finally.

How I've dreamed of a complete race.  Just one solid start to finish effort that didn't leave me questioning or second guessing myself at the end of the day. 

I think I may have had one or two over the years, but I was a much younger man the last time it happened.  Even my better results were usually accompanied by some missteps or sections of the race that could have gone differently and ended with a lower time.

So, I'm 37 now and no longer in possession of the speed and lack of wear-and-tear I had at 20.  I'm only gonna go so fast.  Which leaves me needing to be disciplined and smart.  Neither is my strong suit.

All the better, then, to have things come together at a race that references the "not smart" in its very name, Pretzel City Sports's third annual Ghouls & Fools 10K.

A Ron Horn original, this little gem of a race starts after the sun sets and winds its way up and around Mt. Penn, asking runners to weave around trees, duck under branches, clamber over logs and endure endless rocks and roots with just your flashlight or headlamp beam to guide the way.

I ran this race for the first time in 2010, placing 39th out of well over 400 finishers with a time of 52:44.  I was pretty pleased with that result, especially with the hesitancy I felt during the first mile or two as I questioned every footfall on the leaf strewn, rocky course.  I'd also managed to start further back in the pack than I had intended, always a potential obstacle at the well attended (and for good reason) Pretzel City events.

I almost missed this year's race entirely as I had somehow managed to convince myself that it was scheduled for the 29th of October, a day I would be in a little cabin north and east of Williamsport enjoying a weekend away with family.  Thankfully, I emerged from the fog on Friday morning to realize that the race was actually happening on Saturday, October 22nd.

Jefferson was there in body and spirit, but was leaning on a trekking pole that confirmed his ankle hadn't recovered from not one but two nasty falls on a predawn run the weekend before.  I was glad to see him even if he'd only shown up to claim his prepaid race tee.  Steve (50:22!) and Cassie (who earned a 3rd place finish in her age group!) were there, as was Jason though I didn't actually see him until later in the evening.  Shasta, as promised, showed up to try her first night run and ended up running it like it was routine.  There were plenty of other familiar faces too, but many of my closer running friends were out of town, the only bummer of the night.

The weather was perfect...just cool enough to run in long sleeves and a hat without wishing you could ditch them 10 minutes after you started.

After listening to Ron's pre-race threats, I succeeded in wedging in right behind the speedsters at the front of the pack and waited for the gun.  I stayed inside on the first crowded turn out of the parking lot and consciously moved quickly during the first few hundred yards to ensure that I was free of the fray when we hit the initial section of singletrack.

I was really psyched to vanish into the woods with no more than 15-20 bobbing headlamps out in front of me.  The pace was speedy during the first mile as the track tumbled mostly downhill ahead of the climbing to be done later in the course.

It was during the downhill stretch, as I tried to get a peek at how fast we were going, that I discovered I'd left my GPS in the car.  I immediately decided that it didn't matter and never gave it another thought.

At some point within the first two miles, the small pack that I was in fell apart at a spot where a few runners started off course and the others began to follow.  I emerged from that confusion at the front of the group and dug into the uphill section that immediately followed.  Some minutes later I realized that I was running alone and had been for a time as the trail continued to climb and snake here and there in the darkness.

I spent the next few miles mostly alone and shot right past the aid stations, not feeling the need for anything over the short distance and in the cool conditions.  I was eventually caught by a couple of other runners but stayed in the same headspace, just cranking out the miles and relishing the way my brain stayed out of the way of my body doing its thing.

I began to wonder if I should consider ONLY running at night as I really think I was running more purely with the lack of visibility because in order to hold pace I had to pretty much turn things over to my legs and hope that they were making the right decisions.  Every now and then I would hit a rock or root oddly and understand that I was a single misstep away from a disaster, but, thankfully, that misstep never happened.

I was almost disappointed to see the old familiar guard rail that marks the start of Ron's beloved one-last-kick-in-the-ass finishing climb.  A scramble over that last rocky ridge deposited me on the grass just ahead of the finish.  Jefferson threw me some kind words as I passed him and glanced up at the clock.  Crossing the line at 45:39, I'd shaved a full 7 minutes off of last year.

I felt great and loved that the race had felt less like a race and more like the best of runs, free of any expectations and, instead, just a total escape with the sound and noise of real life turned all the way down.

Beautiful.

Turned out my time was good enough to land me in 9th place and 2nd in my age group.  And the best part of all that was having Ron proclaim my beard the "best beard in the race" when he handed me this ghoulish medal:

I usually don't mingle with clowns, but I'm making an exception for this guy.

singing the blue's cruise.

I've got blog posts withering on the vine.

I meant to report on my day at the Conestoga Trail Run (and address Kelly's accusations), had a commentary on the wonderfully inherent risks of getting lost at ultras and intended to provide a look back at September's mileage.  A beard vs. aerodynamics entry is way overdue.  There are other ideas rattling around in my sieve of a brain but I've got to let them go or at least set them aside to say a thing or two about the 2011 Blue's Cruise 50K.

Just gotta do it.

I'm actually going to do my best to keep my clumsy words out of the way and let some great pics from some great friends (thanks, Jo and Derek!) do most of the talking.

Speaking of Jo, there she is on the far right smiling away as usual.  This was the crew at the 6.5 mile aid station and they were fantastic.  On a pretty raw day thanks to the muddy, muddy course, cool temps and on-and-off rain, the volunteers at Blue's delivered warmth and encouragement at every stop.  The been-there-done-that wisdom of the Pagoda Pacers was evident at each aid station and much appreciated.

And speaking of warmth and "pretty raw", here's Derek doing, well, whatever it is he's doing.  I'm relieved to say that I didn't witness this spectacle first hand.  I did, however, get the jolt of adrenaline that Derek delivers each of the four or five times I crossed his path on the course as he leapfrogged from point to point, cheering on racers and photo documenting the day.

Derek snapped this pic of me just after I went past the 6.5 aid station.  He had his shirt on at this point, thank goodness.  I was still feeling good enough at this point to have run through the aid station without stopping and it seems I was fancying myself some kind of bird in flight.  Why I can't help but clown for a camera is a mystery worth investigating.

This is ultra-machine Kelly Agnew doing work.  We ran together for the first couple of miles and I forgot to ask him if his stopping to shed a layer and encouraging me to "keep going" was his way of actually telling me to "get lost".  Hmmm.  Maybe it's better that I didn't ask.  The next time I saw him, he was asking me if I was "ok".  And, then, he got right back to the task at hand and cranked out a sweet 5:24 on a track way muddier and hillier than my (once again) poor pre-race reporting would've suggested.

Don't let this photo of Gary and Carli fool you.  The course is about 95% trail, much of it sweet singletrack.  This shot was taken within the first 1/8 of a mile and other than a couple of road crossings and this same short stretch at the end, this was the last paved surface they needed to cover.  Congrats, you two!

Look at that grin.  You think Greg likes ultra running?  I'd say so.  This is another of the wonderful individuals that I met at Laurel Highlands and immediately felt like I'd known forever.  I look forward to spending more time together on the trail...the sooner the better.

Jeremiah caught me from behind coming down the first real climb on the course when my left arch was starting to punish me for punishing it in the stride-mangling mud of the first 1/3 of the course.  He said "you don't recognize me" and he was right.  The last time I'd seen him, he was sporting a full head of dreads that apparently have been shorn.  Jeremiah is the owner and head trainer of the CrossFit Collective in Lancaster.  Whatever he's doing, it's working.  He ran a sub 5:30.  Check out the Collective and maybe he can whip you into shape too (maybe I should consider that a note to self).

Jason is another Laurel blood brother and a face I always hope and expect to see at area races.  We spent some time together on Sunday at a point where we were both in grinding mode, just trying to push through to the finish.  If you haven't been there, trust me, those are bonding moments for sure.  That much more so when you endure them with an already kindred spirit.  Way to get it done, Jason!

I hadn't met Steve before, but knew him through Facebook if that qualifies as "knowing".  Can't imagine a better way to have made his acquaintance than by sharing a mile together on the trail.  He was chugging away and I wish my arch would've allowed me to spend a bit more time with him.  Conversation was easy and he shared stories of Leo Lutz, another Lancaster runner who appears to be known by everyone but whom I've never met despite our similar names and shared interests.  Steve is another of the 6 degrees that will eventually lead to me shaking Leo's hand.  I didn't see Steve later in the day, but, per the results, it looked like he was 1st Senior Male, clocking a 6:02:58 at age 65.  Yes, sixty five.  Awesome.

And, speaking of awesome, the one and only Randy Schultz crossed the line and, in the process, scored his second 50K finish in the last month!  I can only imagine the thrill of being escorted to the end by son Derek.  This is one proud papa who just so happens to be a papa that so, so many of us are proud to know.  If there's a bigger heart out there, I'll need visual evidence as proof.  Congratulations, Randy!  You truly are an inspiration.

Which brings me back to me.  There was a different kind of inspiration waiting for me.  Lindsay and the girls were kind and loving enough to brave less than ideal weather to see me make it to the end.  If only I had as much pep left at the finish as Piper Bea did when she came dashing my way with a celebratory hug and giggles...the best finisher's medal ever.

Shy Lily played coy and got bearded kisses in response.  More joy.

Shout outs too to my beautiful wife, Lindsay, for spending one of her extremely rare days off from work, class, clinicals and studying to wait and worry in the cold rain for me to finally drag myself to the finish many, many minutes after I'd told her to expect me.  We make sacrifices for each other, but, frankly, mine are minor in comparison to hers.  If there is such a thing as an angel, she just might be one.  Thank you.

Thanks also to the race directors and all of the volunteers for another incredible event.  There was pre-race buzz surrounding the Blue's as this was the first year that it would be a true full 31 mile loop around the lake.  Then with the wicked weather of this past month, there was some concern that the course wouldn't actually be ready.  Just two to three weeks ago, most of the trail was quite literally underwater.  Like 10-15 feet deep!   I'm amazed at how well the race came off with those challenges and tip my hat, thinking it way too weak a gesture on my part under the circumstances. 

To trail running friends, old and new, may it please be evident how much I cherish our shared adventures.  Even at low physical moments, I can't imagine wanting to be anywhere else.  I hope that I find ways over the years to at least partly repay the inspiration, kindness and positivity that you gift to me on every meeting.  It's been a great ride thus far and I'm so excited that the road, er, trail looks like it just goes on and on and on.

See you out there!

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.