2008 Rockin' K 50-mile trail run

2008 Rocky Raccoon Trail 100

2007 Rock Creek 50K Trail

2007 Flatrock 50K Trail

2007 Minnesota Voyager 50-mile Trail

2007 Old Dominion Endurance 100

2006 Leadville Trail 100

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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

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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 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 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

Garyís 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.