the highlands lowlife.

In light of the goings on at the Laurel Highlands Ultra yesterday, I’ve been doing a little research.  I’ve unearthed hard evidence—the written word, people—to confirm that everyone, every living THING even, poops.

That’s certainly a relief, though it appears some ones, some THINGS, do it with a bit more frequency and at more inopportune times than others.

Perhaps I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself.

I’ve been taking part in the festivities at the Laurel Highlands Ultra for the last 3 years, first as the opening leg of the 50K relay, then as a full 50K participant and, finally, signing on for the full 70.5 miler this year.  My first 19.2 miles would also be considered the first leg of Backcountry Edge’s 70.5-mile relay.

The first year, I attacked the course like I thought I should, having only to cover a little more than 11 miles before handing off to the next runner.  I pounded the downhills, shot the quads I really could’ve used on the grind of a climb that lives at miles 6-7.5, puked a bit.  I actually ran a pretty good time, as I recall, only to discover that my fellow team members had been directed to checkpoint #1 instead of aid station #1, meaning that they were 9 miles away by trail and a lot more than that by the roads that eventually got them back to me.  In the meantime, I proceeded to cramp up in seemingly every muscle I possessed.

Last year, I had all kinds of digestive issues that very nearly ended my day and pushed my finish time out to the very brink of acceptable qualifying standards.

Despite all that calamity, it was impossible to not be smitten with the indescribable beauty of this little corner of the world with its sustained high perch above the rolling valleys below, endless acres of deciduous forest, numerous streams, sprawling fern meadows, laurel thickets, rocky outcroppings and mile after mile of siren song singletrack.

Couple that with the fact that I’d been granted privileged acceptance into a tribe of damn fine trail runners (and even better people), the Laurel Highlands Ultra, in spite of its seeming determination to break my body and spirit, had become my absolute favorite of favorite races.

Hence the decision to sign up for the full 70 and coaxed my friends and co-workers to join in the fun.

By early Friday evening, the tribe had reunited in the tiny, picturesque whitewater rafting mecca of Ohiopyle in a collection of small lodges a couple hundred yards from the race start, new introductions had been made and our potluck feast was served.  Food consumed and dishes done, we meandered down to the banks of the Youghiogheny River to snap a group photo before settling into our individual pre-race preparations and attempts at sleeping before the 5:30 AM start.

My feet and legs felt great and together with my mind, bolstered by wise and friendly (for the most part friendly) reminders to calm down and start slow, the whole body settled quickly and easily into a surprisingly good night of sleep.

Waking together, the Backcountry Edge crew talked through race details and got ready to head down  to race packet pickup.  I was just about to leave the lodge when I was pleased to find my body ready for a sit-down bathroom break while I toilet was still ready available.  

Always good to get that out of the way early.

We mingled with the rest of the tribe and a sea of other friendly, anxious (many familiar) faces, snapped a couple of photos and said our “see you laters” to those not about to immediately run.  In what felt like no time at all, the massed crowd pressed forward across the parking lot and made its first steps up into the Highlands.

Temperatures, I’m guessing, were in the mid-to-upper 60’s to start with the sun still slightly below the horizon and little humidity, certainly by prior year’s standards.  The only clouds in the sky were of the big, puffy, completely non-threatening variety.  In other words, conditions couldn’t have been much, if any, better.

Kelly and I ran side by side, chatting a bit, and keeping things well under control.  I’m guessing he was just doing what he does and I was doing my best to try and do what he does too.  He’s way out of my league at long distances and has accumulated experience enough in the last year-and-a-half to outweigh   what I’m likely to amass before my legs or mind finally stop working (let’s hope that’s not next year).  That said, I also knew he’d been under the weather the entire week, a week that his body would otherwise have been fully attending to its recovery from a super strong performance at the Old Dominion 100 the weekend before.

With those factors in play, I thought there was some chance that we’d separate a bit early in the race with me getting out ahead to await his stalking me down and blowing by me a couple of hours later.  This happened somewhere along the line in an early climb but as I was still half awake, I failed to make note of exactly when it happened.  If you’d have asked me then for a prediction, I would probably have placed my bet on Kelly catching up/passing me by somewhere around miles 15-20 and sooner than that if I got impatient and failed to control my pace.

Derek and Kema had gotten out early to hike up the trail and say "good mornings" to the passing runners.  I was locked in some kind of thought as I passed them by and almost missed them entirely.  I'd have kicked myself if I had and hearing Derek's voice was just another unspoken reminder to keep things in check.

By inadvertently getting tucked in behind 3 or 4 conservative runners on some of the early climbs, I held my pace in check, following their lead and power-hiking sections that I would likely have run if left to my own devices.  Eventually, as I found myself pausing for moments to keep from hiking right up and over the next runner, I made polite conversation as I passed them and picked things up just a hair.

At some point, I glanced over to my right and noticed the incredible view that peeked from time to time through keyholes in the heavy foliage.  Somewhere far down below, the Yough snaked through the valley and just above it huddled a blanket of fog that we were climbing higher and higher above.  It was the kind of view that more than justifies stopping to dig a camera out of your pack regardless of what time you're chasing.

Soon thereafter, the trail tumbled back downward into the descent that had cooked my quads a few years back.  A runner just behind me, apparently a member of the good-as-they-come Virginia Happy Trails Club, made reference to this being the "crime" portion of the crime-and-punishment that is the first 8 miles of the LH 70.

Punishment would come soon enough on the long, long, yep-still-going climb up from mile 6. Here's a photo I snapped after looking back over my shoulder during an early section of the climb.  This picture ranks highly on the doesn't-tell-the-story meter, you can appreciate the fact that this is the view, in either direction, for many, many minutes.  In 2010, I can remember thinking I'd sell what little kingdom I possess for just a single switchback.

But, in all honesty, I handled the hill.  I certainly didn't master it and it was plenty hard work, but I emerged at the top surprised that there wasn't more climbing to be done and pleased to not feel nearly as diminished at the top as I'd been in years past.

My stomach was holding up and I was getting down and holding down plenty of fluids.  The next few miles are runnable and beautiful.  I picked up the pace just a tick to offset all of slow climbing that came before.  By the time I reached the first aid station, a little bit beyond the 11-mile point, I was well aware of the work I'd done, but still feeling pretty good and anxious to knock out the next 9 miles and run together with Kalyn as she took over relay duties at the first checkpoint situated at 19.2 miles.

All systems were go and the next couple of miles passed relatively uneventfully.   My legs and stomach felt great and I was soaking up the view that I'd failed to take in during my dehydrated low points the year before.

The trail hooked to the right and traced the shoreline of the little lake that I only vaguely remembered from the year prior.  A blue heron was perched on a far snag and all was right with the world.

And then, no more than 10-20 minutes after snapping that photo, I crapped my pants.

Not really, but it sure felt like I was going to.  Most of this course in under the cover of trees, but the old growth leaves little room for new trees and is, for the most part, wide open beneath the canopy except for lower-to-the-ground growth like laurel, ferns and poison ivy. A quick inspection of the landscape ahead didn't suggest much privacy for the pit stop that was threatening to happen whether voluntarily or involuntarily.

Voluntarily sounded preferable so I clambered off the trail for 20-30 yards where a slight slope allowed me to crouch just barely out of view to any on-trail passerby.  Fourteen or fifteen miles into the day, most runners were likely to be staring at that familiar spot about 5-10 feet out ahead of the next footfall anyway.  Still, it was humbling.

Let's be clear.  Day to day, I'm regular.  Solid, but regular.

You wanted to know, right?

At that moment, I was anything but solid.  Anything butt.

The stop took longer (duh) that I wanted it to and except for pausing to offer silent praise to whomever invented wet wipes, I went ahead and cursed everything else.  I'd been alone on the trail for a mile or two and was greatly disliking the sound of several pairs of feet shuffling past me.  I couldn't care less about my position in the race, but the idea of dropping further off pace was a downer.

Anything butt falling behind.

Back on my feet, I was slightly relieved to find that I didn't have any immediate lingering discomfort from the stop and hoped that maybe, just maybe, that would be the last of it.  As I though of hours on end of gels, shots, sports drinks and copious amounts of sweat, I had my doubts.

No more than a mile later, I was off the trail again, crouching over another Ohiopyle of my own making.  The initial stop took longer than the first and the output was less solid than before.  Holy shit was I regular!

As I rose out of my crouch, determined to get back on the trail and off toward the aid station ASAP, my bowels commanded to get right back into the assumed position I'd just vacated.  That was the moment that I also realized that I was sweating profusely and hot, hot, someone-please-anyone-turn-the-hose-on-me hot.

I cleaned up yet again and kicked through the underbrush back to the trail.  I didn't take more than a step or two before I realized I'd left my pack and two handheld bottles back at the scene of the latest (forget the downhills) crime.  I cursed aloud and cringed at the fact that my mind had chosen to go with "SHIT!".

Pack and bottles retrieved, I set my mind on Checkpoint #1 and actually settled back into a pretty brisk pace.  I was so, so hot even though I could feel that the air around me was still pleasantly cool and, having lived through merciless Pennsylvania summers my entire life, there was no mistaking the absence of humidity.  The wheels, as they (bastards) say, we're coming off.

I began using my handhelds at every creek crossing (thankfully, there were several) to pour water over my head, the back of my neck and across my shoulders.  I'd refill before actually leaving the creek and would resoak myself as soon as I began to dry and again become aware of my temperature.

My strength had noticeably flagged after each of my first two pit stops and after one more scramble into the woods to drop my shorts, I was flatlining pretty hard.  A couple people passed by and offered aid, but I wasn't lucky enough to cross paths with anyone dealing Imodium.  Forget switchbacks, my kingdom for a swig of Pepto!

No such luck.

There's one last kicker of a hill to clamber up before reaching Checkpoint #1 and Bobby caught me from behind right about then.  I'd be curious to know what kind of diarrhea-addled nonsense I spewed at him but maybe it's best I don't remember.  I do know I was having one hell of a time convincing my legs to get me up that hill and it's one I would've gobbled up on a  normal day.  A regular day.

I do think I managed to mumble something about keeping an eye out for Kalyn as I knew full well I was going to have to hope she could run her leg without the company I'd promised.  I was holding out hope that I could get myself put back together at the aid station, but I didn't expect that it was going to happen quickly.

Jefferson suddenly appeared in front of me on the trail and, while I can't imagine I did a good job of expressing it, I was happy to see him.  I couldn't be far now.

As Jefferson reports it, my first words to him were "I need to be somewhere".  As idiotic as that must have sounded, it wasn't far from the truth.

He walked me in (I'm assuming we were walking, I don't actually remember) and Kalyn was off-and-running.  The guilt washed over me as she disappeared up the trail and I tried to embrace the mystical restorative powers that dwell in aid stations.  In my peripheral vision, I could see held looks that confirmed that I must have looked at least as awful as I felt, if not worse.  Drinks were fetched and two packets of Imodium appeared in my hand.  Unfortunately, the shivering kicked in right about then and it seemed to take an eternity for Jefferson to realize that, despite my best efforts, I was failing miserably at prying those godforsaken pills from their foil-encased resting places.  Had he not noticed, I think I might still be sitting there bending and twisting the packets back-and-forth.

I have no idea how long I sat there listening to ludicrous but incredibly entertaining discourses on flavors of Gatorade from one of the young aid station volunteers while Jo and Jefferson brought me cups of the generic soda I kept pointing at and tracking down additional layers of clothing to try and get my shaking to stop.

By then, we'd gotten word that Kelly wasn't progressing very quickly and likely suffering the full impact of a week without much in the way of food or recovery.  I had reached the aid station way ahead of its cutoff time and, at least in theory, still had plenty of day to traverse the full course if I could just get things back under control.  I made up my mind that if Kelly made the cutoff and had any intention of going on, I'd give it a shot too.

I won't deny the selfish relief I felt as he finally walked into the aid station and removed the pack from his back.  There was no mistaking body language that said "I will run some other day."  It spoke for both of us.

So, that was that.  Another day, another DNF.

I prepped myself to deal with the shame and put on a supportive face for my teammates, my friends and all the other runners still on the course.

But, a funny thing happened.  I didn't need to put on any face at all.  In fact, I just needed to get out of the way of the smile that soon crept out and stayed put for the rest of what turned out to be another incredibly joyful day in the Highlands.

It was impossible to not remain completely psyched and engaged by the progress of our relay team.

Kalyn plowed soldiered through miles 19.2-32 like she'd been doing it for years, despite the fact that this was her first real trail run and, being that her leg was a bit over 13 miles, her first half-marathon too!  Concern and guilt sent me backtracking from Checkpoint #2 to be the first to see Kalyn as she approached the handoff, but it was washed away by the pride and elation I felt as she appeared with her beaming trademark smile so I could give her a bearhug before urging her on the aid station.  It's a moment I will truly cherish. 

After being keyed up to run from the moment runners left the start line at 5:30 AM (see evidence below), Jefferson devoured the third leg.

 Tim was chomping at the bit too by the time Jefferson raced up the hill and into Checkpoint #3.  Though he's unlikely to give himself the credit he deserves (as is his way), Tim further padded our time cushion before passing the final baton to Taylor.

Taylor left the last checkpoint with a question mark of a knee and a 3-mile technical and, by the time he'd get there, in-the-dark descent before reaching the end of the trail.  He ran like an animal, blazed into the finish and radiated with the joy of exceeding his own expectations. I got to deliver yet another well deserved hug that I'll remember always.

As a team, we had no idea what to expect in terms of a finishing time and I would surely have been proud of us for just making the 3:30 AM cutoff time.

Taylor crossed the line just minutes ahead of 10:00 PM.

Photo courtesy of Kelly and Jo Agnew

Enos, whom I'd met the night before, had breezed into and blown through the aid station while I was regrouping on his way to an impressive 2nd place finish in the 50K.  Ron and Bobby were clearly locked in and knocked out their first 70-milers in 20 hours.  Ron's wife Jo completed the 50K and made her way to a later checkpoint and caught up with the crew at a later aid station.  Randy missed a cutoff on the 50K and was swept from the course but had himself another great day in the woods and retained the indomitable spirit that makes him so beloved.  He's already made it clear he'll be back next year.

My only regret for those members of the tribe who saw the course through the whole way to the end is that they missed out on hours and hours of laughter with the rest of us.  If I think on it too long, I might just start attending races instead of bothering to race them.  I'd share a story or two or ten, but this post has already reached epic (or, if you prefer, too damn long for anyone to possibly bother reading the whole thing) length.

I will say this, to suggest that one hasn't lived until a next door neighbor has knocked on the door with a plate of shit asking if it belongs to your dog is clearly a ridiculous statement.  I would, however, argue that to say  you haven't lived until you've heard that full story is hardly a stretch.

I am strangely happy that my loose and unhappy bowels were the reason that story got told.

Long, long (how-much-longer?) story short, I had a wonderful day and a wonderful weekend with as wonderful a group of friends as one could ever hope to have.  It's how we do it in the Highlands.  It's how we've done it and it's how we're going to keep on doing it.

Only next time, I'm bring the Imodium and unwrapping them ahead of time.

not quite write.

Writer's block?  I don't think so.

Lily finished up preschool with a flourish, making learning leaps forward at mesmerizing speed.  Piper Bea turned 3 and, during a blink I suppose, unfurled the flag of her burgeoning personality.

Clinicals and classes wound down for Lindsay and the promise of a "summer of fun" began to shine brightly enough to push the dark weight of school stresses into the shadows.  The kickoff event, our first ever true family beach vacation, was just a few weeks away.

In mid-May I learned that I was going to get to run the GORE-TEX TransRockies event (http://transrockies-run.com/) in August with my pal, Sean, and, thanks to "press" credentials, my entry fees were waived.  Needless to say, this news more than made up for the word that the Slickrock 100, my anticipated first 100 miler, wasn't going to be held in 2012.  

By the time the TransRockies plans were firmed up, Bobby had already found an alternative to Slickrock, the Oil Creek 100, and, while he was it, he rounded up a gaggle of other dumbasses for the occasion.  It sounded like so much fun that my only regret was having to wait until October.

All that good stuff and, meanwhile, right on the horizon loomed my favorite of favorite races, the Laurel Highlands Ultra.  I've made my way up the ladder, starting with a leg of the 50K relay in 2010 and then running the full 50K last year.  This year, I signed up for the full 70-mile event and was equal parts excited and terrified.  Last year's Laurel Highlands event continues to stand out as one of the best weekends of my life, running or otherwise.  Friendships were forged and strengthened there that I have no doubt will last a lifetime.

A long, brutal day on the trail that nearly resulted first in a DNF and then in a non-qualifying time morphed into an incredibly satisfying and rewarding just-under-the-wire finish.  With apologies for the gross exaggeration, it was as close to a back-from-the-dead experience as I've ever had.  This year, I am determined to have a different type of rewarding day and am psyched to introduce several other friends to the festivities by having my first 19 miles also count as the first leg of Backcountry Edge's 70-Mile Relay team.

My running, leading up to Laurel, has been good.  Not great, but pretty good.  And pretty frequent.  Which IS great.  Accomplishing that has meant doing a ton of running at night...which I love.

Unfortunately, that is also when I tend to do a good bit of my writing, and something had to give.

Do I have a lot to write about?

Yep.

Can it wait?

With Laurel Highlands happening three days from now, it's gonna have to.

run of the mill.

"With apprehension that I am summoning a jinx, I have decided to unfurl the map and plot a course that leads towards running my first 50-mile event in late 2011, the Stone Mill 50 Mile Run."

I wrote those words here on the 20th of December and had pondered the jinx through Achilles issues, a gastric meltdown at Laurel Highlands, bee stings at Conestoga and month after month of mileage that fell short of what I'd intended to log in preparation for Stone Mill.

But, on the morning of November 19th, as I stood at the starting line outside of Watkins High School in Gaithersburg, I felt pretty darn good and, at least to start, there was no sign of the jinx.  Of course, there was a lot of hours left in the day and many miles to cover, so the possibility of a sighting remained.

The weather was perfect, cold to start, but not so cold as to require excessive layering for comfort.  I'd brought gloves but felt just warm enough to not need them.  I remembered Kelly's advice to stay conservative at the start and decided to stick to it as headlamps bobbed ahead of me on the trail.

That lasted for about 10 minutes until I realized that I was going to go crazy tucked (and stuck) in formation on a beautiful section of wooded singletrack.  I wanted to stay controlled but 11+ minute miles weren't going to hold my interest and were possibly going to put me in a hole I had no want to climb into as I alternated between what felt like running in place to walking so as not to literally bump into the person in front of me.

Managing to leapfrog past a number of other runners at a couple of strategic widenings of the trail, I was able to move along more swiftly while still remaining mindful of not going too fast.  The course was really runnable with only gentle rises and falls and fairly non-technical footing.  By the time I hit the aid station at mile 11, I'd settled into a very comfortable 10:00 minute mile pace and hoped that it wasn't too much too soon.

I had taken in some water and Gatorade from the handheld bottles I was carrying and had kept down one gel, but otherwise I hadn't refueled.  I wasn't hungry yet, but, knowing that I was going to need more throughout the day, I ate a couple of bites of potato at the aid station.  My stomach didn't fully protest but hinted that it would have preferred that I had left it alone.  "Wait to worry", I vaguely remember telling myself.

The sun had finally crept high enough to cast a beautiful light on the meandering Seneca Creek Greenway Trail.  I couldn't fathom that such sustained sections of unbroken trail were tucked inconspicuously into the wild cracks between the bustling sprawl of Washington D.C. and Montgomery County, Maryland.

I was having an absolute blast, cruising along, splashing through water crossings and waiting for my beard to thaw.

As I started to near 20 miles, I pulled the throttle back just a hair in hopes that I could settle into a pace I could hold all day long.  I even power hiked a couple of the steeper hills to conserve energy even though there wasn't a single section that I couldn't and wouldn't have run in a shorter race.

My pace dropped even further after I decided to take a break.  "Don't you have to go to the bathroom?", I've been asked on numerous occasions when talking about running long races.  Yes is, of course, the answer and, if you're lucky, there's a port-a-potty handy when the need arises.  Call me lucky. 

I left the john behind me and felt better for it.  Moments later I was on the towpath of the C&O canal and my "feeling better" went away.  After miles of trail, the hard-packed towpath surface felt way too much like pavement.

The view, however, was lovely with the mighty Potomac perched on the left.

I snapped a bunch of photos along this stretch, partly because it was so beautiful and partly because it broke up the monotonous pounding of the towpath.  On any random day, I would probably enjoy running on this surface and certainly surrounded by that landscape but, having already come a long way, this was the first time that my feet felt fatigued and the first time that my mind wandered to the many miles ahead.  My resolve weakened and I realized that I hadn't put anything further in my stomach.

A few miles later, the course branched away from the towpath and the ruins of the race's namesake stone mill offered a welcome distraction.

I investigated for a momentbefore hitting up the aid station nestled just a few yards away.  My drop bag was stocked with a change of shirts, a handful of gels, some GU Chomps, a couple of granola bars, some dried dates, salt capsules, some band-aids, a fresh wicking shirt and some ibuprofen.

I opened a gel packet but didn't manage to get much down before deciding that I just didn't want to tempt fate with my cranky gut.  I slipped into the dry shirt and packed my wet shirt and remaining gels back into the drop bag.  I knocked down two ibuprofen and tucked the Chomps and salt caps into my pocket.  The crew at the aid station refilled my bottles and I gave the GPS a quick glance before heading back out onto the trail.

Despite all my dawdling, I was still at a sub-11 minute pace and just 7 tenths of a mile shy of halfway home.  I wasn't feeling my best by any means, but was happy to have the towpath behind me, not suffering from any real physical issues and encouraged at being well ahead of the 12 hour cutoff.

After a short stretch of unpaved road, we were back on trail.  I felt pretty good for a mile or two as the path wound through open, hilly farmland fringed by old, thinned out woods.  Somewhere near mile 27 or 28, I hit a major lowpoint.  Physically, nothing seemed out of order, but I just couldn't muster any enthusiasm.  It was unignorable...I didn't want to be there, didn't want to run any further.  I'd gone further in a number of other races and on other runs and I couldn't understand why I was feeling the way I was, but that just made me more frustrated.  The miles between 27 and 30 seemed absolutely endless and while I wasn't really considering dropping when I reached the next aid station, I was dreading the miles and hours ahead.

For all the enthusiasm and support that lives in trail running aid stations, they can be really depressing places when your stomach isn't cooperating.  I looked at the chips, pretzels, M&Ms, almonds and other snacks with disdain and borderline despair.  I was sitting down, nursing a cup of Coke, staring at nothing and thinking about the same when I overheard a runner ask a volunteer for some chicken soup.  Hearing that request brought on a craving for soup like I've never experienced.  I jumped to my feet and said "make it two", feeling melodramatic but not caring in the least.

To say that that cup of soup saved my life would be...stupid, it would be stupid, but what it did do was give me calories I was sorely lacking and those calories translated into positivity that I'd been without for several miles.  It wasn't the last soup (or cup of Coke) that I would have that day, but it was the one that got my fueling back on track and kept me from a total bonk.  I wouldn't say that I went flying out of the aid station, but I did get back to running with purpose instead of letting pace get away from me entirely.

I kept plugging along, enjoying the babbling creeks, leaf-stripped woodlands and postcard-perfect old barns perched on distant hillsides.  I discovered that I'd covered 40 miles and was creeping toward the possibility of sneaking up on the finish line at just under 11 hours.  I wanted to go faster but also reminded myself to stay smart and forced myself to power-hike now and then to break up some of the repetition on my leg muscles.  The strategy seemed to be working as the Garmin reported that I'd made it to 44 miles.

That's where I was when the gentleman at the next aid station welcomed me to "41 miles".  I gave him a puzzled look as he explained that the next section was an out-and-back consisting of a 1.5 leg to a water stop and then an additional 3.5 miles to the turnaround.  I'm no mathematician and was tired to boot, but that sure sounded like more remaining work than I'd expected.  I mumbled something about the read-out on my wrist and he smiled when he told me that a lot of other runner's GPSs had said the same thing.  Hmmm.

Off I went, but with an admitted deflation.  Even though I felt pretty good, there was something about having thought I was so close only to learn that I wasn't that took a toll.  I slowed noticeably and no longer needed to force myself to hike the "ups".  Shortly after leaving the turnaround and recrossing an icy stream which may have been the motivation for the race directors to send us that way in the first place, the sun passed from low in the sky to gone.  Luckily, I'd kept my headlamp in my pocket instead of throwing it in the drop bag back at the Stone Mill aid station.

A mile further, the light revealed Bobby approaching me on his way out to the turnaround.  Stone Mill was his 11th ultra of 2011 and he'd lined up despite suffering from what he suspected was the start of plantar fasciatis.  Bobby and I had suffered through Laurel Highlands together back in June and forged a fast friendship and an easy camaraderie.  I wanted this to be a great day for him as much I did for myself, but I could tell he was having some difficulty.  He confirmed that his plantar diagnosis was correct and told me of his day.  He'd tried to modify his gait to offset the growing pain in his foot and brought on some knee issues in the process.  He'd gutted things out for hours on end, but, in learning that the course was longer than advertised and not wanting to cause any further damage, he decided to turnaround here and come back with me.  His race was over but he still had a few dark, cold miles ahead to get back to the start.  I was sorry for how his day had gone but happy to again be sharing the trail with him.

With the sun down, the temperatures had dropped considerably and we looked forward to calling it a day.  Having a friend to talk to made those last few miles slip by surprisingly quickly and before long the finish line loomed ahead at the top of one last grassy slope, the steepest of the day.  I bounded up the hill, surprised to find that I still had a little leg, and crossed under the Stone Mill start/finish banner.

I'd finished my first 50-miler and was pleased to feel like I could have gone further.  Well, to be fair, I had gone further.  Four-and-a-half miles further.  I hadn't managed to look down to see where I was at mile 50, but based on my final pace and the slogging that I did on that last out-and-back, I'm guessing it was something a little less than 11 hours.  Maybe.

Despite the unexpected miles, I had a great time and loved the event.  The weather was perfect and the course was totally manageable.  I'd have been hard-pressed to pick a better day and race my first 50.  There was a lot of grumbling about the extended distance and I'm still perplexed as to why the directors were comfortable overshooting by that much.  Wayne, who I'd met the night before, was using Stone Mill as his qualifying race for entering the Western States 100 lottery.  To get in without a 100-miler, he needed a sub-11 hour 50-mile race and, by running strategically throughout the day to hit that comfortably, he ended up just sneaking in under that time because of the extra miles.  His frustration was understandable.  For me, just wanting to get through the distance, I'm hoping that those extra miles will give me a psychological advantage the next time I attempt 50 miles.  Time will tell.

My hope is that the organizers publicize the full distance next year or modify it to be something a little closer to 50 or even add on and make it a 100K.  As cold as it got on Saturday, had there been rain or wind to further complicate things, runners could have found themselves in real danger of hypothermia or exposure.  This, obviously, is always a possibility at any ultra, but with the course being so much longer than advertised, the directors would have had to field some uncomfortable questions that, thankfully, didn't need to be addressed this past weekend.  Outside of that, I have no complaints or suggestions for improvement.

Thanks to all for putting on such a well-supported event with a great vibe.  With a hard to believe $35 entry fee in an era where you're often asked to pay that for a 5K, Stone Mill didn't include a commemorative shirt, but the swag was still pretty sweet and included a nice imprinted drop bag, a mug (for first time Stone Mill runners) and a flashlight.

It probably goes without saying, but my favorite piece of swag was the finisher's medal.

bellyaching.

I'm staring at the keyboard knowing there's a long, long story waiting to be typed.  Even before I begin, I feel like I'm not going to manage to say everything I'd like to or convey all that transpired that weekend.

Nothing to do, I suppose, except start stringing letters and words together, like footstep after footstep, and see if we finish.  A theme emerges.

I left work midday on Friday headed for Ohiopyle and the acceptance of an invite from Derek to take part in the Laurel Highlands Group Weekend (I'll introduce the team in a moment).  I'd purposely run very little that week, sneaking in a run to work and another run home from work on Monday before spending the rest of the week on my bike.

Derek, Jason and Kelly (who I'd yet to meet) were going to be attempting the classic 70 mile Laurel Highlands Ultra (actually measuring out at 77 miles for the 2nd straight year due to a detour around a bridge that was out) while I was going to be tackling the shorter 50K race after running just the first leg of the 50K relay last year.  Greg, Bob and Randy, all of whom I'd never met, were also going to be running the 50K while Jo, Kelly's wife, would be crewing her husband's attempt at the full distance.

Jo and Kelly had been kind enough to offer to help shuttle cars to ensure that those of us running the shorter race would find our vehicles at the race's end.  This was no small gesture on their part considering the surprising distances between checkpoints and the fact that they'd be rising extremely early on Saturday morning to make certain that Kelly was ready for the 5:30 starting gun.

I'm hardly shy, but I did wonder at how well we'd all mesh.  I shouldn't have had any concerns.  As we settled into dinner, conversation flowed as the camaraderie I've come to expect and cherish in trail and ultrarunning came easy.  While Derek attended to the science experiment that is his pre-race food preparation, getting-to-know-yous transitioned into race story swapping and laughter.  We walked together down to the Youghiogheny River (the "Yough") so Randy and Derek could soak in the chilly water and the rest of us could enjoy a beautiful evening in downtown Ohiopyle.



(L to R) Bobby, Kelly, Greg, Randy, Derek, Jason and Me (photo by Jo Weakley Agnew)



Kelly and Jo chauffeured Bobby and I back to the lodge after letting us park our vehicles at the finish line 31.1 miles away on the meandering Laurel Highlands Trail.  We said quick goodbyes to let them get what little sleep they could sneak in before 3:30 AM, said final good lucks to Derek and the rest of the crew and retired for the night.

Bobby and I swapped a few more stories before flicking off the lights and getting some sleep.  He was without his iPhone and concerned that he'd either left it in Kelly and Jo's vehicle or, worse yet, forgotten it on the hood of his car.  We both joked that it was good he'd done it at a trail race because it was likely the phone would still be there, agreeing that at a road race someone would've jumped at the chance to pocket the loot.

We awoke just before 7:00 AM, leaving us more than an hour to cover the couple of hundred yards between the lodge and the starting line.  I commented immediately that I didn't feel my best, but I wasn't too concerned either.  I headed off to search for coffee and was relieved to find an open door with the smell of fresh brew wafting out onto the sidewalk.  Caffeine hit the spot and any trepidation I had was long gone.  It was time to sound the gun and get out into the lush beauty of the Highlands.

Bobby's plan all along for Laurel Highlands was to pace his friend, Chuck, to what would hopefully be his first 50 kilometer finish.  By the time I hit the parking lot, Bobby and Chuck had met up and were ready to go.  Chuck had friends along to crew and they generously agreed to transport my pack to our final destination, a detail I'd managed to not consider ahead of time.

The 50K starts in the parking lot of Wilderness Voyageurs, an Ohiopyle fixture for gear, good times and raft trip send-offs.  As we broke from the starting line, we were headed in the opposite direction of the boat launches and up, up, up and away from the Yough.  I remembered from last year that the initial broad track quickly turned into tight single track as a narrow set of stairs (yes, stairs) ushered runners into the first of the day's climbs.  I did my best to stay ahead of the pack so as not to immediately bog down.

Well familiar with the sustained, unrunnable climb that lurked at miles 6-8, I made certain to maintain a realistic pace at the outset.  I knew all too well that I hadn't logged a run of any significant length since before my Achilles flare-ups and nothing near 30 miles since last October.  I was pleased to settle pretty comfortably into what felt like somewhere in the range of 8-9 minute miles.  Foolishly, I'd forgotten my GPS in the pack that I'd handed over before the start of the race, so I'd spend the day without solid beta on how much time had elapsed and how steadily I was progressing.  That mattered little at this stage of the race, however, and I was thrilled just to be back on the Laurel Highlands Trail.

At some point I found myself right on Greg's heels and after a few switchback's he caught sight of me in his peripheral vision and realized I was stalking him.  We spent the next couple of miles in good conversation, discussing how we'd come to running, why it meant so much and marveling at the galvanizing force that is Derek.

I stuck with Greg through maybe mile 7 but watched him keep pushing on while I took a few moments to stretch the Achilles in a preventative attempt to stave off any strain issues.  Having loosened up again, I got back to the climb and topped out feeling much better than I had the year prior.

And then I threw up.  Violently.  I was somewhere around mile 9 and didn't feel bad leading up to the episode and felt pretty good immediately thereafter.  I chalked it up to the effort of the climb, shrugged it off and began moving swiftly again toward the first aid station at mile 11.6.  I'd end up puking twice more before reaching that station and by the 3rd time, my body was going through the motions but finding nothing to expel.

The trail levels off and transitions into rolling terrain ahead of the first aid station and my legs felt surprisingly good when I finally reached it.  I didn't bother to ask the time but, having been passed by few runners, I knew I was still on pace for a decent finish.  Despite it not occurring to me to retrieve my GPS, I was able to part with my hydration pack, shirt and hat which my new friends generously offered to put with my backpack.  The hat and the shirt were unnecessary as most of the trail up to that point and beyond was beneath the trees.  Carrying two handheld water bottles, I hadn't put a dent in the water I'd been carrying in my hydration pack, so I didn't see any reason to continue to carry the weight, especially with closer spacing between aid stations the rest of the way.  I'd come to second guess that decision.

I drank a cup or two of Pepsi which felt really good on my churning stomach.  I ate an orange slice which tasted a bit harsh but seemed like a worthwhile indulgence.  I refilled my water bottles with cold water and continued on my way.

I felt good.  Really good.

For about 10 minutes.

Somewhere around mile 12, I threw up again.  And again.  And again.  And....

Each time I thought I'd gotten everything out of my system, I'd set off again for the finish line.  Progress had grown ridiculously slow and I believe I may have even sat a time or two over the course of just a mile or two.  The trail has little stone markers at every mile, so you can easily keep track of how far you've come.  Shortly after passing the mile 13 marker, I had the most violent episode of the day despite the fact that my stomach had gone empty quite some time before.  It was at this point that I realized I wasn't sweating anymore.  Almost simultaneous to this realization, I got hit with the worst stomach cramp of my life.  A deep horizontal indentation in my stomach made it look as though someone had begun sawing me in half, lost interest and walked away after making it halfway through my torso.

My day was done.  I began moving again but this time I was headed back to the first aid station.  It seemed the only logical decision with aid station 2 placed somewhere out beyond mile 19.  I was upset but didn't want to end up like the listless guy that me and Taylor had transported from aid station 2 to the finish line last year, wondering if the guy was going to pull through and knowing that, without an IV, he was in a bad, bad place.  Oddly enough, while sitting to gather strength, that very runner passed by, stopping in his tracks when I asked him if he was the guy I'd given a ride to last year.  He thanked me and urged me not to allow myself to get where he'd gotten.

Soon after that exchange and totally out of gas, I plopped down into a creek to see if I could cool off and give myself enough of a boost to get back to the aid station.  Many (most) of the folks who passed by kindly offered to help me if they could.  I turned down most of the offers knowing I had little chance of keeping anything down.  One seasoned ultrarunner wouldn't take no for an answer and gently placed an electrolyte tab (I could've sworn it was a Listerine strip) against the inside of my cheek, gave me a salt pill and made me drink a little bit of water.  She told me to take all the time I needed and then assured me that I'd come around.  I couldn't help but think back on my dear friend Matt's claims that "trail magic" from a kind stranger had carried him to the finish of the 28.4 mile Susquehanna Super Hike.  That image faded as before my trail angel had even passed fully from sight, I vomited up everything I'd just been given.

Which makes it all the stranger that a few minutes later I clawed my way up onto my feet and began heading back down the trail, not toward the start but toward the finish.  I wasn't moving well and, at this point, I had very little hope of finishing but something had convinced me that I could at least make it to 19.6.

During one of my frequent sitdowns to try and calm my stomach pains, Bobby came upon me.  He too was having some GI issues and had urged Chuck to push ahead.  Though he was definitely moving better than me at this point, Bobby seemed disappointed to not be setting a quicker pace.  All the more reason I appreciated his offer of an electrolyte tablet even though I turned it down.  He assured me that he'd alert the next aid station to my difficulties and carried on his way.

Though I continued to creep further along, it seemed like an eternity between trail markers.  I still hadn't managed to keep anything down and because of the slow progress, no longer had any water left in my water bottles.  Luckily, another trail angel passed my way.  Laurie wasn't fast but she was dogged.  She was way, way back in the pack but I had no doubt that she was going to eke out a finishing time.  She hadn't intended to have her 3-liter water bladder filled completely at the aid station but an enthusiastic volunteer couldn't be talked out of adding water until the bladder bulged.  Laurie confided in me that she'd been spilling the water away to shed weight and urged me to take some.  She gave me enough to fill my water bottles about halfway and then settled back into her machine-like pace.  I watched her go and slowly mustered the determination to follow.

I hadn't gone more than 100 yards before I brought one of the water bottles to my lips to discover that the water was nearly undrinkably warm.  Just like that my determination was gone again.  The trail was again nudged right alongside a stream and I clambered in one more time to see if there were restorative powers to be had.  I submerged both bottles and hoped that their contents would cool.

I do not know how long I sat there but it was long enough to turn the water in the bottle ice cold.  I drank both bottles empty, savored the coolness for a bit and talked myself up and out of the creek.  I was moving again.

I alternated between fast hiking and, on downhill sections, something resembling running.  The further along I went, the longer I was able to sustain runs and transition more quickly between walking and running on steeper sections.  Taylor had run the second leg in 2010 and I recognized one of the climbs from his descriptions and knew that I was about to make it the second aid station that had seemed impossible a short while ago.

When I tumbled into the aid station, the volunteers looked bewildered.  I have a feeling it wasn't just Bobby who'd mentioned the state that I was in and it was clear that they'd been discussing what to do about me.  I pounded more Pepsi and, though I still had no stomach for solid foods, I licked the salt off of a handful of Pringles.  Laurie was there at the aid station and offered words of encouragement and admitted that she hadn't expected to see me in the state to which I'd seemed to return.  I gave her a hug, filled my bottles with 9 parts ice, 1 part water (roughly) and continued onward.  I'd made it through the aid station 2 cutoff with just 23 minute to spare.

Within the next few miles I came upon Bobby and another gentleman.  They too looked shocked to see me and admitted that they were struggling.  Bobby had not previously known the other runner but they'd teamed up as Bobby continued to battle his stomach and the other runner wrestled with the strain of a first time 50K attempt.  Together, we all determined to push the pace as best we could to ensure that we managed a qualifying time.  After a short sustained stretch in which we slowly, painfully ultra-shuffled instead of just walking, Bobby and I shared a good laugh at how crazy it was to be excited at having gotten our pace down to 17 or 18 minutes!  Any other day, we'd have probably been humiliated by that realization, but it was a genuine victory under the circumstances.

The remaining miles are pretty much a blur of cramping, shuffling and, oddly enough, laughter.  Too many hours had passed for there to be any chance of achieving a time to be proud of, but we did move along steadily enough to know well before the finish that we'd be managing to secure a qualifying time and a finisher's medal.  This allowed time to take in and fully appreciate the beauty of the Laurel Highlands.  With the exception of the short uninteresting pass through Seven Springs ski resort, the entirety of the trail is as pretty as can be with the crisscrossing streams, tall tree cover, sprawling sections of prehistoric ferns and an overall quiet remoteness.

My final time of 9:15:50 proved to be my slowest 50K to date...by 3.5 hours!

On paper, it's one of my worst, if not the worst, running performances of my life.  Truth is, it's the one of which I'm most proud and one I honestly believe could be a real breakthrough for me.  Throwing out the true injury that occurred at Hyner View, this is the first time that I've really had to push through "you should really stop" obstacles and do proper battle with the ultra demons.  I didn't do much more than barely finish the race, but that result was very much in doubt for most of the day.

Best of all, I made a great friend in Bobby and was able to immediately share the kind of profound experience that seems reserved for lifelong friends and loved ones.  It was a pleasure to suffer through the day with him and together lay claim to our finisher's medals.  We even managed to both arrive (via car, not on foot) at the aid station at mile 64 to spend time with Jo as she waited for Kelly to arrive and then offer encouragement to Kelly who certainly inspired me by looking like he was out for a walk in the park.  I guess, in a way, he was, but 77 miles is one long walk in the park.

We'd held out hope that we'd manage to see Derek at that aid station, but learned instead that he'd passed through earlier and, when he'd passed, was convincingly in first place.  We were already hooting and hollering at that news when the volunteer confirmed that Derek had actually already arrived at the finish and WON the race!  Bobby and I glanced at our phones to check the time and were astonished.  Not only had Derek finished in first place, he'd shaved an unthinkable hour off of the old 77-mile course record.  The recent news that construction on the bridge was expected to be completed before next year's race meant that Derek's record would stand in perpetuity.

Needless to say, it was a Laurel Highlands Group Weekend to remember.