Rocky Raccoon 50 Miler Feb 1 '03 - Mike Bouscaren I went to Huntsville, Texas for two reasons. This was Mickey Rollins' last year as race director and I had to meet him after reading about him on the ultra net. Too, RR is firstly remembered as a 100 mile event (this was the second year a 50 was added) and I wanted to observe the long distance runners. I hold them in reverential awe. At 72 the oldest runner said Friday night at the briefing and feed, "I ran one ten months ago and it was so hard I told myself I'd never try it again … but I forgot." In the lodge before the 100 started Saturday morning, someone remarked to us 50 milers without a hint of condescension, "So you're the folks who are going on the fun run." This is like the Stone Cat Ale 50: four 12½ mile loops. It's less hilly than PCT Mt. Hood, Catalina, Bull Run, and Halliburton, but not so fast as Garden State (r.i.p.). There are roots to contend with, but also stretches where you can run freely (almost half of it). We started at 6:30, half an hour after the 100 milers, needing flashlights for the first half hour. By then you're on a runnable jeep road, going out to a turnaround at the first aid station (3.4 miles). I asked how far to the next aid station and was told "3.7 miles." This was accurate for those running the 100, but not for us. After returning down the jeep road, then cutting back into the woods, I figured about 20 minutes more to the next stop for food and drink. 20 minutes passed, then 25, then 30: still no aid station. A root grabbed me and I crashed in a hard face plant, no damage, wondering when it would come along (the least distraction will make you pay). Then I remembered Joe Prusaitis (next year's RD) told me there was nearly a six mile stretch between stations at one point. This must be that section. A little squirrelly right left right left then down to the boardwalk crossing at the end of the lake. Serge Arbona, the lead 100 miler (they run an additional 7.5 mile out and back in their 5 loops) passed me, then in a bit I passed another 50 miler who asked me "How far do you think it is to the next aid station?" I thought about four minutes, and sure enough, there it was. It helps to have your bearings for pacing purposes, and now I felt more secure about the layout. The aid station volunteer said about 3.7 miles to the start/finish turnaround, which seemed a little long to me, as I was on a 2:20 loop pace objective and by that measure had about a half hour left to go. Coming back to the park access road, I marked the time from there to the turnaround and found it was about 13 minutes. I completed the first lap exactly at 2:20 and felt very good about my pacing work to that point. From my drop bag I put a bottle of Clip mix into my camelback, scarffed a few pb&j quarters and potatoes down, and headed out for lap number two. From my Stone Cat time and from what I'd read about RR's terrain I figured 10 to 10½ hours total would be a good objective. I kept a steady pace through the second lap, and found from the squirrelly part it was 45 minutes to the finish. I had time to figure out a faster transition there: drop bags were in front of the turnaround cone and the aid station table and on the first loop Mickey cautioned, "Be sure to go around the cone," which I did before going to the drop bag. But then you have to go back to the table, losing precious seconds. So the second time through I went straight for the drop bag (and another bottle of Clip), this bringing out a tssk of disapproval from Mickey (sitting comfortably there in a folding chair): "You have to go around the cone." I said, "NO, I had 2½ hours to figure out a faster transition and I'm going to the drop bag first." This caused much hilarity from Mickey and others who it seemed to me were astonished that I'd question the RD's directive. Many laughs on that one, then I went around the cone for lap three. It was warmer now and I let the heat get to me a bit. In the early morning it was 41 degrees but now closer to 70 and no breeze. After 1½ hours I had started taking one Succeed tab and one "vitamin i" hourly. The slog up the minor jeep trail grade to the aid station dragged me to walking. At the turnaround I saw Endurolytes and swallowed one for the first time, along with more pb&j and potatoes, which now tasted like fish to my altered palate. I thought this Endurolyte will give me a boost (psychological ploy ?). When I made it to the spillway I saw my pace had slowed by 15 minutes from that of the first two laps. Now the 10 hour mark looked like a stretch. The best entertainment for me was seeing the 100 milers go along. Each one was working out his/her plan, some walking, some paired up in a purposeful trot. I was thrilled to see Ann Trason. There goes Rolly Portelance (his 63rd 100 !) with no shirt and just a water bottle. One guy about 6'3" has the strangest shuffle, but he goes by me – looks like it works for him. I wonder on them all. So I finish the third lap with 7½ hours elapsed, but it was a 2:45 lap. I consider then dismiss the chance I can run the 4th in 2½ hours and thus make 10 hours. Whatever, I think; just keep going. From the start/finish to the next aid station I experience the low point that seems to come to me in the 35-42 mile range every time. Doubts creep in to visit my resolve: why are you doing this, this is so hard, maybe this isn't what you should be doing, maybe this will be your last one. Taunted by these doubts, I nevertheless know I will keep going and finish, no matter. I ask the aid station volunteer (thank you all very much for helping!) how far it was from the start to this point. "3.4 miles, right there on the sign." I then realize only 9 more to go. This is the moment you begin to forget the difficulty you're in, when you tell yourself, jeez, I've run 9 miles hundreds of times and it's not that much to do. It's the smell the barn syndrome. I go for the kill. So now we recall Red Spicer's immortal "I hammered down the trail, passing rocks and trees like they were standing still." So it seems when you're in that glorious zone where fatigue doesn't matter because the goal is now reachable and there's no reason to hold back. I repeated "Ubi bene, ibi patria" or, loosely, where you're happy, that is the place for you, as I had said aloud once to myself on each of the four laps. They say 100's are mostly mental while 50's are mostly physical, but forgive me if I inject a bit of the mental for my benefit in this 50. I can't remember the last time I took the pills, so I just take them again and say, just once more at 4 o'clock. I come to the squirrelly part and looking at my watch see just over 45 minutes to make 10½ hours - my new goal - and the hunt intensifies! I motor at the fullest speed not risking a fall, as falls are so enervating. Now once more across the boardwalk, looking in vain for just one slumbering alligator. Then left through the mud (damn!) instead of right on the dry as I had learned in prior laps. Stuff gets harder to remember even while aspirating to the fullest. Arriving at the last aid station I hurriedly pour a little water for the last stretch, but wait; there's Michelle Burr sitting in a chair, taking it all in. I want to tell I think she's gotten way too much advice from too many people after Vermont, but shoot , she already knows that and I'm kind of in a hurry so I let it go. This will take half an hour if I can go as fast as the first two laps and I have 33 minutes to break 10½ hours. I manage to run even the slight inclines I had walked on the third lap. Reaching the park access road, I see about 13 minutes to break the 10½ mark. You've been there, I bet, and it's great, the point where you're going full out and it's very uncomfortable but the thought of the win dominates all other thoughts and feelings because you want it bad and you don't care about anything else. In my mind I'm flying, while the seven year old girl out for a walk with her parents probably wonders why that man's face is so red if he's going so slow. But you don't care, you just badly want it and now you see the last stretch to the finish and you have two minutes or is it three or one no matter you just gut bust down the final 300 yards let their clock decide you say the only thing I have control over now is myself. People cheer encouragement as I cross under the banner, the wash of accomplishment overwhelming feelings of fatigue. There you go, bagged another 50, this one in 10:29:33 and middle of the pack, which for me is a good run. I returned to the motel, had dinner and a good sleep, got up for breakfast and back to the site by 6:15 to see 100 milers finish. I observed, drinking it in. Soon it was time to head for the airport. As I drove out the access road, I turned on the car lights, sort of a gaudy extinguishing of the beauty of the scenes I had witnessed in the dark, like the celebration by two runners of a "one sunrise 100." By the time I was in the Houston airport, it seemed such an odd, artificial place by contrast. Welcome back to the unreal world and ubi bene ibi patria to you, too. Like the aged runner, I also forgot. Remembering the satisfaction and importance of finishing, I had forgotten the every time low point you go through before coming out on the other side, full of resolve and uninhibited energy. Now I remember why it's so important we go through that stretch of pain and doubt: to prove to ourselves that we can recover, that we can affirmatively endure, to discover again that things will get better, that we can then finish with pride and gratitude. It's a win no matter your time because you hurt and you didn't quit, and that's the real beauty of ultrarunning (well, 50 miles, anyway). Rocky Raccoon is a good one. Thanks, Mickey!!