one bad hat.

I turned the key, opened the driver's side door and eased into the seat.

In my peripheral vision I could see other runners approaching the finishing chute of the 24th annual The HAT Run 50K in Havre de Grace, Maryland.  The torrential rain of earlier in the day had tapered to a fine drizzle but everything remained gray, gray, gray.  Instinctively, I grabbed the Nathan vest that I'd just plopped down in the passenger seat and stepped back out of the car.  As soon as my weight shifted onto my left foot, I felt the stabbing pain that had brought me there in the first place.

I collapsed back into the seat, pulled the door shut behind me, lowered my head to the steering wheel and sobbed.

The HAT consists of three laps, one short  3.6 starting loop, followed by two consecutive 13.7 mile loops.  At the end of each loop, you pass through the finishing area and directly beneath a pavilion just beyond the actual finishing line.  It's a neat feature and guarantees contact with friends and family should they choose to hang around and wait for your return trips.

Anyone at the pavilion at that moment had just completed the first of the two final loops and had another 13.7 miles to go before collecting a finisher's medal and the satisfaction of having completed one of the oldest, most esteemed 50K events.

I'd been in that very spot about 15 minutes earlier.  The preceding 7 miles had been, to be blunt, miserable.  As my four loyal readers are well aware, I struggle in the mud.  My flat feet hold up for a bit but end up failing to give me any lift and the more tired they get and/or the muddier the course becomes, my shoes begin slipping out from beneath me and "tired" begins to give way to pain.

Such was certainly the case today and though I moved along comfortably for the first 7-8 miles, by that point I could feel things starting to break down.  I vaguely remember mentioning something to Todd, in one of the moments that I caught him from behind as (and only because) he slowed to fuel, about recognizing that this was going to become a matter of "course management" which is my idiot code for picking my spots as my body (and perhaps my mind) begins to go.

The next mile to a mile-and-a-half was mostly downhill which is not my strong suit to begin with but especially on singletrack that has gone to mush.  I'd begun daydreaming of Ibuprofen as we hit a sustained stretch of paved road.

Ouch.

I prayed for dirt as that road seemed to go on forever.   It didn't.  We probably weren't on that surface for much more than a mile, but I got beat up.

By the time we were back on the trail, even after downing a couple of those dreams-answered pills, I was having trouble maintaining my footing even when power hiking and staying on my feet meant waves of pain in the instep of my left foot and across the top of my right foot that were making me run with my eyes closed on the road and on non-technical trail sections that I thought I could manage without breaking an ankle.

Cardio was never an issue and I actually enjoyed all of the climbs when the ground didn't give way beneath my feet.  There are a ton of ascents, supposedly 9,800 feet (if you finish the whole thing) of climb, but they aren't long, few of them are very steep and, compared to back home, they aren't technical.  Of course, feeling pretty fresh otherwise only made the arch troubles more irritating.

And, if you can't stay upright, you've got problems.

And I certainly had problems.

There were two more road sections before we hit the end of the loop, including one long (to me) downhill section that was just torture.  The long climb on muddy singletrack that waited at the bottom of that road was a welcome transition in my book.

Except it meant more mud.

When we reached the pavilion, I was pretty done in, but spent a good 5-10 minutes regrouping.  Fueling hadn't been an issue.  I'd eaten and downed fluids at every aid station and my stomach gave me no complaints.  I consumed more of both and thought about more Ibuprofen but knew I was pushing my luck, having taken some just a few miles back.

As much as I was hurting, I stuck there long enough to convince myself that I was going to grit my teeth and finish the race.  I gave my usual thanks to anyone within earshot for being there to help us runners out and started on my way.

About 30-40 yards out from the pavilion, there is a short jumble of rough-hewn rock steps.  This spot had served as a bottleneck earlier in the day and I was relieved to see that it was unclogged at the moment.  I stepped from the grass onto the first rock and got a shockwave of pain in my left arch that made me purposely drop onto my rear end.  I didn't stay there long but in climbing back up onto my feet and feeling that same sensation with the next step, I was pretty sure my day was over and I'd just rung up another DNF.

So, I sobbed. 

Like I haven't in a long, long time.

Like an I-can't-even-begin-to-imagine-when-I-last kinda long time.

I sobbed because I'd failed.  Again.  Because I was weak and wanted to be strong.  As strong as I thought I should be.  As strong as I know other people are and maybe, just maybe, think that I am.

I sobbed because I'd become an athlete who can't be counted on to finish what he's started.  A quitter.  There's already enough doubt to deal with in long-distance running.  I didn't need a growing list of drops to shake my confidence any further in low moments on long races.

And then I really sobbed because I was sobbing in the first place about a race.  About a run in the woods.  A voluntary, arguably meaningless bit of semi-reality in an otherwise all too real world.

I sobbed because I have a lovely, precious wife who possesses shoulders that can't help but hoist the whole world upon them even though they aren't built (as if any shoulders are) to carry such a weight.  I sobbed because she suffers inescapable physical pain on a daily basis, not because she choose an activity that unnecessarily subjects her to it, but because her eye is threatening to quit, to stop delivering visual signals to her brain and, as if that alone isn't bad enough, does bother to deliver ample amounts of pain and discomfort.

I sobbed because my children were going to have to watch me hobble around the house and refrain from our usual rough-housing because I choose to spend my free time beating the living shit out of myself.

What a selfish son-of-a-bitch (just an expression, Mother).

And somewhere right about then, as though I'd been deaf up until that moment, my ears picked up the actual sound of my sobbing (last time I use the word, I promise).  And somewhere right about then, I began laughing hysterically.

The sound issuing from my throat was absolutely, undeniably ridiculous.

The idea of someone passing by my car, seeing me crying and hearing THAT sound that was coming out of me was even more undeniably ridiculous.

And the sound of my laughter reminded me of the laughs I'd shared earlier in the  day with old, dear friends.  Dear friends who I would not even know without my little hobby.  I'd had warm, felt-like-old-times conversations with new folks too, strangers up until that very second, and each and every one of those conversations included laughter.

Finishers medal or not, I'd just experienced another day of, yes, failures, but also shared moments.  Trail runs, even those with several hundred participants, serve up quiet, open corridors of openness and sharing that continue to amaze me and, obviously, keep me coming back.

Frankly, the sound of my laughter was a bit ridiculous too and I suppose I wouldn't have looked any less crazy sitting in my car laughing than I would have crying.  But, laughing sure felt better, at least after the purge of crying.

My wife would be waiting at home.  In our way, a way that I expect all happy couples do, we would relieve each other of at least a bit of the weight of existence.  I knew, at least, that she would me.

Lily and Piper would be there too and, regardless of whether my feet were wrapped in ice (and they would be), they would be thrilled to see me and full of stories from the night at Memma and Pop-Pops and the bouncy-house birthday party that had filled their day.  My finishing or not finishing wasn't going to mean much to them one way or the other, so, on that front, I'd done no damage.

How much can one bad HAT hurt?  Bad enough to try again next year, I bet...

...IF it doesn't rain.

confession and plea.

Last Saturday, January 7th, I ran the PHUNT 25K, a Fat Ass (that pretty much just means it's free...and casual) put on by the Trail Dawgs at the Fair Hill Natural Resource Area in Elkton, Maryland.

Who are the Trail Dawgs?  Glad you asked.  Go here and find out more about these fine fellows and what they're scheming up next:  http://traildawgs.org/

Now where was I?

Ah, yes, I ran the PHUNT 25K and did it in a pretty pleasing 2:30, especially considering the continuous roll of the course and the muddy footing.  Problem is I was intending to do the PHUNT 50K and here's photographic evidence of how that turned out.

No, it didn't take me an hour to run another 3 miles, but it did take me that long to get back out on the loop a second time, fear what my non-responding arches (especially my left) had to tell me and then walk back to the start/finish/mid-way point.

Even after more than a decade of running and several years of trail/ultra-running, I still don't know my body well enough to be certain when I'm being alerted simply to pain or receiving an emergency cry to bail out before real, lasting damage befalls me.  Wish I did know the difference.

The Trail Dawgs were kind enough and the event low-key enough, that I was encouraged to log my 25K time which I eventually did.  The unbelievably beautiful January weather and fine company made for a wonderful day in spite of the abrupt end to actual running, but, a week later, I feel like a cheater and know that, regardless of how the results might read, I actually logged my second ever DNF.

The short term good news, sort of, is that my arch has proven touchy all week long and I feel quite certain that I made the right decision by calling it a day.  The longer term good news is that a few days of not-running (as I like to call it) and working out on the bosu ball (miracle invention...do your research) has me feeling vastly improved if not all the way back to normal.

Which brings me to a quick mention of the highlights on my upcoming race calendar.  I'm signed up for the HAT Run 50K in March, the sure-to-be epic Hyner View Trail Challenge 50K (my first DNF was at the 25K version of this race at a time when I already knew I was nursing and injury and I couldn't resist the chance to take part in the inaugural 50K this year) and the Laurel Highlands Ultra 70-miler in June.  With all of that on the docket, all of which is meant as a build toward the Slickrock 100 in October, remaining healthy is as important as logging miles.

So, that takes care of my DNF confession and its back story.  Here is the plea.  I'm not sure it's a plea so much as a call for opinions and I know you've got 'em.

Yes, you.

Years of destruction from basketball (believe it or not, I was a pretty decent...or at least quick/pesky...point guard back in (sigh) the day) have laid waste to my ankles, especially my left one.

Every now and then I pull out the x-ray taken back 2004-ish that shows floating fragments and two bones grinding against one another in a manner that still makes me question why I bother moving at all.  I didn't have the time or money to justify surgery then and less so now.

I steered clear of trail running for far longer than I wish I had because of fear of falling, twisting, breaking, etc.  It was also only a couple of years ago that my left foot was still going completely numb after about 10 miles or so of running, leaving me feeling as though I was actually landing with each step on a stub located a few inches up my leg.

Not good.

And, trust me, I tried every shoe under the sun to try and correct the problem.  No dice.

Not good.

Eventually (obviously) I made my way to the trail, endured the early predicted falls and twists but managed to avoid any breaks.  Slowly, surely unengaged muscles and new types of flexion gained endurance and strengthened.  Bulky shoes went out the window as my feet sent word that they were better up to the task than was rumored.  Even on the road, I eschewed the gimmicky corrective structures I'd come to believe I needed and turned toward lower profile shoes that stayed out of the way of my feet and let them attend to their prescribed purpose.

And then, in time, I started covering longer and longer distances.  Pain and discomfort, except among the most anatomically blessed, is inevitable when you start pushing out beyond marathon distance.  It's part of the fun or, at the very least, an acceptable side effect of the fun to be had when going long.

Still, I kept seeking out the perfect shoe.

Lest you're still holding out hope for that very same thing, I'm here to tell you that that shoe does NOT exist.  Perhaps if you are gifted enough athlete in the first place to be lured into the laboratory by a shoe company that lends you its scientists and molds a shoe to your very specifications, perfection may be obtainable.  Perhaps, but, even then, unlikely.

I do, however, enjoy daydreams and "what ifs", so I'm giving you and anyone you know the forum to tell me that I'm wrong.  To hold up THE shoe (cue the beam of light shining down upon it from the heavens) that is sure to solve all my problems, keep me pain and distraction free and deliver me to the finish line in personal-record establishing time.

I'm not looking to replace the MT101 (unless the 110 stays true to the design AND improves on durability) as my everyday shoe for up to 15+ miles, but I am seeking a reliable go-to for extended races and/or gnarlier terrain.

To improve the chances of success, I'm lowering my expectations to finding a low-to-medium profile shoe, preferably with little or no medial support, with traction enough to not be utterly useless in mud but not so burly as to be pointless in anything but mud.  That still sounds like a tall order, but I'm all ears.

All ears and bone fragments.