Javelina Jundred – “One Last Time” McDowell Mountain Park, Arizona November 4 - 5, 2006 by Mike Bouscaren - age 59 Soon after I introduce myself to Janet at Friday’s race briefing, she confides, “Do you know your shirt’s inside out?” I do: “This is my 2006 Vermont 100 shirt. I dnf’d there and won’t wear it right-side-up until I finish another 100 miler. Then I’ll be redeemed, and my shirt, too.” That night, I rest more than sleep, going over the game plan, and over again. I’ve put myself into a high stakes test - must execute and must finish under the thirty hour time limit. Two minutes before the 6 a.m. start on Saturday, I send my family telepathic greetings before closing the door on normal living. I’m wearing a clean shirt – Vermont lies stale and crumpled in my hotel room, waiting. The first two miles of desert track lead to a gradual rise, strewn with loose rocks. I’m chatting with Tom, who time-marks the end of the plateau, “I like to clock these landmarks, because later on the aid stations seem to get further apart.” I mark accordingly. The 15.3 mile loop has two aid stations at 5 mile intervals; closing the loop at the start/finish drop bag area, runners then reverse course ( now counter-clockwise ), again finding aid stations 5, then 10 miles out, before completing a full circuit. 117 runners carry high energy with big expectations - there’s a lot of talk in the first couple hours. I’m purposely back of the pack, where unknowing first timers sprinkle bad karma on their chances by saying, “I hope I can finish.” ( 71 of us will ). The first aid station comes into view, maybe a mile distant. It’s the same long look coming from the other direction, too – located on a ridge. I mark it at 1 hour 20 minutes, and the next at 1 and 20 also. The final third of the clockwise loop is a downhill coaster which takes 15 minutes less time than the first two sections. Aid station volunteers have good runner awareness, so it’s quick business to get in and out with a bite or two and something to drink. While the entire track is runnable, I conserve energy by walking most upgrades, and the rocky section. Clear sky and temperatures in the 80's combine with ground radiation to make mid-day conditions mildly oppressive. I wear gaiters to keep sand and pebbles out, change socks when my feet start to feel gritty, and push electrolytes and fluid. Six laps at four and a half hours each, will put me at 27 hours with 9.2 miles to go – ample cushion to put 101 miles inside of 30 hours, if I hold to the plan. In prior 100’s I’ve run early miles more freely, walking in from 65-70 miles and still making the time limits. At Vermont this year, going out too fast is part of the reason I dnf’d at 50 miles, burning energy I couldn’t find later in the day. This time I’m fixed into a more disciplined, slower pace I intend to keep throughout: Six evenly paced legs, further broken down into 19 pieces of 5.1 miles (roughly), leaving a walk option for the last 4.2 miles. Pam Reed offers valuable advice in her book, “The Extra Mile” - when going long, make the distance seem less intimidating by reducing objectives into smaller sections: “I’m just focusing on reaching the next aid station,” rather than “Jeez, I’m pretty gassed already and there’s still 55 miles to go.” Faster runners pass by me in both directions - without pace discipline, I might get lured into outrunning my capabilities, or become discouraged by their more advanced progress. When I get to the aid station at mile 35.7, people tell a faster pack, “You’ve already done 55 miles - it's a coast from here.” Later in the race I'm about 40 miles behind female winner Michelle Barton when she passes me. I can’t count how many times Karl Meltzer goes by me on his way to a 15:25 winning finish, but remind myself that his twice-as-fast pace is fine for him, but impossible for me. Near the end of the third lap the sun is down and the full moon’s rising. I’ve been looking forward to this, for the benefit of moderating temperatures, and for the experience of running under moonlight. I carry lights, but find running without them affords better overall visibility most of the time. Some runners slavishly sweep their lights in front of them - automatons. One guy tells me “The moon isn’t full,” with scientific authority – for all their differences, these running people who fill the desert tonight are my brothers and my sisters. Coming down into the rocky section about 11 p.m. I see dense sets of white blooming flowers on both sides of the trail – they were not here in my 3 prior passings – “Night blooming flowers emerging from cactus plants?” I wonder….Then again on the return trip up the hill, lovely flowered corridors seem to light my way under the full moon – I’m awestruck, inspired, and energized by the spectacle. ( later I research: “Queen of the Night;” or “Reina de la Noche” is what they are called – magnificent ! ) Once, I look up to admire the moon’s beauty, just as a shooting star trails down to the East, below the starry canopy above. I think, even the automatons and the scientists must notice this beauty, must find this exhilarating, as I do. Coyotes object to our being on their ground at night – different packs howl from dark distant places. I feel safe. Around 3 a.m. I’m holding my water bottle, now filled with hot soup to put warmth into my cold self, when I hear what first seems to be a rooster crowing – it’s a vocally talented coyote shadowing me maybe 30 yards distant, on the right. It sends clucks and yelps and gargled grrrs my way: “Hey, you there – get offa my turf!” it seems to say. The coyote follows me for half a mile, verbally asserting its territorial claim. I feel not quite 100% safe, but continue to go along with my business – I’m nearing mile 75 and hard wired to finish. I recall early morning training runs with my light - sometimes pointing it into the forest vegetation, I'd see a pair of animal eyes hiding there, watching me - a tangible reminder that for all we see, there's so much more that we don't - and we're often watched, more than we know. Running 100’s, reasons to drop out always come to me: sleepy, no energy, can’t eat, blisters; worst of all - what’s the point? This time I have rehearsed rebuttals to all my complaints, the most persuasive: “No matter how sorry you feel for yourself right now, you’ll be much sorrier after you drop – it will haunt you for days and weeks and months to come. Push on, you sorry bastard.” The point is, to be for a short while outside the pull of humanity, without parents, or attachments, or normal life patterns; it’s being suspended in time and space, where for a while the physical self is subordinate to the mind’s power, where distractions don’t distract, where you feel part of a consciousness larger than simply living. Running 100’s is a reach for immortality. I see a tarantula. Instinct suddenly grounds me in a distinctly physical survival reaction: Fight ? No, flight. I give her a wide berth, working the rock rubble just off the trail as she slowly goes about her hunt, no doubt warily keeping her many eyes on me - the smallish night predator startles a goliath - I regain composure, again locking into the trail, with a little more lift in my step. I’m in, then quickly out of the start/finish at 4:20 a.m. for the final 15.3 mile piece. Thirty hours will be close if I maintain the pace I’ve managed for the last 22 ½ hours. The first leg of the counter-clockwise lap is a gradual climb that I’ve walked twice before, and I walk it again: stay inside yourself, be patient – there’s time. I pass the aid station – no more pumpkin pie to savor - a bean burrito will do, and water in the camelback. As the moon moves lower to the horizon, in the East a faint orange glow paints thin streaks between earth and sky. Before sunrise and moonset, the scene darkens, and I must use my light to see. I think, in this cosmic contest to illuminate, celestial battlers lurk in their respective corners, defaulting to darkness. Long after I've gone back to Boston, and all the others to their native dwellings, these desert animals and these stratospheric orbs will continue their rounds, mindless that we were ever there to witness them. They say the dawn energizes an all-night runner: it’s true. My pace quickens with the rising sun, but also from looking at my watch - there’s little room for error. Now, I’m on pace, but must hold it. I think, “How foolish it would be to go this long and this far, only to miss the cut-off by scant minutes.” I run through the sloping rock-strewn path where I’ve only walked before, the blooming flowers gone, down toward the next aid station less than an hour distant. Must go, must. People coming up the slope in their last 9.2 mile loop offer encouragement, and I reciprocate – Javelina’s set-up facilitates a spirit of team effort. Two runners tell me I’m a half-hour from the next aid station ( mile 91.3 ) and that I can do it if I press on. Here comes Tom, then Catra and Xy: they make me a believer, more than I would be on my own. I realize I haven’t eaten for 3 hours – gotta feed the engine! At the start/finish turnaround I find orange slices and watermelon, good enough for the next three hours I figure, wheeling back out for the final 9.2 mile loop. Once more, one last passage through the rock strewn climb – it seems now so cruelly sadistic. I know it’s another test that I can pass, I want it so badly. I reach the plateau that Tom and I marked 27 hours ago, I will never be in this place again, I will remember it indelibly. Now, can I see the aid station on the ridge? Must work, force a weak loping jog down, then up and down again through desert corridors – where, where is it? I work, waiting for distance to pass under my feet; then I see it, not 10 minutes away. This time I'm directed to the right, down the Tonto trail, 4.2 miles to the finish. The aid station volunteer tells me I need to make 20 minute miles from here to clock under 30 hours. This I can do, mind tossing math around - even walking I can do it. Caution puts me into a shuffle, though - come too far, too long, to somehow miss it by a careless miscalculation. I think, I'm here to run, and run I will, to ensure the completion I have wanted so much, these past hours, and days, and yes months: ever since 6:30 p.m. last July 15th, when I stepped out of the Vermont 100 trail and into the rescue truck. In recent hours, shapes of desert objects have looked anomalous to me: brush collected along the trail as machinery; rocks of odd colors now squirrels scurrying; twisted cactus now motor vehicles. I approach a root structure looking like a desiccated aviator - closer, I see that someone has put an old leather flying helmet on it to enhance the image. Locals here are richly humorous - I'm not so delusional after all, yet I can tell by the images that I conjure, my mind's eye keeps a ready inventory of industrial shapes - superficially at least I'm an urban creature - too many years in the office, I guess. Now comes the final stretch - I've passed this way 7 times, clocking it to be sure: I can walk in from here inside of 20 minutes, and I have 40. I run - this is now celebratory; finally – the strong finish with my goal close in hand - I know nothing more gratifying. Over the road and the final rise to see the finish line - I put down my strongest stride and bravest face, to join myself with completion. I am whole again. "I can't believe it's over." - my exact words, coming from unpremeditated origins, I think somewhere near my heart. Thirty-eight years ago I stripped off my Yale football uniform in a Harvard visitor's locker room, knowing I would never again take the form of a middle linebacker. It didn't happen overnight, but I adjusted nicely to the change. Now, as I leave my 100 mile experiences behind me - finally - I know this is the right decision. Time has outrun me, as I knew it would. I wanted to end it with a win – to end it on my own terms, and I have done that. For this I am thankful, with memories that I will cherish for as long as I live.