunately, he had to bail at 80 – still a tremendous effort and deep foray into the long blue, but cruel distances that seem so irresistible to many of us.

John’s already making plans for the Heartland 100 in October.

As I hit forty, about 8 ½ hours into the race, I saw my sister-in-law Sue; her daughter Christin; and Christin’s daughter, 3-year-old Grace. The charming trio of ladies had come out to visit Karen and cheer me on. Went in to the aid station and got restocked and assessed by Coach Tony – his assessment was that I was doing great. Of course, that was his assessment throughout the race, even during the death slog  – Tony’s a very positive guy.

I was looking forward to getting lap three behind me, so I could do my 40 with Tony. I was dying to hear about his adventures in the HURT 100. He’d written a good race report, but I knew there were gory details that didn’t get included. I figured the freaky night hours would be the perfect time to get that confidential info.

Starting Lap 3, I crossed paths with Colorado ultrarunner Matt Watts, looking good and going for his 5th Rocky finish. Which he got. Not too far behind was his spouse, the lovely Ann, who, after exchanging greetings, fussed at me.

The lovely and appropriately dressed Ann Watts.

“Gary, why are you wearing those tights (I was wearing tights) when it’s so hot out?” she demanded, indignant that I should dress so inappropriately. I responded with a witty “I dunno,” and snapped a couple pics of the lovely Ann, and continued on.

I also met the lovely Willie Lambert, down from Topeka where he and his spouse Karen own and operate the Great Plains Running Company, one of the few area shops that caters to trail and ultra runners.

Willie has finished at Vermont, Heartland, Arkansas Traveler and Leadville to name a few. Since he’s got a ticket for Western States this year, he’s also taking a shot at the Grand Slam.

He’s a solid hundred-mile man, but 100 miles of pavement at Mother Road in November had caused some problems for Willie, from which he still hadn’t recovered. So he was moving a little slower than usual when I saw him. Willie wisely didn’t push the issue – with one very big summer coming up – and bailed at 60.

"Bad" Ben Holmes, 6-time Rocky finisher.

A little further into the third loop, where the trail skirts a marsh, I crossed paths with 6-time Rocky finisher “Bad” Ben Holmes – founder, with Kyle Amos, of the Kansas City Trail Nerds, whose colors I and many others wore proudly. He yelled at me that I was doing great, and with a big grin on his face and fists raised in double victory salute, gave no clue about the severe pain his plantar fascitis was handing him.

The condition had kept him from doing any significant mileage leading up to the race, but he was still determined to start, and to hurl himself against the endless miles until the race ended or his feet fell off, whichever came first.

They were about off when I saw him, I found out later. Ben’s beautiful spouse Vicki, who, with their son Matt was crewing for him, is a nurse – she told me afterward that the “ripping and tearing” sensations in his ankles told him to call it a day at 40.

DNF, after all, also stands for “Did Nothing Fatal.” With six finishes in the bank, one a sub-23-hour, Ben has already proved his point, repeatedly.

I think it was shortly after that – or maybe shortly before – that Nick and Danny went bounding past me. They’d started slow, like I’d meant to, but evidently just had to kick up their heels a little going into lap three. First hundreds – beautiful afternoon – they looked like they were having a great time.

As I stopped for a nature-break, close to the 50-mile mark, I saw a pastel-clad young woman dash past me down the trail. It was Coleen, though I didn’t know it at the time. A little further on, I saw her stepping out of the woods. She had obviously seen some interesting flowering shrub, and stepped off the trail for a closer look.

I got a pic, natch, and with another runner, Will, we continued down the trail. I’d started feeling a little worn around the edges, including the beginnings of a hot spot on my left foot – something else I don’t usually get in hundreds. Seeing Coleen pepped me up, though, and reminded me this was fun.

Coleen Voek, halfway through her first hundred.

I kicked up the heels a little on this section, and suddenly feeling witty and wise, babbled forth jokes and observations – “We’re now closer to the finish than we are to the start,” – and so forth – which I was certain were keeping Coleen and Will amused and entertained.

Or would have, if they had heard any of it. As we came out of the woods onto the dam, I glanced back to see their reaction to one – I thought – particularly insightful remark, which I don’t remember now – and saw that they were several hundred yards back, and that I’d been blabbing aloud to myself and the woods for at least most of the time – probably for the best.

Didn’t realize it at the time, but I was suffering from an interesting condition known as “Trail Intoxication.” Runners –well, me, anyway – are vulnerable to TI, once sobering cares and worries are sufficiently eroded by trail miles.

Coleen caught me at the Dam Road aid station, and blasted through, while I was busy being amazed that the station volunteers had served up veggie burgers! I got one, with cheese, in a pita, and walked out of the station, watching Coleen disappear into the distance down Dam Road.

A few miles later, Tammy Sieminowski, from Canada, caught up to me. We’d run together briefly back on the Dam Road loop, right before I met Coleen. Tammy is an M.D., so the conversation of course went to health care. She’s worked in the U.S., and noted, diplomatically, that our health care system is an “interesting” one, which brought a cynical guffaw from yours truly.

Tammy Sieminowski, from Canada.

Tammy also said her experience here gave her valuable perspective. She said U.S. doctors with Canadian health care experience might likewise benefit our own healthcare system.

Several times throughout the lap I ran with Texas ultra runner Abi Meadows. Despite injuries only partly healed, the unstoppable woman was intent on finishing not only Rocky, but one ultra every weekend for the rest of the year.

Texan Abi Meadows, Barkley-bound.

Her big news, since I first met her and last saw her at Heartland in October, was that she got an invite to Barkley. I wasn’t sure whether to offer congrats or condolences – so I recruited her for Barkley photos and race report for ultrastory.com.

If you see her, do me a favor and remind her!

Finally got into the start/finish and 60 miles, just after dark. Tony was geared up and ready to go. The Big K was more relaxed about the race than I’d ever seen her. Usually by this time, the marked deterioration in me, plus the onset of night, has her worry-o-meter cranking up.

Evidently, talking with Tony had reassured her that everything would be ok.

Also, I was still in pretty good shape, and making decent time. First three laps were about 3:45, 4:30 and 5:00, if I recall correctly, which I probably don’t.

Tony and the Big K made sure I ate while they refilled and replenished the pack. Then we headed into the night on the heels of a Tony-prediction that we’d be back around 1 a.m. We did a fair amount of running, and went by Willie Lambert on his way in to wisely call it quits at 60. I think I embarrassed Tony somewhat – everyone we met got a big dose of “This is my pacer Tony, he was in the Marines and just knocked off the HURT 100!”

Tony wasn’t quiet either. Everyone we passed, or who passed us, or who we crossed paths with got a “Good job,” or “Way to go.” I really appreciated that as the night wore on. It’s the standard ultra runner greeting, but I was getting too tired to make it – needing all my energy and concentration to keep from making a face-plant.

Tony’s cell phone sounded, with its distinctive Marine Hymn ring tone. It was our friend Kyle Amos, calling to check up. Tony and Kyle ran the HURT together, step-for-step. They did the same for Rocky last year, tying for 8th in about 18 hours and small change.

At the Dam Road aid station, I made the mistake of introducing Tony to the captain, Lynn Ballard, as a former Marine. Lynn immediately informed me there are no former Marines, only Marines. Which I knew, and was pleased that Lynn knew it too.

Lynn Ballard, mighty captain of the Dam Road aid station.

Tony and Lynn talked ultras – Tony has an app in for Hardrock, and Lynn has paced Hardrock for Joe Prusaitis – both keeping an eye on me to make sure I was eating and not spending precious aid station minutes doing silly stuff like taking pictures.

Still not sure how Lynn and the other vols do it – they make you feel like they are your own personal crew, which I have heard from other runners, too.

We pushed on into the 6-mile loop while I got the gory details of Tony’s HURT100 – farts, pains, criticisms, animal noises – really good stuff, which unfortunately can’t be relayed here, since it was all highly confidential.

The aforementioned chafing started to kick up here. When we got through the loop, I got some lube and put it on at the aid station. Strangely, it didn’t seem to have any effect. Also, I started getting the chills, so at Tony’s behest, we didn’t linger. Stopping, even to eat and drink hot stuff, which Tony was serious about, meant getting racked with shivers.

Around mile 72, we met up with Beth Simpson-Hall, now with her pacer – I think his name was Mike? Interestingly, he had started at HURT, too, but called it a day (and night) after 80 miles. So he and Tony had some tales to exchange. They all seemed to involve climbs and roots.

Hardrock came up again, since Larry Hall will return for ’09 and Beth will again pace. Though Tony didn’t get in this year, evidently he will be a lock for 2010 (?). Beth shared what she knew with Tony, referring to him throughout by both his names “TonyClark,” as in “You’ll really like Hardrock, TonyClark!”

After awhile, Beth left me in the dust, as she does in every race. Soon though, and surprisingly, we came up on Nick Lang, who had passed me earlier, running like a raptor. He was walking with his pacer Laurie Euler. Evidently, the bottoms of his feet were massive colonies of blisters.

I’d thought Nick was one of our best candidates for a sub-24 – now I wondered if he would finish. He told me later that the finish was never in doubt, even during the worst of the suffering, of which more was to come, alas.

My own mental acuity was slipping I guess, which is why I thought “Don’t worry Nick, there’s nothing wrong with going until your feet are bloody stumps,” qualified as light-hearted, witty encouragement. Fortunately, Nick must’ve taken it that way because he laughed and waved us on. Laurie just looked pained.

Coming up on 80, I felt the miles. What had been a small hotspot on the left foot had grown to encompass the entire ball of the foot. Somehow it had spread to the other foot, too. The earlier-mentioned chafing had begun, and the legs were somewhat tired.

We’d kept moving, however, thanks to Tony, and hit the 80-mile mark start/finish a little after 1 a.m. Sunday morning, just as Tony had predicted. The Big K was there, and had occupied the waiting hours, with, among other things, getting all the aid station drop bags organized by number for the volunteers. By 1 a.m., they had their hands full caring for crewless runners. So the Big K’s extra hands came in – well – handy.

We went through the eat-drink-resupply drill, and I put on a dry shirt and a jacket to help with the chills. Sat down for a few minutes. Karen gave me some kind of coffee-lattee drink thing, which tasted great.

Got going before Tony got the cattle prod. He needed to stay behind for minute to get himself resupplied and into a warmer shirt, but wanted me moving. I don’t think he wanted Karen to see the shivers, which look a lot worse than they are, especially since I like to accompany them with a sort of roaring groan.

Just a minute or two out of the aid station, however, nature called on line 2, and it was urgent. I turned back to the aid station, just in time to see Tony heading out. From the shocked look on his face, I suspected he thought I had dropping on my mind. I did actually, just not the kind he was thinking of.

With Tony’s injunction “hurry up, I don’t want you to get chilled” ringing in my ears, I found a port-o-potty, and took care of biz. I also used the opportunity to put on more ineffective lube.
On my way out, I saw that Nick and Laurie had come in. Nick looked awful. He really looked like he’d mixed it up with Rocky, and not Rocky Raccoon, either. His right eye was swelled almost shut, and a volunteer was working on the worst set of feet I’d ever seen. Meat feet.

Everyone’s best guess on the eye was that Nick had got an allergic reaction to some substance on his hand, that then got into his eye when he rubbed it.

That would likely have done it for me, right there. Burnt feet and a poisoned eye, with 80 miles draped on me like an iron overcoat – not how I want to feel starting a technical 20-mile jaunt through the woods at O-dark-thirty.

Nick went. Never a thought of doing otherwise, he told me later.

Tony and I went too, though walking. I’d stiffened up pretty good during the lengthier-than-planned aid-station stop, and doing the math to see if I could walk the rest of the way and still finish.

The chafing was getting really bad. I figured the culprit was wet cotton underwear. So a few miles out, I detoured into the dark woods, and bearing the inevitable shivers, doffed shoes, tights and undergarment, while Tony waited on the trail, making casual conversation with passing runners and pacers. Mostly pacers, since the runners, by this time, didn’t have a lot to say.

Stuffed the offending underpants into my trash pocket and continued. Chafing still there, but at least not getting any worse. Trashed the shorts at the Nature Center aid station at 83.1, added more lube, fed, drank, and got back on the road.

Tony and I had blabbed through much of the run, but the dogfight was heating up for me now, and I was quiet. The night was full of sounds though – crickets and birds, and I even heard coyotes at one point in the Dam Road loop.

Managed to do a little running here and there. Tony kept me eating gels outside of the aid stations, and reminded me to take my salt and anti-fatigue caps. By four-ish, we were 90-plus miles in. I felt like a zombie.

The worst part was the sleepies. What I wouldn’t have given to lay down for a few minutes of shut-eye. I would have, too, right there on the trail, if Tony hadn’t been along. I told him I wanted a short nap at the Dam Road aid station at 92, but I could tell Tony didn’t think much of the idea. “We’ll see,” was all he’d say.
Realizing that a nap was not in the offing, I figured I needed an alternative way to wake up. The espresso Hammer Gel wasn’t enough.

Since a nearly full-moon was up, impassively watching our progress from the chilly skies, I recited my Moon Poem aloud. That seemed to help, so I launched into Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky, which I have often recited with Coleen, who also knows it by heart. Appropriate too, since the dark woods we traveled through appeared very “brillig.”

After that, I named off the three stars in Orion’s Belt – Alnitak, Alnilam, and my favorite – Mintaka. Then the four Marx Brothers – Groucho, Harpo, Chico, and Zeppo. Then the Four Musketeers – Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and D’artagnan. Recited the Beatles’ “Rocky Raccoon,” which race founder Mickey Rollins named the race after.

After that, don’t recall, but I was awake when we got to the Dam Road aid station, where we saw Colorado ultra runner Dale Perry sitting dazedly in a camp chair. He snapped out of it, evidently, and finished just a few minutes after me. Meanwhile, I sat down and went into my own daze in a camp chair, while Tony put coffee and hot ramen noodles into me.

Next thing I recall, we were walking down Dam Road. The legs felt like two by fours, and I was trying to ward off the shivers by walking fast enough to warm up. We got into the woods, and I tried to run. Probably could have, too, if I’d made a more concerted effort, but the mental state was too feeble.

I’d taken my last running steps back on the Dam Road loop.

As a drizzly gray dawn arose, we were inbound to the Park Road aid station – last port of call before the finish. Rain threatened several times with small spatters, and I thought we were going to get drenched – but the deluge never happened.

Hot food and coffee at Park Road, then onward for the last five.

As we walked down the wide dirt road on the one slightly hilly part of the last lap, I pointed out the house with the big brown roof just up ahead to Tony. I think I told him we could shelter there temporarily if the rain got bad.

Tony just looked at me, because, of course, there was no house, and I was seeing things. Also not there – the dedicated volunteer and his pickup truck that I still remember seeing clearly up ahead waiting for us– until we got to the spot, and there was no truck or volunteer.

Despite the addled brain, the nose was still good, and I could smell finish. I tried to walk fast, or at least not lapse into the one-mile-per hour pace Tony refers to as “Pud walking.” Didn’t want to be a Pud walker. My conversation, as I recall, had pretty much devolved down to “Well, this is the last time we’ll see this spot,” and “I’m beginning to think I might finish.”

Tony was constantly encouraging and positive. I highly recommend Marines who have finished the HURT100 as pacers.

The last few miles went by like a dream, or like being underwater. The sun came out. And there, ‘round the last bend and across the road, was the finish. The Big K, and the Trail Nerds were waiting for me.

Tony peeled off, and I was solo once again, for the last few seconds. I willed the body to run, and put my hands over my head, and charged across the finish-line timing mat like a rabid raccoon.

DONE!

Tony hugged me and pumped my hand. "You kicked its ass!" he yelled.

"It was mutual," I replied. 

A beautiful lady, who I later learned was Co-RD Joyce Prusaitis, put a belt buckle in my hand, and another beautiful lady, the Big K, hugged me even though I was stinky as 100 miles in 26:30:54 can make you. She took my hydration pack and helped me into my down jacket, and led me over to the Kansas delegation, where I sat in a camp chair.

All the Kansas delegation was there. Coleen, Ben, James, Danny, Debbie, Christy, Willie, Gabe, Rick, Darin, Lee, and more… as we watched, Nick came roaring in, sore feet, bad eye and all. Good job, Laurie, getting him in!

We were all in, and all safe, and Rocky was in the bag.

Then Karen and I fell back to our room… only to find a Gideon’s Bible!

The Gideon checked out,

and he left it, no doubt,

to help with good Gary’s revival!

Hilly 50K

Gary's race report from the 2008 Psycho Psummer 50k trail ultra

I ran it July 5
With a bunch of other runners
A little test of character
It’s known as Psycho Psummer

The Kansas City Trail Nerds
Are the hosts of this event
The nicest folks you’ll ever meet
With a slight sadistic bent

Race Director Bad Ben Holmes
At the starting line
Spoke of heat and sticks and rocks and ticks
And shallow graves for those who whine

Then on that cheerful happy note
The race got under way
Some doing one 15-mile lap
Some two for 50K

We started on a grassy lawn
With Dick Ross shooting pics
But soon were into up and down
Filled with mud and rocks and sticks

Now if you ran this happy race
I’m sure you had some fun
And I’ll bet Mr. Ross got a shot of you
That you’ll find on SeeKCrun (dot com)

I found myself back of a gal
Who seemed rather strangely built
Then to my horror I realized
T’was a guy in a running kilt! Eww.

That spurred me on to greater speed
I wanted to get away!
That helped me catch a mud babes pack
They were doing the 50K

Laurie, Sophia and Coleen
They were grace in motion
After the traumatic view of kiltman-guy
To my eyes, they were a healing lotion

Out came my camera, clicker-clack
I shot runners by the score
Until the damn thing wouldn’t work
And then I shot no more.

But I got a few, maybe one of you
If you want to send to your Mom
They’re posted free for all to see
On UltraStory.com! (go to the photos page)

On narrow trails quite runnable
The conga lines did sail
Stopping only for a face-plant or two
And to hurdle trees that blocked the trail

Now I’m sure you’ve run some crazy places
Here and there and way down yonder
But my friend you ain’t seen nuthin yet
Till you’ve tackled Fester’s Wander

Fester was Bad Ben’s mighty dog
A splendid cinnamon Chow
He died after a long and happy life
But he’s still missed, and how!

Some years back he was in the woods
Chasing squirrel and bunny
And the tracks he traced became part of the race
That’s the kind of thing Bad Ben thinks is funny

The Wander pays no heed to human need
It twists and turns so sharp
You could take a speedy spill right off the hill
And end in Heaven with your harp!

But we all got through the canine part
Though the fightin’ fifties did it twice
And Hedgehog Hill waited on the other side
A hill you could only describe as. . . nice

You have to go up another slope
Just to get to its base
Now that’s just fine, God knows I won’t whine
But this hill tops out in outer space!

It’s said that Kansas is pancake-flat
A study showed that’s real
So nice to know as up you go
That endless Hedgehog Hill

Yep, the race is rough, and mighty tough
In fact, I probably couldn’t do it
If not for volunteers along the way
Who helped me get right through it

Stacy and Kyle at station one
With food, drink and gels of power
And Pat Perry at station 2
Who rigged up a lovely shower!

And Cheri and Deb and Brandy Jones
With burgers on the grill
Helped everyone survive the run
By feeding them their fill

And I can’t forget some miles in
I almost went past an orange marker
And was saved from going off the course
By a volunteer named “Wrong Way Barker!” How ironic.

But I digress, haven’t told the rest
There was still more course to wrangle
Like that narrow trail through the twisty hell
We call the Wyco Triangle

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not too long
Just nine-tenths of a mile
But it goes up and down and around and around
Trust me, you’ll be there for awhile.

And after that, it’s sploosh and splat
As you hit the muddy parts
Where the trail sucks the shoes right off your feet
While making sounds like farts

All this and more is what lies in store
For all at Psycho Psummer
Of course, the Fightin’ Fifties do it twice
That’s why they call them “ultra-runners.”

But 15 miles or 50k,
Still few things are so fine
As when the yells and cheers caress your ears
At the finish line

Done at last, I had a blast
Take it from Uncle Gary
And I’ll see you at the Nerds next 50k
At Psycho Wyco in February

US home

Trail Troubles

Gary's race report from the 2008 Free State 100k trail ultra

Boy, you think you know a trail.

You lavish hundreds, maybe thousands of running hours on it, in all seasons and weathers, flowery to desolate, muddy to snowy, dry to muddy, muddy to muddy.
You pick up the trash. You clean it after races. You photograph it. You brag to all your friends how beautiful the trail is.

And then, in the big race, in front of the people you most want to impress – ultrarunners from across the nation – your lovely little trail beats the snot out of you.

The Saturday, April 26 event featured concurrent 100k and 40-mile races starting at 7 a.m. I ran the hundred, though not so much toward the end. The marathon began at 8.

Forty-milers did two laps. Hundred k’ers, three.

It began innocently enough. Race Director “Bad” Ben Holmes, of the Kansas City Trail Nerds, said, simply, “on your mark, get set, go,” to the crowd of about 70 two- and three- lappers assembled on a grassy patch right by the woods.

It was clear and the sun was just up, but shivery cold for late April – in the 30s – perhaps an ominous warning from Mother Nature about the cold, fickle heart of the North Shore Trail.

If so, I heeded it not, and plunged into the woods with my fellow members of Tribe Ultrarunner, the greatest tribe this world has ever known.

We ran tightly packed together at first, over rocky, rooty, rolling terrain familiar and comfortable to me as those ragged old jeans you love, that someone in your life always wants you to throw out.

A light green film of newly sprouted leaves filled the forest – background for splendid sprays of redbud, dogwood and other flowering creatures.

The first ring of the wake-up call arrived rudely about 7-and-a-half miles into the race. Greg and I were running with 100-k’er Willie Lambert. Willie owns a running store in Topeka – The Great Plains Running Company. He serves all runners – yoga folk, too – but trail and ultrarunners find as good or better a selection of shoes and gear and knowledgeable staff as anywhere on the planet.

Willie and spouse Karen also host the four-race Rock Creek Trail Series, out at Perry Lake, Kan., with two races in the Spring and two in the late summer and Fall, culminating with a 25 and 50k.

What’s more, he’s a Leadville finisher, who just signed up for this year’s Grand Slam of Ultrarunning. His license plate reads “Run 100s.” So, he’s a guy you’re proud to run with. He’s a guy you don’t want to look like a doofus in front of.

Greg, Willie and I ran the trails, blabbing about this race and that. And then, as we slowed down on an incline coming up on a stream crossing, on a part of the trail I’d been on a zillion times and never come close to falling on – down I went, into the mud, like a guy who just met his first trail Tuesday.

Willie gave me a hand up, grinning. So much for “my trail” and not looking like a doofus. Of course, he’d already caught me peeing in an unfortunately exposed part of the woods. The bad part was that he was in a train of maybe a dozen runners, including several women.

“Setting up the old tripod, Gar?” he called out, and there was much merriment, but not a whole lot Gar and the old tripod could do. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

But the trail – my trail -- could have provided a little more cover, in my opinion.

Despite these mishaps, or maybe because of them, I was having a blast. The day had warmed up nicely – 40s, then 50s, then 60s – and I danced across the plentiful rocks and roots, all old friends – or so I thought.

But rock by rock and root by root, my pretty little trail was giving me a beating I wouldn’t even find out about until the third lap.

Meantime, my close encounters with the mud weren’t over. A huge muddy patch lurks in wait on the trail about a half-mile from the mid-point of the 20-mile loop. What makes it tricky is that the trail there is canted downhill in parts. I got through it upright on my first lap. On my second, I resolved to be even more careful.

Stepping slowly, deliberately through the mucky morass, nevertheless, my right foot zipped out from under me and I went down, back first, a classic banana peel pratfall.

Managed to get one arm down in mid-fall to keep myself from being completely immersed in mud, but wrenched my back doing it. Was this my great little trail? You always hurt the ones you love, I’ve heard it said. And that hurt.

But fall twice, get up three times, as another saying sort of goes (sounds good, but I’m not sure bout the math).

Still, I was making good time, at least for me. I’d done the first lap in under four hours. As I trotted into the start-finish before 3 p.m. with 40-plus behind me, I was on track for a 100k, sub-13, a PR.

With two-thirds done, I felt great. Seeing fellow runners Emily Horn and Chris Turner who had just finished their first-ever 40-milers and were loitering about with great huge finisher’s medals dangling from their necks made me feel greater. Had to snap pics.

Saw Beth Hilt, who had run the marathon, and was about to devour a huge burger. Her legs wore coats of dried mud, but she’d taken her shoes off, revealing lovely pink toenails. Somehow the juxtaposition of mud legs and pink toenails spoke to me, and I had to click a pic. And I had to get a pic of Katie Spaeth, who was waiting for significant other Mark Koester, another friend, running his first 100k, and not too far behind me. It was her plan to run the last lap with him, which she did.

With Katie's help, Mark got in DFL, a gutsy, gutsy performance in my book.

One of Bad Ben’s fabulous volunteers, all of whom are charming and personally attractive, helped me fill my hydration pack, and I got back on the trail. I hoped to catch Greg, who was ahead of me, but by how much I didn’t know. I’d caught him earlier on the second loop, after nausea had slowed him down.

He told me later he nearly quit about 24 miles in, he felt so sick. Instead, he swallowed some salt caps, which we heard can sometimes help. They did, and Greg trundled on.

It didn’t appear there would be any catching this time though. All the slipping, sliding, twisting and dancing had taken a toll on this funny little muscle just above my right knee. I was finding uphill and technical both painful. I could run on flat and smooth (who can’t?), but rocks and roots, and inclines and descents had to be strictly walking.

I saw Greg briefly, where westbound and eastbound trails closely parallel. He was moving strong, and, I judged, about three miles ahead of me.

Well, I guess we know who the trail’s new favorite is now, I thought bitterly. Just because someone comes along and puts a bunch of glitzy ribbons and flags on it – oh, all is vanity!

I limped along on my trail-bitten leg. The trail periodically sent jolts of pain through my knee every time I forgot and tried to run a section I was accustomed to hitting hard on the balls of my feet.

It was as if the trail was saying, “Oh no you don’t. I’ll let you finish, but it’s going to be late, late, late.”

Thank goodness for the aid stations!

At Land’s End, about 6 miles into the loop, Stacey Amos, Caleb Chatfield and two other volunteers had set up an oasis of food, drink and the emotional support I sorely needed. Each visit, two per lap, I dined on salted potatoes, watermelon, cookies and coke.

“The trail’s mad at me for taking it for granted,” I almost said. But something deep in my brain warned me it was a sentiment best held for later. Instead, I just made an animal noise.

Just before leaving, “Kearney Boy” and fellow Trail Nerd John King, came in from the opposite direction. With just 3 ½ miles to go, John was going to be a daylight finisher – and was, with a sub 12 (nearly sub-11) 10th place finish.

Seeing John gave me hope that I wouldn't have another fall in the mud. He appeared to have collected all the mud on the course on him. Seeing John, I thought there might not be any mud left. That's a man who's not scared to plunge on through.

Stacy Sheridan, Randy Albrecht and Theresa Wheeler of the Kansas Ultrarunners Society ran the aid station at the loop’s halfway point. Interestingly, both Stacys had husbands in the race – Kyle Amos, and Phil Sheridan, respectively. I got into the KUS station for the final time around seven-ish.

Even though I was slow, my spirits were high. Because I hadn’t been able to push as hard as I wanted to, I felt great. It was more like a hike than a race, and I love hiking.

On my way in, about three miles from the KUS station, where trails closely paralleled once again, I saw fellow Trail Nerd Rick Mayo pacing in another “Kearney Boy” and Trail Nerd, Gabe Bevan who also was hundreding.

They were moving briskly, about 6 or 7 miles ahead of me. Rick had run the marathon that morning, and finished fourth. Then he came back to make sure Gabe finished. Gabe was grumpy about something, which astonished me, given the beautiful day and course – but maybe the trail wasn’t giving him any love either. I thought that with a little guilty satisfaction. Misery loves company.

The rapid-fire events of the next minute are kind of a blur, but here’s how I recall them:

1. Veggie burger-half in hand, I turned to Christy Craig. Christy ran the morning marathon, and was at the KUS aid station as crew for Greg, but graciously stayed for me. She had Hammer Gels and salt caps for me.

2. Hundred k’ers Alan Smelser and Adam Monaghan trotted in.

3. I took a bite of the veggie burger-half, and every fiber of my being cried out, “THAT’S GREAT!! MUST HAVE MORE!!”

4. I saw Adam going for the other half of the veggie burger, unprotected on the table.

5. “NOOOOO!!” I yowled and lunged for the other burger-half. Then I saw—

6. Adam had the knife!

7. “Actually, I don’t mind sharing with fellow ultrarunners,” I said.

8. Adam cut the veggie burger-half in half, and we each swallowed down our share of the culinary triumph.

With adrenaline pumping, I got back on the trail, for the last 10-mile section. I was not Mr. Speedy, and Alan and Adam soon caught and passed.

About a mile out from the station, I saw Mark Koester inbound to the station, still on his feet, being paced by S.O. Katie. That part of the trail is near the road, so they had a cheering section of their friends – all gorgeous young women yelling for them as they went by.

They also cheered for everyone else who went by – I’m sure I’m not the only one who, closing in on 50 miles, thought they were like angels from Heaven.

I hobbled on, inbound for my last visit to the Land’s End aid station, which I had come to think of as “Amos Chatfield’s Café Upon the Trail,” and the last 3 ½ miles of the race.

As the sun sank, clouds came up. A soft gray twilight flooded the woods. Some gentle rain swept through, and I was all alone except for a few deer which moved leisurely away as I came through, and the trail that didn’t like me anymore.

It was dark by the time I strolled into Amos Chatfield’s. Stacy, and spouse Kyle, who had finished his hundred – second runner in, sub-10 – were serving up the usual goodies.

Smelling finish, I didn’t stay long. But Stacy and Kyle were out there till after 11, waiting on the last runners, and packing up in rain, cold and wind. I’ve volunteered at a race or two, and am here to tell you – it can be tougher than running the race!

Of course, Kyle does both in the same event, so he gets the full experience.

Onward I trundled, feeling much better than I had any right to expect, because of my enforced slowness. I ran where I could, and tried where I couldn’t, and unfailingly got a zap each time.

I hated to be so slow, but was secretly glad to be out after dark, alone in the spooky woods. Wind washed through the trees, and I heard wood creaking and scraping.

The bad thing was – I wanted to run. I felt good enough to run. But the trail wouldn’t let me! My trail! Oh how it hurt, in a race, feeling great, and can’t run! Aaargh!

I enjoyed the declining moments of the race as best I could, and all too soon was at the finish. It was late, late, late, just like the trail had promised.

Everyone was gone except Jim Wright, another 100k finisher who was waiting for a ride; Bad Ben and spouse Vicky who couldn’t leave, since it was their party, and Greg and Christy, who had waited for me through the dark, rain and cold to see I got in safe. Greg had got in about 90 minutes earlier.

Ben gave me a finisher’s belt buckle, a hearty, manly handshake and a delicious muffin.

I didn’t tell Greg and Christy the trail and I had a falling-out.

But the fact is, I’m not speaking to the trail right now. And I went out just yesterday for Willie and Karen Lambert’s 10k Rock Creek race on the trails at Perry Lake. Perfectly lovely trails, better hills than at Clinton, and very accommodating.

So you see, North Shore Trail, you’re not the only fish in the wide blue sea.

Greg and Christy were at the Rock Creek race, and asked me if I’d be out Wednesday night for our usual jaunt on the North Shore trails.

“The North Shore trails and I have broken up!” I almost said, defiance in my eyes. Instead I shuffled my feet and looked shamefacedly at the ground.

“I’ll be there,” I whispered.

# # #

Who can say where the wind blows?

Gary's race report from the 2008 Rockin' K 50-mile trail run

Celtic crooner Enya sings a hauntingly beautiful song in which she plaintively asks, "who can say where the wind blows?"

Well, Enya, if you really want to know, just ask anyone who ran the Rockin' K Trail Runs, 50-mile and marathon, April 5, 2008 at Kanopolis State Park, Kansas. They'll tell you where the wind blows.

And they probably won't be plaintive or hauntingly beautiful about it, either.

Thirty-mile-per-hour straight-line winds howled up out of the Southeast, right around noon -- just in time for most of the 50-milers to start their second lap.

Most of the marathoners got in right before or after the breezes started.

It kicked up pretty good, right in my face, as I trundled into the start/finish/midway point, which operated out of the concrete shelter house on a bluff overlooking Kanopolis Lake.

Marathon finishers were sprawled all about on picnic tables and wood benches, sucking down brewskis and Race Director Stacy Sheridan's homemade chili. Their race was over after the first lap.

A huge blaze roared away in the enormous stone fireplace, and everyone was laughing and having fun. I could see why four of the 30 50-mile starters opted to call it a day at 26.2.

I, however, had just dropped at 77 miles at Rocky Raccoon in February, so stopping short wasn't an option for me. Along with several other "fightin' fifties," I grimly refilled my hydration pack, got more Hammer gel, Perpetuem and S-caps from my drop bag, and headed into the hurricane for my remaining 24 miles.

My friend and fellow Kansas City Trail Nerd Greg Burger had got in and out just before me, with the help of his loyal crew, Christy Craig. He was trying to get his 50 wrapped up fast, because his beloved KU Jayhawks were on deck to play the North Carolina Tar Heels in the Final Four at 7 p.m.

I looked back into the shelter house at all the happy 26.2ers. "I'm having fun, too, you know!" I muttered under my breath at them, though I doubt anyone heard.

And truly, I was having fun, even if I was already tired of the wind's constant pimp-slapping, roaring in my ears, and attempts to swipe my hat. Though the wind was fierce and unrelenting, the sun smiled warmly, in the 60s, from clear blue skies. At least this race wasn't a constant fight against cold like last year's race, which started with temps of 19 degrees and seven inches of snow on the ground.

At Rockin' K, it's always something. It's planned that way, for the first weekend in April – possibly the most volatile weekend for weather on the whole calendar.

There's been the hot year, the cold year, the rain year, the mud year -- last year was the snow year -- and 2008, the race's 10th anniversary, will probably be the "wind year."

I wait for the "pleasant year," but so far it hasn't happened. Rockin K's other race director, Stacy's husband Phil, who is a talented ultra-runner, has created the kind of race he likes to run. Beautiful, rugged, and with unpredictable weather conditions.

I headed out the quarter mile or so of asphalt road from the shelter house to the trail. At the trail, which zigzags Northwest for about half its distance, I suddenly got the wind at my back. This was more like it! I flew right along – the only thing delaying me -- my own inclination to stop and take photos of the beautiful course.

Kanopolis State Park, and Rockin' K, are set in the Smoky Hills of Kansas. It's one of two ranges of hills in the otherwise flat-as-a-pancake state. The combination of high curving hills, creeks, deep canyons, monumental formations of eroded stone, and vast vistas of tall-grass prairie make it hard for anyone carrying a camera to keep a steady pace.

So I stopped and clicked, but was mostly alone on the second loop, with my 25 or so fellow fifties strung out all along the route.

I made the aid station at Big Bluff Loop, 37.5 miles into the race in about 8 hours and change. The loop is a five-mile section with three vicious four-points-to-the-ground ascents. You pull yourself up using rocks, roots, trees and cusswords.

Two of the ascents put you on the edge of a bluff 400 feet or so above the Smoky River. Great view, unless you're scared of heights.

It's fun and beautiful, but it doesn’t help your time, especially if you're a shutterbug with a camera. As a "nifty fifty," I was heading through for my second time, so I had to stop and get shots of everything I missed on my first lap -- mostly pics of the strange towers of red rock sticking up 20 feet or so from the rollin seas of sand and grass.

Coming out of the loop at about 42 miles, I hit the aid station again. There, Phil Sheridan and his fabulous volunteers braved the wind to feed and water all who could make it that far. Greg was still ahead of me, burning rubber to get to his Jayhawks game, but his crew, Christy, had graciously stayed to make sure I got everything I needed from my drop bag.

Then I was back on the trail to the start/finish – now heading directly into the wind, which hadn't abated an iota. Head down, I left the aid station and its tent rattling in the wind, volunteers trying to stay upright and on the ground, and set out on the last leg.

While the straight-line winds were thirty-something, occasional gusts of higher velocity slammed me, sometimes actually knocking me off the trail, despite my 150-pounds of solid protoplasm.

About four miles into this stretch there's a sweet feature – you can see the start/finish. If it's your first time on the course, you think you're almost done.

Then the trail veers north for two miles of mostly uphill grade.

But if you just keep moving, time eventually takes care of everything else. As dark descended, wind still blowing, I rolled off the trail onto the asphalt, and could see the shelter house straight ahead.

Bellowing out the theme from "Rocky," I charged up the road to one of the sweetest sounds I know -- the cowbell ringing at the finish.

There was RD Stacy, with some of the other runners, including Kyle Amos and Willie Lambert who'd finished w-a-a-a-y before me, but were hanging around to yip and yell for us back o' the pack stragglers.

I joined in the shouting as a few more runners came in after me.

Once the hollering died down, I limped into the shelter house for the long-awaited beer and chili.

Inside I saw Greg and Christy. Greg had got in about 10 minutes before me, and was totally spent from his 50-mile run-fest. Evidently the muscles were going into rigor-mortis. He went for some chili like an arthritic hundred-year-old man, and sat gingerly down at a picnic table.

He feebly pecked at his cell phone, trying to find some news of the Final Four, while I rummaged in my drop bag for the transistor radio I'd brought.

Suddenly, I heard a rafters-rattling bellow and turned to see Greg leap to his feet. He found the news he'd sought -- Jayhawks up early in the game by about 20 points.

As I watched, astonished, along with everyone else in the shelter house, Greg tore out of the door, doing some sort of victory lap, in the grip of different kind of wind -- a wind that would eventually carry the Jayhawks and their fans, including Greg, to a national championship.

So now you know, Enya -- that's where the wind blows -- to the finish.

What's that? The actual song lyric is "Who can say where the road goes?" Not "where the wind blows?"

Well, Enya, if you really want to know where the road goes. . .

# # #

Four rounds with Rocky

Gary's race report from the 2008 Rocky Raccoon Trail 100

Rocky won with a TKO in the fourth.

I fell heavily into a camp chair, done, at the Site 174 aid station, 77.1 miles into the five-lap, 100-mile race, about 1:30 a.m., Sunday morning. But I knew I was going down shortly after leaving the Dam Road aid station about 4.5 miles before, at 11:15 Saturday night.

Stumbling through the woods by headlamp, bumping into trees like a punch-drunk palooza, I knew I was in trouble. But the only solution my battered wits could come up with was -- make it to the next aid station and throw in the towel.

Since then, I've played the "What if" game -- a pointless, though compelling exercise familiar to most of us who haven't met our running goals at one time or another. Although if those "what ifs" help us with lessons-learned to get through the next race -- maybe there is a point after all.

Anyway, my big "what if" -- What if instead of collapsing like a bunch of broccoli, I'd crawled on to the 80-mile mark at the Lodge/Start/Finish? There, Matt Holmes, Stacy Amos, Stacy King and Tiffanie Bevans were crewing. Chances are, they could've put me back together enough for one last walking lap.

There was plenty of time, with a noon cut-off. Maybe a 20-minute nap and some calories would've done the trick? Probably. Who knows? Next year, I'll have a pacer, who'll take over the thinking chores. Thinking doesn't seem to be my strong suit after 70 miles.

The trouble started at 6 a.m., Feb. 2, in the dark, in front of the Main Lodge at Huntsville State Park, Texas. The ultrarunning beast had gathered itself at the starting line, fidgeting with its more than 600 legs and arms, and knifing open the blackness in every direction with its hundreds of tiny, brilliant, light-emitting eyes.

Then "the word" was spoken. Front-runners blasted off, while mid- and back-of-the-packers shuffled forward. With an exultant roar of hope and joy, the beast elongated itself like some sort of primeval paramecium, and snaked off into the dark.

I'd gotten separated from my group, members of the Kansas City Trail Nerds. They included Ben Holmes, on track for his 6th consecutive Rocky Raccoon 100-mile finish. His son Matt, was crewing for us all, along with spouses of Trail Nerds Kyle Amos, Gabe Bevans and John King.

John was after his first hundred, Gabe was looking for a PR in his fourth. And Kyle -- well, I'm not sure if Kyle was chasing anything, but I predicted he'd finish top-10, and he did -- eighth. I should be so accurate predicting my own efforts!

Tony Clark, former Marine and current member of the Kansas Ultrarunning Society rounded out our group. Rocky was his second hundred.

Tony and Kyle ran together for the whole race, both finishing in about 18:14, and netting Tony ninth. Tony's got his sights set on even more challenging game now -- Big Horn and Cactus Rose.

Gabe broke 20, paced for the last 40 by fellow Trail Nerd Mark Stovall; and John turned in a sub-21 debut run, paced by Rick Mayo. Rick, a Rocky vet, helped train John specifically for this race.

Ben finished too. At about 26 hours, he said it was one of his ugliest finishes ever. Seemed pretty good to me, looking on from DNFville.

I managed to locate fellow Kansas Ultrarunning Society members Randy Albrecht and Theresa Wheeler and ran with them till right before the first aid station, "Highway" at 4.1 miles in. Randy is co-RD, with Jim Davis, of Ultrarunning's best-kept secret, the Heartland 100- and 50-mile runs, Cassoday, Kansas.

He's also a superb distance-man, even when he hasn't trained. I wouldn't have had a prayer of staying with him, but he was doing a "100-mile pacer" job with Theresa, to help her get a sub-24.

Later, a rib-injury kicked up, and Theresa dropped at 40, after completing most of it in pain. Unleashed, Randy went on to deliver a sub-20-hour finish.

But Gar struggled, though not in the beginning.

As rosy light from a cloudless dawn lit the piney woods, we all cruised easily on soft, sand trails and roads. Around us, splendid stands of loblolly pine soared 60 and 70 feet.

I struck up a conversation with fellow runner Marty Fritzhand, 64, from Cincinnati, and we talked starts, finishes and getting off-course in hundreds. Marty had a bad turn at Western States once, where getting off course in the dark, late in the race, nearly cost him a hard-earned buckle.

He finished there, and finished this one too.

I ran with Chrissy "Dirty Girl Gaiters" Weiss for a while on that first loop. She wore a fabulous fluorescent green ensemble, visor to gaiters -- the only things brighter on the course were the sunshine and her smile.

Chrissy got in under 29 hours. You go girl!

It was jolly times on that first 20-mile lap. I saw my fellow Trail Nerds on the out-and-backs -- all ahead of me. There were high-fives everywhere, and the woods echoed with shouts of greeting and encouragement.

Members of Tribe Ultrarunner, the greatest tribe the earth has ever known, hurtled down the warpath yet again. As always, I thrilled to being part of it, and to be running free and easy across the land.

I finished Lap 1 in 3:45, much faster than I planned. People cheered as other runners and I rolled into the Lodge aid station. I got my time recorded as I crossed the chip-timing mat.

We all wore stylish ankle-bracelets with timing chips attached. I heard some complaints about having to wear them, but I never noticed mine, until I had to take it off.

Taking it off stung a little, though not physically.

On the way out for loop 2, I stopped to let Matt and Stacy Amos replenish my hydration pack. They gave me more Hammer gel, Perpetuem, S-caps and water. I had a bottle of HEED, too, but hadn't drunk any, since they were serving the stuff at the aid stations.

They wanted to know how I was feeling. The truth was that my quads hurt. Just a little, but it worried me because it was way too early in a 100-miler for that to happen. So I didn't say anything about it, on the theory that it's not real until you verbally acknowledge it.

For the rest, I did feel good. Stomach troubles hadn't started, the day was warm and blue and sunny and I had nothing to do but run through the woods.

So I did.

Though a lot of runners still trod the trails, this lap was quieter. There was less guffawing and more grunting. By mile 30 and noon, the temps had climbed into the 60s. I wasn't complaining. I like heat.

Ben, Matt, Tony and I had left Kansas in a blizzard, after several days of single-digit temperatures. Hot was ok with all of us.

I ran for a while with Vinnie Swendson, from New Jersey. I met him last June at the Old Dominion Endurance 100, in Woodstock, Va., which was another Gar-DNF, that time at mile 75.

I have actually finished some hundreds, I swear! Just not since 2006.

Vinnie completed the ODE, but not under the 28-hour cutoff. He got a sub-25 at Rocky, though. And I got to call out "Yo, Vinnie!" in my best "Joisey" accent, when I saw him, something I always wanted to do.

The field thinned by afternoon. The first drops had occurred. I ran the rolling ups and downs still fairly easily. Now I was running 18 minutes, walking 2, and it worked well.

Woods were bright and warm. I snapped a few photos here and there. A series of long, winding boardwalks spans several swampy areas about 16 miles into the 20-mile loop course. I tried to get pics of runners traipsing over those.

Quad got stiffer, and I continued to not acknowledge it.

Trotting across the timing mat and into the Lodge aid station to mark 40 down, I knew the dogfight had begun.

"Less chit-chat, more running!"

I was getting a quick pampering from Stacy Amos and Matt before heading out on lap 3, when I heard that familiar voice. I turned to see Beth Simpson-Hall cruising past with a wry grin, heading out on her own third lap.

I'd have taken it as teasing from most, but from Beth it seemed like advice to follow. A Leadville finisher, she turned in a sub-24 at Rocky, good enough for first Female Master.

Her spouse, Larry, took 6th in the 50-mile at this year's Rocky Raccoon. He's a Hardrock and Rocky Mountain Slam finisher, but no wonder, with Beth to pace him!

Matt and Stacy quickly finished me up, and I tore out. Slowly.

I was slow at first on my stiffening quads, going out on the rolling ups and downs on the trail paralleling the park's main road, but soon picked up to a nice trot. Beth had vanished, however.

A little less than a mile out, where the trail crosses the park's main road, I missed a turn, and would've gone off course. Fortunately, some hikers hollered to me that I was going the wrong way.

"All your friends are going that way!" they called out. It was a warning to pay attention I should have heeded better.

I quickly backtracked, dashed across the road, and was back on course. I hustled down the twisty trails through scrub oak and pine, and soon found myself behind Vinnie and Beth. They had a good pace going, so I saved my breath for keeping up -- "less chit-chat. . ." as Beth would say -- I'm not sure they even knew I was there.

Soon, nature demanded I get off the trail for a few minutes, a positive sign that I'd been drinking enough in the hot afternoon. Temps had hit 70. I let Vinnie and Beth go while I took care of biz.

Next time I'd see them, I'd be ahead of both -- by mistake.

Back on the trail, I soon arrived at Amy's Crossing. Here, the trail "T's" at a dirt road. It's clearly marked -- hundred-milers go left up the road, and 50-milers go right.

And after I'd already done it correctly twice, guess which way Gar went. Yup. The 50-mile way. I'd accidentally cut the course by about four miles, but didn't know it.

I got into the woods, continuing blithely on until I caught up with another runner, Larry King. When the talk turned to how far we'd gone, it quickly became apparent I'd missed the Highway aid station.

You cut the course. I was mortified.

Larry, sensible fellow, suggested I continue on to the Dam Road aid station, which was near, and confess all. Which I did.

At Dam Road, the captain told me I'd made a common mistake. His advice was to continue the loop, check in at the Lodge at mile 60 (it would just be 56 for me), and see what Race Director Joe Prusaitis wanted me to do. Usually, he said, it was only a matter of making up the missed mileage by doing a double out-and-back from Amy's Crossing to the Highway Aid station.

It was nice to hear that I might not be driven from the race in shame and disgrace, but I still felt dirty.

From Dam Road, I headed out to the Farside aid station at the end of a 2.9 mile out-and-back. I drank a little HEED there, and then trotted back to Dam Road. On the way out from Farside, I passed Ben Holmes, who was inbound to Farside. He had been in front of me the entire race, and he was surprised to now see me in front.

"Gary, great job!" he yelled as we passed.

It felt like an arrow in the heart.

"Ben, it's not what it looks like!" I hollered. "I'll tell you later!"

Then I saw Beth, who appeared delighted to see me -- apparently -- doing so well.

"Way to go, Gary!" she called. Phhht! Another arrow.

At Dam Road, I got water, and I got my headlamp from my drop bag -- just a few more hours of light left, and I didn't want to get caught in the dark.

I got back on the road quick. All I wanted to do was finish the loop and get my mistake squared away. So I bustled, and got back to the Lodge before 6 p.m. and darkness.

There, I told RD Joe Prusaitis what happened. As I hoped, he said I could make up the missed out-and-back from lap 3 with a double out-and-back on lap 4. Filled with determination to make it good, I headed for the crew to get set up for the night.

Back with Stacy Amos and Matt, I got resupplied. I wanted heavier shoes for the night run, with good toe-protection, since I expected to be bumping my toes a lot.

Many of the trail sections are rife with roots -- gnarly bulbous things that stick out of the trail like some kind of nightmarish rebar from ruined concrete. It's not so bad during the day, when you can see and are fresh.

But at night, when vision is circumscribed by flashlight and headlamp, and when your stride after more than 60 miles is not so sprightly -- that's when the infamous Rocky Raccoon roots take their toll.

So I sat, and let Matt help me change my Mizuno Wave Ascend 2s for Montrail Hardrocks. That's when the first chills and shivers hit -- a sign I wasn't taking in enough calories. It wasn't the weather -- temps were still in the 60s, despite the sun heading in for the evening.

I put on a warmer shirt. While Matt was helping me back into my hydration pack, another spasm of shivers hit. While they were asking me if I wanted to eat, I asked Stacy for my jacket, which she helped me into.

"Don't worry," I told them. "Once I get moving I'll warm right up."

They weren't worried. They're crew vets and have seen it all before.

I got going, sucked a little Perp and Hammer Gel, and tried to trot a little on legs that felt more and more like 2 x 4s. Moving warmed me up, though, and soon I was moving at a fast walk, even doing a slow run on downhill grades.

It was dark now, and I was by myself. The path was lit by green glow sticks hanging from branches. It was pleasantly spooky. I should've been eating more though, and I wasn't. The stomach was unpleasantly spooky.

I ignored the nausea, completely focused on getting to Amy's Crossing to begin the twin trips to the Highway aid station. When I got to the crossing, I couldn't believe how well it was marked. If I hadn't missed it myself, I would've said it was impossible to miss.

There were signs. There were arrows. There were ribbons.

Eager to get to the Highway aid station, I ran much of the slightly uphill dirt road. I saw a few people with bright headlamps coming from the station. They looked like lights with legs.

Managed to choke down a Hammer Gel.

Soon I was at the aid station, where I checked in and explained how I was going to leave, then come back again. The runner-checker took it all in stride. There was plenty of food at the station, but nothing looked like it would stay down.

I drank a cup of HEED and a cup of Coke, spazzed out with the shivers, and wobbled back down the road into the dark. Got to Amy's Crossing, turned around and headed back to the Highway aid station, where I repeated checking in, drinking HEED and Coke, spazzing out and departing into the dark.

As I walked and trotted down the dark road, the lights of other runners floated past me inbound to the aid station, like luminous spirits -- with legs.

Then I was at Amy's Crossing, finally FREE of the blunder.

Shortly after Amy's, I plunged back into the woods, following more curvy trail and green glow sticks. Eventually, I came out to the road leading to the Dam Road aid station. It was about 10 p.m., 16 hours and 67 miles into the race.

I was not. I knew I should eat, but the stomach wasn't having any. Traitor. I gave it an S-cap anyway.

Back at the Dam Road aid station, I drank and shivered, and sat down for minute, back against a tree, outside of the station lamplight, where no one could see. I nodded off for a moment, then woke with a start as the shivers grabbed me. It was a very comfortable tree and I could've stayed there longer, if I wasn't worried about hypothermia. In 60 degrees, no less. Oy!

I got up reluctantly, and toddled down the road toward the trail across the dam, and the 4 miles or so of rooty woods between me and the next aid station. Speed couldn't have been more than two mph.

The sleepies were on me. I dozed while walking, waking as roots tripped me and trees lunged into me. Who knew trees could be so aggressive?

I guess I looked pretty bad. Some runners stopped before passing me to ask if I needed them to take me in. I think they were runners, and not hallucinations.

"No, no," I waved them off. "Do your race, I'm ok," I mumbled, trying to wake up, but not throw up. BONK! "Who put that tree there?" I joked for their benefit, wiping the bark off my jacket, but they were gone.

A few walking, waking dreams later, I was at the series of boardwalks crossing the swamps about a mile before the Site 174 aid station.

This worried me. I didn't want to stagger off the railing-less walkways into the muck a few feet below.

I bit my right hand hard, in the fleshy part between thumb and forefinger. It hurt, and woke me up a little. Weaving more than I liked, I got across the boards. At the end of the last boardwalk, there's a rough wooden bench.

I stretched out on it, shut my eyes for a few blissful seconds -- only to be jolted from the doze by shiver-spasms. I got up and wobbled on.

I tried to figure it out -- I had the shivers because I wasn't eating -- I wasn't eating because I was nauseous. Wasn't moving fast enough because I was sleepy, but couldn't rest because I had the shivers, from not eating. . .

It was connected in a way my groggy mind couldn't quite grasp. One thing was sure. I was fried. I grasped that.

I tottered into the aid station and told the volunteers I was done. I sank into the camp chair, and spazzed out with the shivers, but didn't care. One of the vols, Robert, who I later learned was an inaugural Cactus Rose finisher, kindly gave me a ride back to the crew.

Kyle, Tony and Gabe had already finished, and were drinking beer in the dark with the crew when I wandered up out of the night. They sat me down and fussed while Tony took my chip-timing ankle bracelet back to the start/finish where he gave them the news -- #64 was off the course.

Stacy Amos, Matt and Tiffanie -- I think -- that part is fuzzy -- took me back to the shelter where we were camped, and poured me into my sleeping bag. I was the very definition of "knocked out."

Seemed like I just shut my eyes for a second, and it was dawn.

Looking back, it was all good fun-- even at the last when it sucked. Great course, perfect weather, wonderful volunteers, good friends -- and no doubt, I'll seek an '09 rematch with Rocky Raccoon.

Though I must admit, there at the end, this one felt more like a match with Rocky Balboa!

Photo finish

Gary's race report from the 2007 Rock Creek 50k Trail

It was a crisp, colorful, perfect October day on beautiful trails in the deep woods.

That was part of my undoing.

I was a 50k entrant in the inaugural four-race Rock Creek Trail Series on the western shore of Perry Lake in northeastern Kansas. The series began in May with a 10k/5k race on these pretty trails. It continued with successively longer runs in June and September. This culminating race, held Oct. 27, Saturday, offered both a 50k and 25k.

The series is hosted by Willie Lambert and his spouse Karen. They are proprietors of the Great Plains Running Company in Topeka, and members of the Kansas Ultrarunners Society.

At the start, the full moon still hovered in the dark gray-blue morning sky. Though 8 a.m., the slacker sun was not yet up over the autumn woods, and it was chilly.

Runners, 50k and 25k competitors alike, gathered on the concrete road with the woods pressing in on either side. About 60 of us stood there, listening to Willie's final remarks. Just follow the pink ribbons, he said. When you get to the finish, 50k runners get to go around for another loop.

What he didn't say was -- you get to go around again after getting an eyeful of the one-loop runners lying around slurping down hot chili, baked potatoes and cold beer.

Yeah man, can't wait for THAT.

Then we were galloping down the road. A quick right turn onto the grass, and into the trees.

Within 6 miles, the course revealed most everything it had. And it had a lot. Uphill and downhill -- funny how those two always seem to go together -- toothy sections of jagged ankle-rolling rock; gnarly portions of bulbous root-bound trail; sweet, level stretches of damp earth; and more twists and turns than a Poirot mystery.

The trails wound through the deep old-growth woods, beneath blue sky and a canopy of thinning red, brown, gold and green leaves. The air was cool and clean -- or, as we like to say in the marketing business -- "minty fresh."

Several sections edged the clifftops, 20 or 30 feet above the sometimes wind-whipped waters of 30-square mile Perry Lake. Trees and brush were thick enough to ease what could've been a scary exposure. They cut the breeze, too, but were thin enough to reveal vistas of forest- and driftwood-edged lake -- if you were stupid enough to take your eyes off the trail for more than a second.

I started slow, back-of-the-pack, and took my time getting the feel of the trail. I'd run parts of it in May in the first race of the series, but had missed the next two races. I wanted to get reacquainted.

I remembered how pretty the trail was in May, and how I wished I'd had a camera.

And that was the problem. This time I DID have a camera.

It was my plan to shoot the race. I wanted to shoot my own photos to illustrate my race reports. But, as I found out, I still have a lot to learn about how to shoot and run at the same time!

I wanted aid station shots and trail-running shots. Realizing they might be hard to come by if I was in last place, I sped up. I stopped along the trail to catch runners and. . . got one! Cool! I hurried into the next two aid stations to get images. I forgot about the bananas and oranges I love and clicked pics.

Another 50k runner, Pat Perry, from Missouri, got my picture. He was in front of me as we marched up a hill. He didn't even turn around to take the shot. He just held the camera up over his shoulder and clicked. He didn't get the shot the first time, so he tried again. I saw the pic after the race. Slightly motion-blurred, but I would've been pleased if I'd taken it.

I'll definitely try that technique in my next race. Both Pat and "Bad" Ben Holmes, who beat me by three minutes, pointed out that a digital camera offers so many exposures that you can easily afford the "misses" of an over-the-shoulder shot. And it doesn't slow you down like stopping and waiting along the trail. So. . . I'm learning.

Despite my clumsy time-consuming shooting technique, I managed to finish the first loop in 2:45, still feeling good. I realized I had a shot at a sub-6 -- something I've yet to accomplish in the 50k.

Took 11 minutes at the halfway/finish-line aid station, making sure I was fully fed, watered, and supplied for the next lap. I tried to get a shot of Julie Funk and Jessica Wakefield as they got some water and Hammer Gel for me. It was badly backlit, and as I was trying to adjust the camera to compensate, another runner, Randy Albrecht, maybe? Told me to quit mucking about and get going.

Jessica's spouse, David, won the 50k, by the way, with a sub-5, I believe. This is the guy who got hit with an asthma attack in the middle of Flatrock last month, but WOULD NOT QUIT.

Julie, a strong runner, would've been on the course herself, but she's recovering from a foot injury. If you can't run -- volunteer!

Headed out at a good pace, but soon the pretty day, forest, and lake views seduced me into stopping and pulling out the camera. Got into the 20-mile aid station and shot Bob Woods as he prepared to leave. MK, the aid station volunteer, got my camera and took a pic of me with the camera strap still around my neck.

Trail ultra-running and playing with a camera! Too much fun! But the precious minutes were ticking away.

Looking at my watch, I saw sub-6 was still do-able. I headed out, resolving -- no more photos till after the finish! I caught Bob on an uphill, and powered past. At the top of the hill, I couldn't resist. I stopped, turned and clicked a shot of Bob catching up to me.

Ok, but NO MORE!

And I held to that resolve, moving fast and steady through the beautiful set. The afternoon sun shining through the canopy leaves set them glowing a gentle green and gold. It's the way I'd expect the plants to look in the section of heaven reserved for gardeners.

Stop and see if you can get it with the camera? NO!

Hit the 24-mile aid station. Saw the perfect shot. A runner barreling down the hill, gritty, sweaty determined. I reached for the camera. NO, Gary, NO! Just do your biz and git!

Drank water, grabbed a Hammer Gel and got. Proud. Proud of my self-discipline.

A mile out, I saw it. An enormous, scraggly, wild pile of driftwood on a beach framed by trees with a grand lake background. Before I knew it, the camera was out. But the wild nature sculpture was too far away, even with 3x zoom. I got off course and trotted closer. Took the pic.

Looking at it later, I had a "What were you thinking??" moment. Definitely not worth time spent. Maybe I can do something with it in Photoshop.

This part of the course is a two-mile loop. You leave the 24-mile aid station, but hit it again, coming down the hill at 26 miles. With just five to go, I knew I had to hustle. But too much time playing shutterbug had played havoc with my sub-6 chances.

At the 28.2- mile aid station I had about 30 minutes left. Thirty minutes to go 2.8 isn't normally a problem. But throw in hills, rocks, and the tiredness of nearly 30 miles on them, and the equation changes. Still, I was game to try.

Just out of the aid station you go down a ravine trail so rocky if you added a few more rocks, it would be paved. Then, across the ravine, and uphill. You don't have to run all the hills, I told myself. Just this one.

And I did, halfway. Those last few miles were technical, even torturous in some places. But the really hard part was the beauty. Even with eyes fastened to the trail, peripheral vision kept reporting a lot of really cool shots. But I was too close. The finishing instinct had me now.

You like these shots so much, come back after you finish, I told myself.

Then the last few hundred yards sped past. I recognized the rough spot of trail where the wagon of supplies capsized as Dave Wakefield and I carted it in to the aid station for race 2 of the Rock Creek series. Dave was recovering from an injury, and I was recovering from a DNF at the Old Dominion Endurance 100 in Virginia (I'm going back in June).

Then, there was the finish. The cowbell rang. A country music combo was jamming away. I blasted in, arms raised, people cheered, and Willie put a finisher's medal on me. I found a plastic glass of chocolate milk in my hand, and guzzled it. Wow! Good!

The clock read six hours, 10 minutes into the race. No sub-six, but still a 50k PR. All around, people were eating, drinking, laughing, even dancing to "Proud to be an Okie from Wiskokie" -- typical fabulous Lambert race production. Julie was right there -- what can I get you? Water? Red Bull? Something to eat?

No, I said, pulling out the camera and aiming it at her.

I need pictures!

Good day at Flatrock

Gary's race report from the 2007 Flatrock 50k Trail

It only took a second.

One moment, relentless forward motion at about 4 and-a-half miles per, then the foot smacks the rock, cleverly camouflaged by all the millions, billions and trillions of other rocks on the course.

Down I went, breaking my fall with both hands and my left knee, then rolling onto my back into leaves, weeds and more rocks.

Dennis Haig, who I was running with, stopped, worried, and asked if I was all right. "I wasn't going to leave you there to die," he told me, later.

I waved him off.

"Go," I said. "Save yourself!"

I was perfectly all right, except for two small cuts on the knee, but I'm a movie buff, and always wanted to say something like that.

Dennis, who has completed all 13 editions of Flatrock, laughed and gave me a hand up.

"Let's get out of here," I said, another line from the movies -- actually the most often-used movie line of all time, according to the Guiness Book of Film Facts & Feats.

We were about 17-and-a-half miles into the 13th running of the Flatrock 50k trail race, Sept. 29, on the Elk River hiking trails by Independence, Kan. in the southeast corner of the state.

The race started under clear skies at 7:30 a.m. Temps were in the low 60s, but it felt humid to me. Thirty-four of us toed the line, making nervous jokes and small talk. Most were vets, but a few, like me, were Flatrock first-timers, unsure what to expect.

Finding out didn't take long.

After a short stretch on road, then grass, we hit the trails.

RD Eric Steele, himself a Badwater alumnus, stood at the trailhead, chuckling fiendishly, advising all the runners to "say goodbye to the flat!"

But it's called FLATrock, I recall thinking. Is that just some cruel joke?

Yep.

From the first step, the course rocked and rolled. Uphill we marched in a long line bunched tightly together on rocky, rooty, stick-strewn trail that resembled the multiple rows of debris-encrusted teeth in a lamprey's mouth.

After about a mile-and-a-half, we passed Dave Dinkel, Olathe Running Club, walking stick in hand, heading in. Dave likes the course, but feels he isn't fast enough to participate in the race. So the night before, after the pre-race dinner, he strapped on a pack and a headlamp, and headed out to do the course by moonlight.

Dave also runs the Ridgeline aid station every year at the Heartland 100, Cassoday, Kan., second weekend in October, at miles 36 and 64.

Soon, the line broke into smaller groups. Up we went, then down. We clambered up rocky shelves, and lowered ourselves by our arms through crevices. We ran by spectacular overlooks atop limestone bluffs with great vistas of forest, field and river.

"This is Kansas?" I overheard one runner remark, obviously an out-of-stater.

I sensed we were running, where possible, through very scenic areas. But I didn't dare take my eyes off the trail to look. "If you look up you're going down," is the race's unofficial motto. I got news, though -- if you don't look up, you're going down anyway.

About 6 miles in, I was in front of about 4 or 5 other runners. The trail was grassy, and seemed runnable, so we were trying to make time. I heard a "whump" behind me, and stopped. The runner behind me had gone down.

The grass was just cover for more rocks.

The fallen runner was up again, bloodied but unbowed, and we continued. I noticed the trail was now sporting prickly pear cactus, but the runner had managed to avoid that indignity.

Down we went into deep ravines, and up again. Rocks grew everywhere. They were all sizes and shapes -- EXCEPT flat.

Just three or four weeks before, floodwater drowned much of the course. The water had receded, but left trails blanketed in driftwood. That is, where it left trails at all.

Fortunately, Dennis Haig was running with our small group. After 12 Flatrock finishes, he had a pretty good idea where the course went, trails or not. I can't count the times he kept me and others from adding extra miles to our race.

We lost him when he stopped to tie his shoelace, and I lost the others when I slowed down in between aid stations for some Hammer Gel and Perpetuem.

About two miles from the turn-around, I crossed paths with front-runner Kyle Amos, inbound, doing his second Flatrock. A Kansas City Trail Nerd, Kyle is one of the elite half-dozen runners to ever crack 5 hours on the course.

The next guy, Cody Jones, also a Trail Nerd, was about 20 minutes behind Kyle. Then no one, for what seemed a long time, until I crossed paths with Matt Becker, Kansas Ultrarunners Society, in third place, and looking like he was having a great time.

Then Dave Wakefield, going, I think for his 10th Flatrock finish. Dave, with Kyle, is another of the elites who has cracked 5, but not this day. Allergens on the course had triggered an asthma attack. He gamely battled on for both breath and miles, escorted part way by wife Jessica, though at less than his usual blazing pace.

Another fellow Trail Nerd and Kansas Ultrarunner Society member, Greg Burger, went by after that, with a few others chasing him. They never caught him.

Dennis had caught me, however, and we got into the turn-around aid station together. As a perpetual mid- and back-of-the packer, it astonished me to learn that Dennis and I were in 10th and 11th place leaving the station.

The news energized me, and after a brief walk out of the aid station, I sped up, Dennis and I taking turns leading.

Along riverbank and cliff-edge, up and down through treacherous, rocky defiles, through weeds and rocky ravines we raced, visions of a top-10 finish spurring me on.

Then a rock rudely wrenched the visions back down to earth, along with the rest of me. As Dennis pulled me up, I looked to see if there was blood. YES! There it was, trickling down my shin. Wow. Tough guy.

Despite the fall -- or maybe because of it -- I felt good and raced on. Dennis had problems, though. At the turnaround, he'd loaded his hydration pack with ice, on the theory it would melt in his pack and he'd have a constant supply of ice water.

He didn't count on the insulating properties of the pack though. The ice melted way too slowly, and soon he was out of water.

I gave him my bottle of HEED sports drink. He took a tentative sip and quickly handed it back. Some like the stuff; some don't. I offered water from my own pack, but Dennis thought if he walked a little and tried to break up the ice, he'd fix the problem.

I continued on alone, up and down over the rolling technical course. Dennis caught me right before the aid station. His break-the-ice plan hadn't worked, and thirst helped him run faster. We filled his pack with water at the aid station, and continued.

I have to hand it to those volunteers, by the way. Plenty of cold water, and the bananas and oranges I crave in ultras were there in abundance -- along with the best thing, in my opinion -- encouragement and personal attention.

We got it, then we got out, up a steep, rocky climb.

After awhile, Dennis fell behind, and I started catching those ahead. With everything I'd heard about Flatrock, much of it involving blood, sprains and dislocations, I originally hoped for a sub-8-hour finish.

Looking at my watch, though, I saw a sub-7 in the cards. The idea of a sub-7 on this course, with a top-10 finish, filled my young heart with wild glee. I redoubled my efforts, and in an instant found myself off-course with no Dennis to point me right.

The glee changed to "oy vey," as I envisioned runners by the score zipping on past while I backtracked and the clock ticked.

I found my way to where dreams of glory had blinded me to the trail markers, and continued a little more carefully.

At the last station four miles before the finish, I caught up to Stacey Harding from Wichita. Hadn't seen her since the turn-around, when she left as Dennis and I arrived.

Stacey left while I refilled my empty hydration pack, and Dennis trundled in.

I got out while Dennis refilled. A mile or so along the snakey trail, I caught up to Stacey. She was looking for the trail marker. We found it going down a steep rock shelf through brush, branches and weeds. We hopped down and continued, me leading. I asked her how she was doing, and she replied she had some pain in her right hip.

I would have liked to chat further, but with barely three miles to go, I smelled finish. I poured it on. I ran up inclines where I wanted to walk. I danced through narrow, twisty boulder-bordered defiles crowded with dense fields of jagged rock sticking up and out at every angle.

Hurting hip and all, Stacey stayed with me. Without pain, I'm sure she would have been long gone. I risked a glance at my watch. Sub-7 was still possible, but by no means a given.

Up, down, around, through, over, under, stumble, crunch, ow, would this fiendish trail never end?

Stacey's significant other waited for her by a natural fortress of giant boulders where the trail headed down and out, to the grass and road where we entered. She stopped briefly, and I tore on ahead. I zipped down the trail and burst out of the woods into the sun, the grass, and then the road. The flat asphalt surface felt unnatural and strange after the rigors of the rocks. But the finish was in sight and I went for it like sharks for chum.

I heard someone behind me, but didn't look back, just tried to push the pump. I left the asphalt road and hit the dirt road. There was the finish-line tent, the double rows of ribbons, and the clock, reading 6:52:09, everyone yelling and whooping, and Kyle, the race winner at about 5:20, clicking pics. No sooner had I caught my breath when I turned to see Stacey barreling in, and Dennis right behind her.

I stayed at the finish to yell and whoop and cheer as other runners blasted in.

I couldn't believe it when Eric told me I finished sixth, about 13 minutes behind Greg. It's the next day as I write, and I'm still grinning.

Sometimes, a back-of-the-pack finish is the best you can hope for. Sometimes you have to grit your teeth and bear the DNF. For me, and probably for a lot of ultrarunners, those days happen a little more often than we'd like.

Gotta have them, though. They make a good day all the sweeter.

Now Voyageur

Gary's race report from the 2007 Minnesota Voyageur 50-Mile Trail

Minnesota has mountains! Who knew?

I found out the hard way July 28, running (well, mostly running) 50 miles through them in Carlton State Park, near Duluth in the 2007 Minnesota Voyageur Ultra-Marathon.

Having hiked and run in the Rockies, Appalachians and Sierras, I thought I pretty much knew where all the mountains in this country are. Big surprise!

Afterward, flat on my back in the hotel room, every time I closed my eyes, I'd see again the curving uphill trails and switchbacks leading out of the wild, deep stream-bottomed ravines. . . sweeping endlessly up and away.

I see them still, and now that the pain and nausea are gone - I want to go back. I want to spend the day again with my fellow ultra-runners, the greatest tribe this earth has ever seen, running and slogging away through those peaks and valleys, out and back 25 miles.

Plus, my spouse, the Big K, loves the cool finisher's mug and wants another one so we can have a matching set. So I guess I've GOT to go back.

Drove up from Lawrence, Kansas, home of the mighty Jayhawks, Friday, the day before the race in a rented car with fellow runners Greg Burger, Brian Pawley, and our crew, official photographer and retired ultra-runner Ed Payne.

Paid $4 for the carbo-loading spaghetti feed that evening. No veggie spaghetti sauce, which is all I'll say about that.

At the start at the high school in the tiny but nice town of Carlton, Ed snapped a pic of Brian and Greg and I. . . thought I heard something about "the 3 stooges," but maybe it was my imagination - if not - I'm Larry. Brian's Moe and Greg is Curly. "Remind me to moidah yuh!"

Cool, clear 7 a.m. start, in the low 60s, but humid. The course took us about a mile through town and on a bike trail to some singletrack along the St. Louis River. I heard somewhere it was too technical to run, but it didn't seem any worse than our Clinton Lake trails here in Lawrence. However, the field was packed in tight. Since I started near the back, it kept me slow, which is how I like to start.

We got glimpses through the trees and brush of the river alongside rolling and sometimes crashing along its rocky course. After about three miles or so we crossed a swinging bridge spanning the river. I wanted to stop and gawk. I didn't.

Next came a series of soft grassy paths through the woods on gentle uphill and downhill grades. The field was thinning out here, it was still cool, the grass was great to run on, and I felt good, so I sped up. Ran and blabbed for a while with a Voyageur vet named Tom, who was going pretty strong. Between about 6 and 10 miles, we dropped down and climbed out of two deep ravines.

Greg and Brian were both way ahead of me by this time.

At 10 and a half, we hit the infamous powerlines. This rugged section starts with a precipitous drop into a deep ravine, and then a nearly vertical, 4-points-to-the-ground climb hundreds of feet back out again. From there, to a wooded ridge, mostly uphill for a half-mile or so. Then, there's about a mile-and-a-half of open tall-grass field, all up and down, some very serious. It ended with a viciously steep drop back down into a wooded ravine, stream and the inevitable, though more gradual climb back out.

Aid stations were every 3-5 miles, but I hadn't been stopping, except to say hi to Ed who was clicking pics as I came through. I stopped at the 12.5-mile station, though, to get my hydration pack refilled. It was getting hot and I'd been slamming the H2O. Surprisingly, Greg was there, too! Ed told me Greg had gotten off course.

Greg got out of the station before I did, but I managed to catch up and we ran and talked for awhile. He'd been making good time, and was bummed about losing ground by going off course. We made the 15.5-mile aid station, and I stopped to get into my drop bag while Greg continued on.

I caught up to him again, and we ran through some woods, and down a long downhill grade on a dirt road. The grade leveled out at a little sream, which we crossed, and then we climbed up a long uphill grade and went across a bridge directly above the 12.5 - mile aid station. We came out of the woods at a highway, which we ran along for about an eight of a mile, then crossed to the 18.5-aid station.

About the stations - they were well - stocked, well organized, and run by some of the best volunteers I've ever seen. And they all had my favorite summertime race food - watermelon! It sure was good, especially since the day was heating up.

From 18.5, Greg and I headed uphill about a mile of asphalt, then into the woods again, where we fell in with another Voyageur vet, whose name I forgot, but who willingly shared his hard-earned insights about the course. This was nice grassy section with mild up and down. About 20 miles in, we saw the first front runner, Andy Holak, inbound, just about 10 miles in front of us.

We cheered him as he went by and gave us "good job, you guys!" Only in ultra-running do front-runners use valuable O2 to encourage those following. Andy went on to win. His spouse Kim was first woman AND set a new course record.

Not far out of the 21.5-mile station, as we were heading uphill on more asphalt, we met Brian, inbound, and stopped to compare notes. "This is brutal," was his note, which was the same as ours. Nevertheless, he seemed to be having a good time, just like us.

I let Brian and Greg keep talking, while I continued on. Followed the road down and around a curve to catch up to a pair of runners - only they weren't runners, and I was off-course. Only by a few hundred yards, though. The non-runners pointed me back to the course, where I saw some real runners leaving the asphalt at the curve to re-enter the woods. I followed, now not far from the turn-around.

I followed the course across the side of Spirit Mountain, part of a ski resort. I went under chair lifts and had a fabulous view of a bay of Lake Superior, from about 500 feet up. In the clear blue day I could see Duluth on a far shore. Just breathtaking.

As much as I wanted to stop and goggle, I hustled on through more woods and down a long, rocky road to the turn-around aid-station. Ed was there, and helped me get more water, and Hammer gel and E-caps out of my drop bag, along with more Wmelon. Love the Wmelon!

I headed out of the turn-around to the cheers of volunteers and crews at about 5 hours and 9 minutes into the race - about what I'd hoped for. Shortly after leaving, I saw Greg heading in. Told him he was about there, but didn't see him again until the finish.

Inbound to the finish, I felt great. I passed one runner going back up that rocky road and exchanged greetings with many more heading down it to the turnaround. I appeared to be in the middle of the pack.

Back at the 21.5-mile aid station I met Larry Hall, who was crewing for his fiancee Beth Simpson. Larry just finished Hardrock, and is a Rocky Mountain Slammer. I ran with Beth a little in the last 10 miles, but was feeling sick by then, so she went ahead.

Anyway, with 21.5 to go, I still felt great. Got some ice in my pack and some Wmelon in hand and was off again. Went across the bridge over the 12.5-mile station, hitting the downhills pretty hard and keeping a respectable pace on the uphills.

Just before the15.5-mile aid station, I took a big slug of Perpetuem, and nausea hit me like a 12-pound sledge hammer to the gut. It was that sudden. I staggered into the aid station, and out again - unaccountably forgetting to get in my drop bag for more E-caps. Volunteers offered me stuff, but it all looked horrible now, even the Wmelon!

I trudged out of the aid station, and was too busy feeling miserable to notice the multiple pink ribbons dangling from a branch, denoting a turn. I crossed the stream, instead of paralleling it, and climbed a gentle uphill road for about a half-mile, until the road was blocked by fallen trees - trees that I didn't recall from the trip in.

Course sabotage! It had to be. I couldn't be that stupid as to miss a well-marked turn could I? Half-a-mile back down the road on the other side of the stream, I discovered I could! It was the third time in two races I'd gotten off course. This time it cost me 20 minutes and the sub-12 finish which was my secondary goal after my main goal of "just finish."

I walked through the woods for awhile trying to let the nausea go away, but it seemed to be enjoying itself there in my stomach and didn't want to go away. Got through the woods to a bike path right before the 12.5-mile aid station, and trotted it in, nausea or no. Must keep up appearances, after all!

At the aid station, refilling the hydration pack, I saw another runner flat on his back, resting in the shade. One of the volunteers told me it was a case of heat stroke. I asked about Greg, but since I couldn't remember his number, they couldn't tell me if he'd been through or not. I was sure he'd gone ahead while I was off course.

The 12.5 - mile station inbound is the jumping off place for the powerlines, which is why I wanted to make sure I had a full pack of water. As soon as I got it, I headed into the woods, down to the ravine bottom, and back up again.

The viciously steep downhill from the outbound journey was now a viciously steep 4-points-to-the ground uphill. I grimly clawed my way up and passed another runner at the top. "I'm having a long day," he replied, when I asked how he was doing. Me too, brother!

I ran downhills as much as I could through this mile-and-a-half section. Many were just too steep to do anything but slide down with feet perpendicular to the trail. Uphills were all more grim clawing. It was horrible, yet huge fun! How that could be, I couldn't figure out, and still can't.

Eventually, I was back in the woods, running downhill - when who should I meet but Ed! He'd climbed up the first (and worst, in my opinion) of the powerline ascents out of the 10.5 mile aid station to meet me and Greg. I learned that Greg was still in back of me, and that the ultra was exercising its allure on Ed - he was talking about getting back into ultras. I knew it was going to happen.

Back at the 10.5-mile aid station, one of the volunteers iced my neck down while Ed got me some E-caps and demanded I take one where he could see. I'd just eaten one before coming into the station, though, so I didn't.

Leaving the station, I headed into the first of the last two deep, wild and woolly ravine crossings - walking, mostly. Beth Simpson came up from behind and I followed her for a little, talking about Leadville. She was there last year and is going back this year. I felt like I might barf, so I slowed down. Beth motored on ahead. You go girl!

At the 8.5-mile station I rested a little, back against a tree, while the volunteers gave me some Coke. Tasted like heaven and settled my stomach a little. Leaving, I found I could run the downhills, and even felt good. Hit the last big ravine with good speed going in and down. Did the uphill much better than the previous ravine before the 8.5-mile station. At the top, heading into the 5.5-mile station, the nausea began creeping back.

I think if I'd eaten bananas along with the wmelon, my usual practice, I might've avoided the upset stomach. I don't know why I didn't. Note for next time. . .

By this time, though, I was smelling finish, so I swallowed some more coke, and on I rolled. Back in the woods, I hooked up with another runner named Cliff. We talked a little about our various races - he was another Voyager vet - but I eventually let him go ahead. The Coke had limited effect this time, and I felt sick again.

Came into the 3.5 mile aid station, where I met Ed. He introduced me to Ryan, a young runner who was resting at the picnic table, holding a cold compress over his eye. Evidently, he'd had a run-in with a hostile tree. Ryan recovered, though and finished. I drank another coke, but it didn't do anything for me. With 3.5 miles to go, it wasn't going to stop me, though.

I crossed the swinging bridge over the gorgeous St. Louis River, and hit the singletrack, which I had remembered as being similar to the Clinton Lake trails I run on all the time. But there must have been an earthquake or something during the day, because the trail was much harder than the one I recalled from the morning. It bulged up into big uphill sections in places. Rocks and roots were upthrust into tortured, complicated foot-traps that I just couldn't traipse over as I had in the morning.

Plus, the nausea was getting worse. I felt I was in 3-way race - me versus Greg: would he catch me? Me versus the nausea: would I barf before I finished? And me versus the 12-hour finish. Could I make it? According to my watch, I was tantalizingly close.

With about 2 miles to go on Route Rock 'N Root, I came up on Norm Yarger. A few miles out of the turnaround, he had realized he wasn't going to make the 6-hour cutoff. But instead of going on and taking himself out at the 25-mile mark, he turned around and headed back to DNF at the finish. He said he didn't come to the race to just do 25 miles. Norm has finished the race before, though, so it won't be like he has unfinished business with the course.

His daughter, Kathleen finished the race, too, further upholding the family honor. In fact, she was 5th woman.

It seemed like that singletrack, so enjoyable in the a.m., would never end in the p.m. I guess that earthqake made it longer, too! Finally though, I came up on to the bike trail - only about a mile to go. I set off at a run, but it was there I lost my race with the nausea. Not much came up, though = mostly just water and acid. I counted about 6 heaves.

Strangely, while barfing, I recalled Andy Holak's Western States race report (from 2002, I think), which I read on Stan Jensen's site. There was quite a bit of barfing in that report, which is what brought it to mind, I guess. I mentioned it to him at the awards ceremony, after congratulating him on his win. My mental acuity was still a little less than normal at that point, evidently.

Felt better after the heaves, and struck out strongly for the finish. I headed for the be-ribboned finish lane at the high school, while the officials rang the traditional cow bell, and runners, crew, volunteers and other spectators cheered. It was good. On a whim, I leaped into the air and clicked my heels together to great applause.

And was done!

Brian came over to congratulate me. He was all recovered, having gotten in at 10 hours, 26 minutes and 38 seconds into the race. Sadly, I not only lost the race to nausea, but also missed my sub-12 finish by 7 minutes, 31 seconds. But I got the finish, and that's what I was after.

Brian and I settled in to watch for Greg. He clocked it at 12:28:49.

Later, the boys all went to Duluth for beers, but I felt too puny. I stayed in the motel, and fell asleep to visions of curving uphill trails and switchbacks leading out of wild, deep stream-bottomed ravines. . . sweeping endlessly up and away.

And was done.

Home, dogs

DNF at ODE

Garyís race report from the 2007 Old Dominion Endurance 100

If you are looking for a hair-raising, blood ní guts account of a midnight traverse of Shermanís Gap, the most feared climb of the mountainous Old Dominion Endurance 100ís many ascents, you will have to wait for my race report from next yearís race, because in 2007 I bailed right before I got to it.

Threw in the towel at the 75-mile mark, a victim of wet diapers and wanting mommy.

In running terms, that would be ñ just not prepared for the hills. Legs wouldnít run for me after the 70-mile mark. I was there about 8:45 p.m., and thought if I could make the next 5 miles by 10 p.m., I could still finish by the 8 a.m. cutoff with a 2.5 mph pace ñ walking all the way.

Then, in the dark and fog, I tottered past the marked turn from dirt road to trail, continuing down the dirt road for about a quarter mile till it reached a parking lot, wooded camp sites with people partying, and a highway.

I flailed about trying to pick up trail for about a half hour, finally back tracking to where Iíd gone wrong. Got on to the mile-and-a-half or so rocky trail, and followed the eerie orange glow sticks through the forest.

Despite sore feet, stiff legs, a headache, and being aggravated at myself for missing a turn I shouldnít have, I really liked that little stretch. Very spooky and Halloween.

Got to the Elizabeth Furnace aid station at 75 miles about 11 p.m. My original pace chart had me there at 8 p.m.

Didnít like my chances for a nine-hour 25er, based on how I felt, so I marked it all down to recon, and let the Big K drive me back to the motel, with just one puke-stop along the way. Stopped several times, actually, though all but one were false alarms.

First part of the race went considerably better, as is usually the case. Started with 23 others in 100 percent humidity (according to the Weather Channel) and cool temps ñ low 60s, maybe, at 4 a.m. at the county fairgrounds in Woodstock, Va.

Did a lap around the outside of the horse-racing track then headed out on pavement through town for about three miles, and two more on hilly country roads. Mostly cloudy, with a few stars showing, and an almost-full, though veiled moon.

Crossed the Shenandoah River and hit the (about) 2-mile climb up and over Woodstock Mountain on asphalt switchbacks. Roads turned to dirt as we got to the top.

I could see the town far below through gaps in the trees ñ a little galaxy of lights in the dark valley.

Hit the Boyer Loop, a 4.5 mile loop of heavily overgrown trail with a long uphill section, and some more dirt road. On the trail, I saw what looked like big spills of orange paint. Thought someone had been sloppy while painting the trail blazes. Looking closer, I saw it was ruddy orange sunlight splashing down through the trees.

Lots of poison ivy, but no bugs ñ still cool, but humid.

Hit the 15-mile mark at loopís end, and continued on hilly dirt and asphalt country roads to the first drop bag/crew access aid station, at 20 miles, where the Big K met me with cold watermelon. How good was that! Also ate aid station bananas and oranges, and replenished the E-cap supply while Karen filled my hydration pack.

That was my routine at every drop bag/crew access point throughout the race ñ or at least my 75 miles of it.

Continued down into the Fort Valley -- a small but beautiful, unspoiled valley folded away in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Looks just like a post card. Immaculate little white farmhouses here and there, with spired barns and pretty little ponds dotting the hills. Lots of horses.

The high green mountains encircled it all.

Went through several small aid stations. Along with encouragement and other good stuff, they all served delicious cold, pure mountain water. Much better than the nasty Woodstock city water.

Hit the 32.5 mile mark still on my 12-minute-mile pace ñ but starting to feel it. Heat picked up a little during that stretch, much of which was on asphalt.

The next stretch was 11 miles, mostly on technical trail. There was one section of asphalt about a mile-and-a-half long, all down hill on fairly steep switchbacks. Made up some time there, but the quads and feet didnít like the pounding. I was wearing my Mizuno Wave Ascend 2ís, by the way.

After the asphalt downhill came about 5 miles of trail, which turned gradually uphill. I walked a lot of it, especially as it got steeper. Bugs had finally come out, and were buzzing me like tiny (and not so tiny) fighter jets.

A volunteer stationed midway through this part had some bug spray, though, and that helped. My feet got wet on a stream crossing, and never did dry out ñ thanks to the high humidity.

Lost time on the long uphill trail, but made a little back running several miles of downhill trail, coming out at 43 miles and a weigh station ñ Iíd only dropped about 4 pounds, so was cleared to go. Four more miles on fairly flat dirt roads through the woods to meet the Big K at the 47 mile mark. On the way, it rained a little, but didnít cool anything off. I was already soaked anyway.

Halfñhour off pace, now, and quads not happy.

Next stretch was all asphalt. Four miles of walking uphill, trying to make 4 mph, but probably not doing it, and three of downhill to the next meeting with Karen at the 54 mile aid station.

Resupplied, now 45 minutes off pace, and started up a nasty, gnarly ATV trail. A big wavy dirt road. Very surrealistic, with steep humps and hollows, but all going relentlessly uphill through the woods. Probably made 2 mph on this horrible stretch. And it came complete with ATVers!

Finally, got a long, mild downhill on the ATV trail, and a heavy, though brief thunderstorm. Put on my poncho. Didnít keep me dry, but at least I didnít feel silly being out in the rain without rain gear. Took it off a little while later when the rain stopped.

Made the 64-mile-mark aid station 90 minutes behind schedule. Running was hard by this time, and the soles of my feet felt raw. The rain had cooled the air a little ñ it was about 7 p.m. ñ but humidity was still high.

Walking out of the aid station munching an orange and banana, chills suddenly racked me. I put the poncho back on, and it warmed me up nicely.

Walked to the top of a long asphalt hill, took the poncho off, and went back to running. Slow, somewhat painful running, but it cheered me up to be moving faster than a walk. At some point the road changed to dirt, and started with some up and down action. It was on this stretch I calculated finishing based on a 10 p.m. arrival at Elizabeth Furnace. Headache started on this stretch. First time I ever got one in a race.

Made the 70-mile aid station, and at the volunteerís suggestion, sat down in a camp chair while others refilled my hydration pack. Tough to get back up!

Ate my orange and banana, and headed back into the woods on technical, though very pretty trail. Chills hit again, so I had to poncho it for a little while. Darkness just starting to close in. I put on my light. It illuminated an incredible spray of moisture in the air.

Did a mile or so on the trail as it paralleled and crossed a beautiful, burbly little stream. Tried to run, but the sticks were too stiff.

Followed the little trail to where it joined up with an overgrown double-track dirt road. This turned into all dirt after awhile. Based on my time, I thought I was getting close to 75 miles. I also mistakenly assumed the dirt road would lead to the Elizabeth Furnace aid station.

No reason for that assumption ñ just thought it would be like that.

It wasnít.

At the dirt roadís end, I spent way too much time looking for the glow sticks, instead of immediately back tracking. Heard some yelling and cheering in the woods, and saw someone frantically waving a light. I thought that must be the aid station, and headed down a little path toward the waving light.

Then I heard someone call out to me ñ ìIf youíre a chick over 18, you better have some I.D.!î Thatís when I decided to backtrack. I was really tired by this time, so it didnít occur to me to wonder why chicks UNDER 18 didnít need I.D.

In any case, I was relatively sure it wasnít the aid station. So I returned to the dirt road and walked the quarter-mile or so uphill to the turn into the woods that Iíd missed earlier.

Karen immediately piped up ñ ìBut weíll be back next year!î

ìWe probably shouldnít make that decision right now,î I recall mumbling. I was dizzy on the way back to the car, but two volunteers stayed with me and Karen all the way.

The dark mountain roads, about 30 miles of them, were twisty, hilly and curvy on the way back to town, but the Big K got us back with no troubles.

I showered, brushed my teeth, puked, brushed my teeth some more, and then, boy, did I sleep!

Pretty stiff the next day, but already the idea of going back was creeping in. You know how it goes ñ as the pain and memory of pain gets fainter, going through it again seems like a better and better idea.

I went into this race with all the mileage I needed. Next year, though Iíll have more of that mileage on hills. If I can have the quads start screaming at 75 miles instead of 50, then hopefully Iíll get to write that blood níguts account of the Shermanís Gap traverse.

--Gary Henry, June 10, 2007