Subject: Heartland 100 From: Joe Prusaitis Date: Fri, 18 Oct 2002 13:29:37 -0500 Heartland 100 Cassoday Kansas 12-13 Oct 2002 You can't see the mountains in Kansas, but you can feel them. The constant vicious wind creates an uphill climb for mile after endless mile, each one looking like the one before it. It's all about reference points. As long as I feel like I'm making progress, all is well. The names and mileage of each station was on a laminated card that I carried before the wind tore it from my hand. With the card, I could plan and pretend I knew where I was and how I was doing. But now, I just bend my head and keep climbing. Butch & I drive past our campsite and a country store to the KUS (Kansas Ultrarunners Society) race headquarters. We are in Cassoday, Kansas. Not many folks here right now. We check in, visit a few old friends, and then back to the truck for our drop bags. It's misting a little, but quite tolerable. Butch already has his bags pre-packed and only makes a few minor changes, while I have a bit to do still. They have 7 possible drop points on this course, in which you access all but the turn-around twice. I picked 5 of them that were 10 miles apart and I put pretty much the same thing in every bag. The lone exception is Ridgeline at 67 miles where I expect it will get dark on us. I put my night time gear here: warm clothes, big camelback, and my best lights. I put lights in all the other bags too, but the others are all just emergency spares. Don't plan on using them and hope I don't. Just being safe. My drop bags are canvas Sunmart bags. Everything inside is enclosed in large Ziploc freezer bags. One bag contains my meds, sugars, salts, Red Bull, Ensure, wipes, and Vaseline. Another bag contains shirts, pants, socks, and gloves. Another bag has shoes in it. Hot & cold weather togs. You never know! I usually take the bag of meds & toilet kit, but everything else is 'just in case'. Better looking at it then looking for it! Bags done, I haul them all in and drop them along the wall where they have left signs indicating each station. My bags are full and much larger than all the other tiny ones that are there. Like usual, I am over cautions with my drops. The room slowly fills until all 53 runners, their entourage, and race organizers are there. Randy tells us about the race, the course, and the people. Eric blesses the meal, wishes us well, then starts the food line. Drops done, belly full, people met, it's time to pitch our tent. The campsite is in a nice little community park right off the main road into town, just off the Interstate and near the train tracks. There are ten or more camping here for the night. The sun departs as we pitch and load the tent. Within an hour, the entire park is silent. Everyone slips silently off to bed no later than 8pm. It's a gorgeous night. Overcast with a bit of mist, but a light breeze blows strait through the open panels. I can hear the highway traffic hum by until a train passes through and screams out its high pitch whistle. I fall asleep easy but wake every so often as another train comes through. We wake early, tear down, load up, and leave quietly while the rest of the campers do the same. It's cooler than it was last night. A slight mist fills the air. We stop at KUS HQ so Butch can get his jacket from one of his drops. The start is another block down the road just across the railroad tracks. Everyone's in shorts, gloves, and jackets. My start setup is a lightweight camelback w/70ozs water, toilet kit, meds, jacket, gloves, and cowboy hat. Last minutes adjustments accompany nervous energy, and shuffling feet until finally, a leisurely start. There are 40 starters in the 100 mile race, another 13 in the 50 mile race. Our group separates from the pack well behind the leaders. I pull up with Bobby Keogh while Butch pushes ahead. I know enough to run my own race, and stay where I am, running very comfortably next to Bobby. We drift into conversation as the miles slip by and the overcast sky white's out the surrounding distances. I put away my jacket and gloves, the mist feeling wonderfully cool on my skin. Some of our compatriots stop at the first unmanned aid (4.6), but I have no need and continue on. Bobby and I pass Butch. He's having a problem with his quads. I am not surprised as he ran the Arkansas 100 just last week. He did this same double last year though and I expect he'll get past it. We talk and run and allow time to steal a few miles from us, enjoying the day in the manner we prefer best. I have a drop bag at Battle Creek (8.2) but have no needs and don't stop. The next section through the unmanned aid (12.6) rolls by uneventfully, except I finally have to stop for water and lose my friend Bobby. I get going after the top off and roll on down to Lapland (16.8) easily. I accept a sandwich from a fellow in Longhorn Burnt Orange. He's about to be real disappointed. Scott Demeree hooks up with us, but he's doing the 50 and pushes past at the first lull in conversation. I know the next unmanned aid (21.1) is there but I don't relaize I've passed it until I approach Teterville (24.5). The 50 mile leader passes me going back, and a few minutes later, Scott runs by. I have no need in Teterville, so I keep going. This is a main thoroughfare and fenced on both sides. There are no bushes, trees, or anything to hide behind. I notice all this when I realize its time, and I mean now. I try to keep going, to get past this section, but I can't wait. I step off the road into a ditch. Knees in my ears, boys near the ground, I commune with nature. That's when the Sergeant-Major goes by. What can I do? 'Morning', I say. The reply comes back with a glare, hard and quick, 'Bathroom is right back there!' 'Yea, guess I missed it'. Another goes bye before I can hide away and join the parade once again. Damn. That was bad timing, but I sure feel good now. I retrieve my pace and quickly catch the Sergeant-Major. I try again with a cheery 'Morning, how's it going?', but get no response. Ok, I'm out of here. I don't want to start racing anybody right now, so I just back off. The next turn is directly into the wind on a rugged and rocky road, strait away into the distance, rolling slightly uphill. I fight the wind for a short bit then back off and walk. My hat brim is blown down flat into my face. I move it aside once or twice, but then decide it's better right there protecting my face from the full force of the wind. Monica, the Washington boys, and a few others pass by, each of them running while I walk. I stop on a ridge and search behind me for Butch, but I can't find him. Damn, he must be hurt bad. I can see a long ways and he's not even close. For miles I continue like this, running only when the road occasionally bends out of the full brunt of the wind. Nobody and nothing for miles on end. There are swells in the land, but no trees, no large rocks, and no buildings. A green ocean of grass! I was told there were 6 houses visible along the course. I have seen a few but have not been counting. With my hat brim smashed into my face, it is difficult to see anything but road. The view is really pretty in every direction. The openness, the cleanliness, the colors in the sky. The constant wind slowly deafens me. The roar in my ears is forgotten. I have adapted to the silence of the loudness. Now I can hear myself think! Nothing more. Time passes. I kill it by ignoring it. I'm comfortable out here alone. It feels good to spend time with somebody I like. Texaco Hill (31.2) appears in front of me on the edge of a swell. My good friends Phil & Stacy Sheridan are there to greet me and offer me safe haven from the wind. I can see others inside their tent that I had no idea I was near. I'm enjoying the time alone and don't feel like company right now, so I thank them and keep going. I pass it by. This section from Texaco Hill to Ridge Line spends a lot of miles high on a ridge. There is no place to hide, no escape from the wind. The Kansas Mountains are large here, so I tuck my head and attempt a more forced march. The Washington boys tuck in with me for a mile and we try to talk, but most of our words are stolen by the wind and sent elsewhere. I don't feel like yelling, so we walk/run in near silence as the hum in our ears builds. They eventually pull ahead as I cannot hold their pace. Alone again, afloat at sea, my thoughts drift, taking me out of body, looking down on myself. The many ponds create a serene setting in the ripples of land. A horse races along a ridge nearby, dancing and playing. It's so peaceful and unassuming. The road twists a bit coming into Ridge Line (36.5). A group of runners leaving Ridge Line surprise me. My mindless ramble to this point brings me close to those in front of me, when I more expected those behind to catch me up. I have a drop bag here and decide to take my first major break. A complete sit down, feed, and visit. I swap old meds for new and put on a fresh shirt. I fluctuate on long or short sleeve for a minute, settling on short. I'm getting a tad cold now, but I'll be fine soon as I get moving again. I eat at cup of beans & meat, drink a can of Red Bull & Ensure, and exit as the Sergeant-Major comes in. The wind has turned cold, so I pull on my jacket and enjoy the long downhill. First chance I've had to stretch my legs in some time. Feels good but is way too short. Down and then up to a sharp left turn. A hundred flat yards to tree line and then a set of rolling hills for a bit. The cold wind is gone and I'm hot again, so pack the jacket away once again. The road has a carpet of grass about 2 feet wide on either side. Didn't even realize my feet hurt until now when they have some relief. The cows eat the grass, then dump on the road, and this fertilizer has grass in it. I enjoy the soft ride and resolve not to eat the grass. Crossing a ridge as I round a corner, I find myself within a large herd of cattle. They stop crazing and watch as I run between them. I weave through them while they stop grazing and watch. I understand they're docile animals but I don't feel the least bit comfortable as they are not the least bit intimidated or skittish as I pass through. On the contrary, they approach slowly while they watch me intently. The road rolls a bit, offering a few wonderful down-hills along with some twists & turns. Very nice. I'm liking this a lot, riding the waves. I can see a highway ahead and hear the hum of trucks through the wind. Here comes the leader, heading back the other way. Eric gives me a high five as he dances by. I cheer him on and he says something about the weather which I only half hear. He's gone quickly. I cross a dirt road bridge over an interstate. It feels so odd, so out of sync with each other. Matfield Green (42.5) is just ahead at the intersection. I don't have a drop bag here, but stop for a coke and gone again. I cross back over the highway on another dirt road within sight of the other one I just used. Odd configuration. Wonder what sort of politics required two dirt bridges within sight on each other crossing the same super highway. I would thing they should join on one side and cross it once. The thought of it occupies my thinking for the next few miles. Are all the country bridges crossing the interstate in Kansas, dirt? The road parallels the highway for a quarter mile. In reference to the highway traffic, I feel very slow plodding along at 25 minutes a mile. The road thankfully bends away from the highway. I appreciate that. Another bend leads to a climb up a steady rise in the road. Mark approaches and passes me from the other direction, in 2nd place. He appears to be running well within himself. I wish him well and then cross over the top. Someone far ahead appears to be walking. I set my sights on him and start running. It's Greg and he says he's done. He plans to stop at Lone Tree. We walk/run together while we visit and make our way to the large radar tower where we turn. A group is approaching going the other way. Sue Johnston, Bobby Keogh and a few others, followed by the Washington boys. Greg and I run in & out of some strong wind as we twist, turn, and drop down to Lone Tree (50.0). Eric and friends take care of us, topping water and telling jokes. I drink a Red Bull & Ensure and remove a shoe to check a hot spot on my right foot. The size of the blister shocks me. Looks like a cherry tomato stuffed down onto the end of my 2nd toe. I'm trying to figure what to do with it when I see good old Butch come cruising down the hill towards us, with the Sergeant-Major right behind him. I expected the Sergeant-Major, but Butch has come back from the dead. He must have really put it on to make up the gap. I'm impressed. I hide the ugly blister in a clean sock, stuff it back in my shoe and head back out. It'll have to wait. Nothing I can do for that ugliness 'til later. If Greg quits here, he'd be stuck for hours, so he's heading back to Matfield Green with Butch & I. He's not feeling well but he seems to be enjoying the run/walk that Butch and I have going, up and out of Lone Tree. I can't seem to keep running for very long. A sharp pain in my hip flexor raises its ugly head. This is new. Don't recall ever having a pain like this before. I can suffer the pain for 10 or 12 strides before it becomes too intense. Nothing to do about it now, so I keep on as best I can, running & walking. We seem to be making good time, as I don't allow myself to walk for long before I push out again. We pass a few folks coming in as we reach the radar tower. The wind is less of a problem now. If it doesn't change, we should have it at our backs for most of the return trip. We swap lies while we stutter run down the road, passing the rest of the field as they go past heading to the turn around point. Greg drops back on the next climb, walking in. I seem to be bonking but can't quite figure it out. I've been eating regular, drinking lots, salt every hour, sugar now and again. My bag of meds includes a few hard candies, Succeed sodium caps, Advil, a throat lozenge, and a Tum. I've been doing Succeed and an occasional candy up 'til now and ignoring the rest. I pop my first Advil to take some of the edge off. Sure hope it works. We slip into Matfield Green (57.4), ready for a break. I sit down and eat a sloppy Joe, my last solid meal! Leaving Matfield Green, we cross the highway again. Butch pulls up to apply some Desiten. I've had it in my gear all day: keeps all the important parts lubed and rash free. We get rolling again. Not terrible fast, but a descent stumbling run/walk through the rolling hills and back to the herd once again. They seem to be excited about Butch's bright red shirt. He has to shoo them away. We stay on the grass carpet where it exists. Butch tells me about a geode he found on his way out, but was too big to carry. So now we're both running along looking at rocks right up to the next turn. The large radar tower we passed back near the turn around is in on our left, back down the road a mile or so. It's on the same road and in line with where we're going to the right and uphill to Ridge Line (63.4). Its sundown and the colors in the sky are dazzling. Pastels shaped by wind blown clouds, a sinking sun, and a rising moon. It's flat out beautiful. What a show. We drop into chairs at Ridge Line behind a wind block. We each have a cup of beans with meat. This is where we both have our night gear: lights, clothes, and such. I trade the old camelback for the bigger Cloudwalker. It has more room for my gear. I might need the extra gloves, baclava, and long pants, so I drop them all inside. I change into my best long sleeve capilene shirt and then put on my jacket. I have my standard Red Bull and Ensure but can't get down all the beans. This is not good. If I can't eat, I'll begin the death spiral down to an even uglier bonk. I try again, but cannot eat. My sugars & salts are ok. I'm staying hydrated. Just need to eat. Could use something different: watermelon, avacado, pizza, or maybe another sloppy Joe! It's time to go. The sun drops out of sight and we leave just as it gets dark. The Sergeant-Major comes in as we get up and leave. We go without a light for a bit, enjoying the moonlight. A rancher stops and asks if we're ok. Curious I'm certain why two fellows are wondering around in the country after dark. He seems obviously concerned. The night sky is as pretty as the sunset. A crescent moon lights the clouds and even some of the road. The muted colors create a nice backdrop on the rolling hills. Butch turns on his light: a 4-LED job that works well. I turn on my 14-green-LED light and it lights up the road. Butch turns his off and puts it up. The truck light is good enough for the both of us. The wind has decreased and is also behind us now. This section is less of a struggle than it was on the way out. We make good time, rolling up the hills behind us as it gets darker and later. I can see a long ways from this spot but I can't tell how far I'm seeing. The lights just don't seem to get any closer after going a long time. It's so disorienting that I try not to focus on any point. There is no sense of accomplishment. I know the Sergeant-Major is not far behind. He must be running without lights. I can see forever and I see nothing. We see the lights of Texaco Hill (68.7) long before we get there. Phil and Stacy are wonderful hosts as we step into their tent and out of the cold. We sit in chairs covered with warm blankets while they top our water and feed us some hot ramen. As we step back into the cold, the Sergeant-Major arrives. The road twists and dives, and has a few good rollers in here before it starts a long rocky downhill. My legs are really starting to get stiff now. Our conversation dies out and we both struggle with the cold. Each section seems to be taking longer and longer, and this one is no exception. Eventually, we do find the stop sign and a major thoroughfare. The lights of Teterville (75.4) are within sight, but the undertow pulls us back while we paddle very slowly against the tide. It takes us awhile to actually get there. The wind is up again also, and I'd guess it never really left. Most likely, it was only at our back. We walk/run into a stiff, cold wind up to and in to the station. The volunteers are out of the wind inside their car, only getting out when we arrive. I need to eat and sit down to attempt it, but cannot get the broth to my lips. Each time I raise the cup, my hand shivers so bad that I spill it all over my gloves. I try a few times, only getting worse with each attempt. I'm worse now than I was when I came in. I take the Red Bull and Ensure from my drop bag and walk out trying to drink. Sergeant-Major arrives as we leave, with his light on. We walk out shaking, trying to get down the bits of food and drink we carry with us. Butch is doing ok, but I can't seem to manage. I'm getting real sleepy now, on top of every damn thing else that seems to be malfunctioning. A total system crash. Major units shutting down one by one, each stressing the other until I should collapse and crash. I have to keep moving. Butch is always 3 to 5 strides in front of me now, mentally pulling me along. I suggest many times that he go on and let me drag it in on my own. I feel bad that he's slowing down for me, when I know that he could and should just motor on in and wait in his warm truck. I can see he's getting so cold that his hands need to be rubbed together to get the circulation back. I attempt some minor math in my misfiring brain and resolve that we cannot get in under 24 hours at this pace. I tell him to go and he declines again. 'Sub-30 is ok with me', he says. 'We're doin fine'. I'm starting to feel pretty low about all this. If it was me alone, I'd be fine with it and just keep on going, however slow. But damn! I make myself start running again, but it doesn't last. There is nothing left. I'm just falling forward. I can hear foot steps behind us now and again, but see nothing. We stop at the unmanned aid (78.8) and I lay down in the road. Butch tops his water and grabs some pretzels, and then we go again. I slow down as the moon picks up speed sprinting towards the dark horizon. I study its path and watch each millimeter disappear as it falls towards Cassoday. And eventually we sneak into Lapland (83.1). They have a wind block up so we sit and try to eat again. I manage a quarter cup of ramen and drink a Bull & half Ensure. We slip out as the Sergeant-Major comes in, but he skips right through and passes us. I was wondering when he was gonna do that. About time. But our half stubble run/walk is faster than his and we pass him. The moon finally dives into the earth and leaves us in pitch black. Now Butch has his light on also. I can't seem to stay awake, nodding badly, I begin to drift from one side of the road to the other, much slower than I already was. I certainly don't need these extra miles. On and on, step after step, run a few, walk a few, repeat until brain-dead. The temperature has dropped into the 30s. I have on my baclava and gloves. The pack is empty and I'm wearing everything I brought except the pants. The pants! Hey, I'll have to sit down to put them on, and I dearly want to sit down. I stop and sit. Then I lay down. Butch comes rushing back, thinking something has happened to me. No, just weird logic. I pull the pants out and slip them on. Now, the pack really is empty. We come into Battle Creek (91.7) where I have my last drop bag. The one I skipped yesterday morning. We stop, sit, wrap ourselves in blankets, and attempt some food. Nothing doing for me. The Sergeant-Major comes in, sees us wrapped in blankets, and quickly moves on down the road. Good. I'm glad he has finally gone ahead for good. I'm getting the shakes again and have to go. I get up and Butch follows me out. I had 2 Red Bulls in my drop and take them both. I drop one in my pack and drink the other while walking out. In the darkness, the course becomes monotonous. Everything looks and feels the same, including my condition. Stumble, lurch, weave, run a few steps, and repeat. I'm nodding worse now than I was. I'm walking with my eyes closed, can't seem to run at all. Butch is freezing and my brain has abandoned my body. I keep shaking my head, my arms, trying to shake it. I find myself just short of walking off the side of the road into a creek and it scares me. I'd go hypothermic so quickly. Damn it but I gotta get going. It's cold. I ask butch to get my extra gloves out of my pack for me, but all he finds is a Red Bull in there. Why did I think I had extra gloves in there? Heck, that'll work better than gloves anyway. I slug the drink and take off. I get so mad about being so slow that I just start running. I last a bit longer now, walking less. I seem to be knocking myself awake, warming up, and getting it going again. Butch rides the wave, staying just 3 or 4 strides in front of me. He seems to know all the turns through here and there are a few, announcing each one in advance. He says the next road leading into Cassoday is short followed by an S-turn. We get on the road and it goes on forever. We begin to wonder if we missed the turn until we find the final unmanned aid (95.3). Butch stops for a moment and then we pick up again. On and on down the road. Butch is again beginning to wonder if we are off course again. He thinks we should have turned by now and he goes further and further ahead. Eventually, we find the stop sign and intersection. The turn on the long road that Butch though was a short road. It is the only time all day that I see him a bit flustered. Last thing you want to do at 99 miles is add a few more. We're both ready to be done, craving a warm truck and some sleep. The road turns soon enough to the left but once again we seem to go on longer than feels right. Our ability to register distance is gone, orientation trashed, sense of time ruined. Nothing makes much sense any longer. My systems are so trashed that I can't tell that Butch's are starting to go also. We find the next turn, another stop sign. We turn right on Washington Ave at the edge of town. A real street sign. Another turn at the next road, a paved road, and we're on the final stretch. 'That's it', Butch points out the lights a hundred yards ahead. We finish as inauspicious as we started. It is done. Takes 10 minutes to de-thaw the windshield before we can drive the truck. KUS HQ is only a block away and the roads are empty, so we get there quickly, slip in quietly, drop our bags on the floor, and asleep long before we got here. joe prusaitis jprusaitis@austin.rr.com 1 14:30:27 Eric Clifton M 44 NM 2 17:52:00 Mark Henderson M 42 TX 3 18:39:47 Sue Johnston F 36 VT 4 18:54:45 Dave Daly M 41 IL 5 19:02:10 Blair Zimmerman M 53 TX 6 19:51:47 Michael Bur M 37 MD 7 19:52:59 Raul Flores M 46 KS 8 20:11:55 Monica Scholz F 35 CAN 9 20:16:49 Tim Englund M 36 WA 9 20:16:49 David Lygre M 60 WA 11 20:25:20 Bobby Keogh M 53 NM 12 21:15:49 John Mark M 50 AZ 13 21:57:00 Kevin Guest M 34 MO 14 22:40:30 John Raney M 41 VA 15 22:50:41 Butch Allmon M 47 TX 15 22:50:41 Joe Prusaitis M 47 TX 17 24:06:14 Dallas Smith M 62 TN 18 24:44:58 Gary Dudney M 49 CA 19 25:52:54 John Bandur M 64 WA 20 27:30:07 Richard Smith M 57 FL 21 27:44:20 Louise Mason F 49 IL 22 27:54:11 Vincent Swendsen M 40 NJ 22 27:54:11 Bradley Youngblood M 38 TX 24 27:56:21 Mary Kashurba F 46 PA 25 28:10:45 Lee Norris M 54 TX 26 28:21:52 Bruce Hilton M 64 CAN 27 28:37:50 Evan Groutage M 53 TX 27 28:37:50 Christopher Luke M 40 TX 29 28:38:31 Peter Bennett M 27 TX 30 28:43:12 Yen Nguyen F 40 TX 31 28:45:45 Peggy Gaudet F 33 AZ 32 28:52:43 Ken Eielson M 54 CO 33 29:07:20 Stephanie Willingham F 50 CO 34 29:15:17 Angi McEwen F 34 IN