2012 Rocky Raccoon 100: Prologue

NYC marathon start over Verrazano Narrows Bridge

When I moved to New York in 2000, just a year after I had given up a 15-year smoking habit, I was one of a million spectators lining the city streets that fall, cheering on the marathon runners who headed to the finish at Tavern on the Green in Central Park. I was so taken as I watched each runner on their personal journey that I turned to Stéphane and declared that we would run the marathon the next year. I remember following my six-month training schedule with excruciating deference, voraciously consuming every book, article and video about running marathons. I tried to imagine and prepare for hitting the wall and overcoming it.  I had so many questions. What would it feel like? Would it be so bad that I would give up? Did I have what it took not to give up? Just around mile 25, as we exited the park and turned right onto Central Park South, I was suddenly overcome with emotion as I realized that we were about to complete a marathon! 26.2 miles. That feeling - a simultaneous mix of wonderment, disbelief, and reality hitting you - is so great. I still remember what it felt like. I can still see myself running along Central Park South, choked up, with tears welling in my eyes. 

Hagerstown, MD

I've been chasing that feeling ever since. Accomplishing something that you have been so committed to, that you have imagined for so long, that when you finally achieve what you were chasing after, you become involuntarily stripped of your inhibitions and are able to experience unfiltered, unselfconscious joy. I felt it again after I completed my first 50-mile race at JFK. Although I ran faster at my second JFK and I was really happy with my time, it wasn’t the same.

For a couple of years I have been imagining what it would be like to run 100 miles. When I finally signed up for the Rocky Raccoon a few months ago, there was some part of me that wasn't sure I could actually do it. The longest I've run in one stretch is 50 miles and I definitely didn't feel like I would want to run another 50 when I finished. So I've spent every waking moment, including the late-night moments lying in bed in the darkness, wondering. What will it feel like? Well, I know how I would feel for the first 20-mile loop. I will feel fresh, excited, happy. The 2nd 20-mile loop and possibly the third 20-mile loop should also feel fine. 60 miles is not that much more than 50 miles, and I've done that distance. But beyond that, I have no frame of reference for the type of fatigue and pain I might experience. Will I feel fine walking? Will I have trouble thinking? Will I be sick to my stomach? Will my hands and feet swell up? Will I be so sleepy that I can't continue?

I've read race reports, articles, and books to figure out what happens in the later stages of a 100 miler. Dean Karnazes described a temporary loss of vision around mile 80 in his first Western States 100. Another guy recounted that he had fallen asleep WHILE running.  When he woke up and looked down the trail, he wasn't sure if he was looking forward, or where he came from.  So he just picked a direction and started running again. Other people describe hallucinations of non-existent aid stations, runners, and animals. These seem like extreme experiences and I am guessing they won't happen to me. But I have heard of people losing their appetite and not being able to consume enough calories in the later stages to physically keep going. I've also heard of many people describing how they were cold and, in some cases, hypothermic, during the night, despite relatively warm temperatures. Others like the author Haruki Murakami, wrote that his feet swelled up so much that he changed to a shoe a half-size larger in the latter part of the race. When I've spoken to the few friends that have run one or several 100-mile races, invariably they tell me the same thing about miles 70-100: it is all mental effort. But what does that mean? I am determined, but what is my mental limit? Can I push past any physical fatigue or pain to continue? Am I able to mentally lift myself out of any dark moment when it comes? During my long training runs around Manhattan and New Jersey, I found myself embracing any discomfort, imagining that it was something I could play with, savor and try to control in preparation for the race. Too cold? Good. GI distress? Yes please. Headache? OK. Muscles tired? Bring it. 

Apart from trying to imagine how it will feel during every stage of the race, I've also spent hours strategically planning race gear, medical and nutrition. On my long runs, I experimented with various food sources to see what caused the least amount of GI distress.  I found that very slowly and completely chewing on a spam and cheese sandwich worked. Also drinking a Boost nutritional shake in small sips seemed safe.  And energy gels taken in small aliquots and diluted with a mouthful of water also worked. In case I still experience nausea, I'll carry some crystallized ginger candy to calm my stomach.

During my long runs I also discovered every single location (there are a lot of them) where I could possibly chafe. I wrote them all down on a piece of paper so that on race morning - long after the red welts and scabs have healed during the tapering phase - I wouldn't forget to apply a dab of vaseline to every one of those spots. I also tinkered with salt and water intake during my long runs, discovering that my main issue has consistently been lack of sufficient salt, which caused dehydration, swelling, blisters and muscle lactate formation. I practiced a relaxed running form, letting my hips swivel freely, keeping my shoulders down and my arms and hands up and close to the chest. I practiced mentally letting go of all goals of distance and time, and just being in the moment of the run. I practiced drawing energy from the environment and people around me to carry me along.

Rocky Raccoon dropbags and gear.

In between runs, I prepared gear lists, printed out air, car and hotel confirmations, an itinerary, a splits chart, maps to the state park, to the nearby Walmart for last-minute items and to the ever-important pre-race Olive Garden meal (ever since my first JFK 50 with no GI distress whatsoever, it has been a ritual I can't miss). I also prepared "Loop Bags," ziplok bags containing food and other things like socks, a flashlight or a handwarmer, for each loop. They are numbered. On the back side of the split chart are detailed instructions on what I need to do at the end of each loop, in case my mental faculties fade so much that I can't make decisions for myself. 

I have imagined and re-imagined all or portions of this race hundreds of times. I've imagined every nook and cranny, from my arrival in Houston, through Huntsville State Park, all the way to the recovery day on Sunday (watching the Superbowl?). I am now at a point where I am finished imagining. There is nothing left for me to explore mentally. 

Now all that is left is for me to put on my shoes and start running after that feeling.