Javelina recap

I don’t know when it occurred to me, really, to run a 100-mile race. It just kind of happened. It seemed like a challenge, maybe even fun.

A friend, Carilyn Johnson, has run several 24-hour races and ran on the U.S. national team at least year's World Championship race in Italy. In those 24-hour races, the winner is the person who goes the most miles, typically many more than 100 miles.

Last summer, I ran a 50-mile race with Carilyn's husband. After that race, we were sitting around talking and she persuaded me to run a 24-hour race with her. But a couple of weeks later, she said she couldn’t do that one but, why not run the 100-miler near Phoenix on Halloween?

Sure, I said. And I started training through the summer, running in the mornings and evenings as I committed to being in shape for the race on Oct. 31. Only thing is, as we approached race day, Carilyn backed out. Still, she promised she’d help out by being my coach on the race day.

But as I lined up at the starting line before sunrise on a cool, Arizona morning on Halloween, none of that really mattered. What did matter was I was about to do a 100-mile race, and I had little idea what to expect in the next 24 hours.

The race was the Javelina Jundred, which follows a 15.5-mile looped trail in the McDowell Regional Park just north of Scottsdale, Arizona.

And when the clock started at 6 a.m. on Oct. 31, all I knew was I felt nauseous, kinda dehydrated, sleepy and apprehensive in the pre-dawn darkness.

I had spent the night sleeping in my car, making several visits to the campground bathroom because of an upset stomach I’d had for a few days.

But once I started running, I didn’t feel too bad.

The uphill of the first 7 miles, the rollers on the next 1.5, and the downhills on the next 7 seemed pretty easy. When I walked the uphills, it was only because I had been told to do so to conserve energy. After the first loop, I figured if the first 15% of the race was any indication, running a 100 miler was going to be a piece of cake.

Needless to say, it was no cake.

After the first loop, the sun rose and quickly heated up the Arizona desert.
I later heard various temperature estimates, the highest putting it in the low 90s out on the trail. It was hot. Dry. My nausea and dehydration caught up with me and my perky pace quickly … slowed … to… a … walk.

However, I soon realized there was no real problem here.

I simply would jog/walk/run-when-I-could and finish the second lap. After 31 miles (a pretty good distance, if you ask me) I would just call it a day, blame it on my blahs and go get a nice lunch.

Problem is, I wasn’t there alone.

Get back out there

Carilyn, my coach for the day, wasn’t going to have any of my “oh well” attitude when I hit the 31-mile aid station.

“I guess I’m not up for a 100-miler,” I told her.

“Just sit down, take a break,” she said, ignoring my words. Then she went to work, getting me Gatorade, electrolyte capsules, Boost energy drink, cookies and more.

And, gradually, I felt better. But I still didn’t see how I was going to finish 100 miles.

“That’s not your goal,” she said. “Your goal is to do one loop at a time.”

“One loop at a time,” I repeated, emphasizing the “one” part. Heck, I could do one more loop, I figured. So I set out on my next 15 miles.

“You’ll be OK,” she told me. “You look pretty good.”

I didn’t realize it at the time, but sometimes coach/crew/pacers say things to try to encourage runners, things like, “You look pretty good.”

Actually, I didn’t look pretty good. Carilyn must’ve thought I looked horrible, or at least much worse than good. Unbeknownst to me, when I set out for the next loop, Carilyn followed behind for a ways, in case I passed out.


Remember the mantra

Of course, I didn’t pass out. For a few miles, I felt good, muttering “one loop at a time, one loop at a time” and continuing my shuffle run to my new mantra.

Until I hit another wall at mile 40.

That was at an aid station out on the trail, and I just stopped, sat down, and sipped water. For what seemed like hours (but was probably just five minutes). As I saw runners coming by, I announced, to none in particular, that I was through.

But once I had drunk and eaten enough to get going again, I had one goal in mind: get through just another loop. Or was it get done with this loop?

Oh no! I thought, I forgot the mantra.

“Just get done with one more loop?” I thought… that doesn’t sound right. “Run for 15 more miles?” That didn’t sound right either. Great, I thought, I forgot the mantra.

I looked around, saw all of these awesome trail ultrarunners passing by, and it hit me – I had no business being out here. I had to get out of this.

Then, the solution came to me. Just run 5 more miles, back to the starting area, and then offer to buy Carilyn a steak dinner! It was about 5 o’clock, and by the time I got back to the parking lot, cleaned up and changed, it would be suppertime!!

There’s no way Carilyn could resist a free steak dinner!

My plan was foolproof.

So about an hour later, I came strolling in to the race staging point, probably even looking a little proud now that I had discovered my way out.

I passed the time mat for the third time with a smile.

“I’m done!” I announced. “Let’s go get a steak!”

“Sit down,” Carilyn said. “Let’s see how you’re feeling. You’re still in this, you know. You’re not looking bad. And everyone else is coming unhinged.”

“I’m unhinged too!” I whined, sensing my way out slip beyond my grasp. “You don’t understand.”

She didn’t seem to hear me.

“The real race starts at midnight, when everyone is all wiped out,” she told me. “You just need to make it another couple of loops.”

“But … if the real race starts at midnight, why am I bothering with all this running now?”


Sunset and coyotes

My questions never seemed to get answers. Instead, they got me soup. And cookies, and Gatorade. Carilyn handed me some electrolyte pills, and before I knew it, I was pushed back to the trail.

I figured, OK, one loop. At a time. I was remembering the mantra again – one loop at a time. I started jogging, running a bit here and there. One loop at a time. I timed myself, trying to last 7 minutes before walking a minute. Then 8 minutes. Then 10 minutes.

Before long, I was at mile 50. I looked up, and the sun was low on the horizon. I didn’t feel overheated. I didn’t feel nauseous. In fact, I didn’t really feel tired. I had started to eat and drink on the hour, and was feeling OK.

So I picked up the pace. I ran faster because I felt better, though it didn’t hurt seeing a coyote a few feet away from me that I wanted to avoid.

Around mile 52, I caught up to a tall Californian who had picked up his pace. I asked him how he felt.

“Great,” he said.

“Me too,” I said. And as silly as it sounds, at that moment – with 48 miles to go – I knew I was going to finish. The pain, the nausea, the worry had left.

And I just ran.

That said, it might helped that Carilyn was allowed to pace me for some of the loops after mile 60.

As she ran with me, I just tried to hold the pace, running through the night, stopping at the aid stations, lingering a few minutes at the race headquarters (the 15 mile intervals) to refresh and then breaking for a few more minutes to visit with my brother who came by at midnight.

Then, with about 10 miles to go, I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly 4 in the morning. I knew I was within striking distance of breaking 24 hours and getting a “coveted” silver belt buckle.

That meant taking fewer breaks, only drinking some Gatorade and moving on. It meant putting up with some pain. Like at mile 98, when, in dark, I stumbled and kicked a rock that didn’t move.

I groaned -- a nearby runner asked, “Are you OK?”

“I can’t think about it,” I replied, though later I’d see that I’d lost my big toenail.

I just kept plodding, running with others at times, passing when I could, walking when I had to as the first rays of sunlight started to peek over the nearby desert mountain range.

Until the last half mile, and all of a sudden I felt good, striding harder and harder as I came up the sand to the parking lot to the finish line, watching as the seconds on the finish-line clock ticked … : “23:47:52.”

I threw my hands up, crossed the finish line … and headed to the showers and my sleeping my bag for a long-awaited nap.