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FLRC Newsletter - Aug 2003 |
| Finger Lakes Fifties ('04) or Bust! | |
You know it's too hot to run fifty miles when . . .
. . . The folks sitting under the finish line tarp are complaining about how hot they are
. . . Jack, Official Dog, opted to become Official Rug
. . . The bulls refused to give chase, despite being featured on the
2003 T-shirt
Like most runners I am superstitious, having developed my own series of pre-race rituals, carefully honed over the years, in an attempt to somehow gain control over an unpredictable outcome. Before this year's Finger Lakes 50's (25K, 50K or 50 miles), I was determined to eek out as much control as possible. For this was to be my year to tackle the 50 miler. My peanut butter cliff bar (male version to assure extra power) was at hand, ready to be consumed precisely one hour before the suggested start time, my shorts pockets and socks were stuffed with gel, Succeed tablets and peppermints . . .
But for special attempts like this, rituals extend over a period of several days and primarily involve seeking approval from the Nature I was about to invade. During my last run on the trails behind my house, I spotted a deer, saw a common yellowthroat for the first time and noticed an owl gliding directly overhead, his wings extended in a silent blessing. After a final consultation with Grandfather Tree, the patriarch of the forest, I was ready.
Good fortune continued to intercede as my husband, Jeff, and I arrived at Taughannock Falls State Park and our traditional camp site. It wasn't raining, there was an exquisite lunar moth serenely sunbathing on the restroom door, and we stumbled upon more-than-you-can eat Southern night at the Red Newt. After a trial run to make sure that the Finger Lakes National Forest was still there, we bedded down and actually got a good "night's" sleep. Since the Fifties begin at 6:30 AM, the definition of what constitutes "night" and "morning" is somewhat relative.
After the usual delayed start typical of trail races, where we good-naturedly waited for last-minute registrants, Race Director Joe Powers launched into some pre-race warnings that would have left road runners shaking their heads in disbelief. Because of the predicted high heat and humidity, we were treated to a complex discourse involving how much to pee, when to do it and where to do it, survival, not modesty, being the overriding consideration. From there, the conversation naturally turned to cows. Since the three-loop route takes us through several cow pastures, we were warned to close all gates. Joe instructed us in the proper method to shoo away pesky cows, basically telling us to wave our arms and "act like a farmer" so the cows would think they had to obey. On a final note of encouragement, we were issued bright red race Tshirts featuring an angry bull pawing at the ground. Feeling more like moving targets than runners, we began our journey.
The Finger Lakes Fifties is an ideal course on which to attempt a first ultra. It consists of one 15 + mile loop attacked either two or three times, with an additional 3.4 mile baby loop thrown in for the fifty milers. The runners are pampered with aid stations roughly every three to four miles. As you circle around, the volunteers become more and more like old friends, inquiring about your health and state of mind and automatically handing out your favorite snacks. Each station is unique, taking on the personality of the volunteers who man it. The first, situated at the bottom of a multi-tiered dirt road downhill, is conveniently located just before a series of steep, wooded uphills. They had the best selection, even well into the third loop, since most runners ignored the buffet the first time around. I spent part of my first loop mentally planning what I would grab the next time I passed by. Purely down-to-earth is the help yourself water and Gatorade stop at the end of an uphill road section, while most elaborate is the oasis-like tent set up near the swimming hole. Those well ahead of the cutoff time were tempted to take advantage of a cooling dip. Others, like me, who were barely squeaking by, had to content ourselves with hitching a ride on a hallucinatory camel.
The terrain is a mixture of rutted cow pastures, farm and forest trails, swamp and a few brief dirt road and asphalt stretches. Some are shaded. Some, unfortunately, are not. And this was my undoing. Using a vast store of accumulated knowledge gleaned from my previous ultra, last year's 50K, I was now properly armed for battle. I would pop a Succeed every hour, Gatorade at every aid station and water at all times in between. Last year I ran out of steam, eventually and embarrassingly being passed by women and small children. This year, I let my friends go ahead and stuck to my own pace. And wonder of wonders! I completed my first lap in 3:05, well ahead of my goal of 3:30.
The Weather Gods, however, were displeased with our June grumblings about torrential downpours, shoe-sucking mud monsters and an exploding red newt population. As high noon relentlessly approached, the yellow smiley-faced sun grinned broadly, winked an eye and stuck probing fingers through leafy peepholes. While we were cheered by the fact that we had already put in a full day's work, we still had miles to go. The absolute worst part was running into the sun on the steep road section. This stretch alone made me seriously doubt my impossible dream of running Death Valley. The only consolation was that I made it through the second loop without having to watch any of the aid station volunteers savoring their chicken dinners.
I spent the back part of the second loop trying to decide whether to forge on towards number three. A quick check of my watch, however, soon thudded me back to reality. Unless I could do two miles in fourteen minutes, something which I can't do even fully rested, I would be forced to join the ranks of 50K finishers. Still, the sound of the word, "finisher," has a nicer ring to it than "dropout," which might happen were I to continue. And along with the disappointment came a sense of relief. I could stop!
As I stumbled toward the Potomac Campsite, I was surprised to discover that I was still within the cutoff time. I had felt it foolish to set my stopwatch, with its connotations of speed, for a projected finish time somewhere in the twelve-hour range, so I had completely forgotten to take the delayed start time into account. It is a well-known fact that running in the sun makes you doubly stupid, so I just couldn't deal with choice. I desperately wanted someone to tell me what to do! My friend Diane Sherrer, sensing indecision, stepped into the breach. She cheerfully told me that if I stopped, I would have the women's masters award. Since I hadn't won anything last year, this seemed like a totally reasonable option. Plus, the fifty mile award, should I even last that long, featured a bear, while the 50K race stuck to the traditional cow theme. With a daughter in Farm Bureau, how could I turn down a cow?
And even if you weren't there, you know some of the rest of the story. After clean clothes and a well-deserved beer, I began to feel the first twinges of guilt. I lounged at the battleground while various people with cell phones and course maps tried to pinpoint the locations of those still in the fight. Only four survivors actually made it past the oasis and into their victory loop. It certainly didn't help my state of mind when Diane told me that had I continued, I would have been the first woman overall. Never mind that I would have been the only woman. Who would have to know? But where would I go from there? Being that I could never hope to repeat such a performance, the only logical destination would be a hundred mile journey. And that is one adventure I know I couldn't stay awake long enough to complete!
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