Kettle Moraine 100 Mile Endurance Run - June 3-4, 2006: Miracle on Highway 12 by Barbara Freedman Although in absolute terms my Kettle Moraine results may seem unremarkable (except for how wide of the target I was), this may be the race about which I feel most proud. Proud because it was--as two fellow runners put it when they saw me--a “lost cause” that somehow got found. Proud of the phenomenal support I received, almost without asking. Proud to stand up and face the “killers in the night” that are the Southern Wisconsin hills and to resist falling victim to. . . “the silent assassins hired by nature to humble even the meekest of mortal men.(1)” Proud to complete a race that often seems to end however it wants to — finished or not. I arrived in Whitewater on Friday afternoon and called Brent, who was to have been my pacer until his hamstring injury took him out. We had been in touch for the last several weeks and even though we wouldn’t be running together, he was my partner. Brent had encouraged me to hang around the General Store to meet the RDs, as well as any other runners who might want to share stories about the course. Timo was first and we had a wonderful chat. Then it was over to Jason who was handing out race packets. While standing in line, I noticed an older runner with a Hardrock t-shirt on. Within seconds Hans and I were locked in a bear hug and conversation about our mutual friend, Tyler Curiel, a well-known regular at Hardrock. Finally, at Timo’s suggestion, I headed down to the site where the race would start and finish, just to check it out. What an innocent little nook in the woods it seemed to be. Even with a 4:00 a.m. wakeup call the next morning, I felt rested and ready to go. I got my gear together, had breakfast, and headed over to La Grange with my drop bags. Other than meeting up with Brent at Nordic that night, I had no crew and no pacer, but I was completely reconciled to this and ready to roll. (“Pacer, schmacer,” Tyler had written. “You’ll do fine.”) Just after 6:00 a.m., the race began and we headed out to face the PUDS (pointless ups and downs) on a temperate, gentle morning. I quickly joined a small group of runners and eventually fell into pace with two of them, Lynn (he) and Sue (she). We ran the next 35 miles or so together at a comfortable but decent pace, zipping through the aid stations without much fuss. Blisters were an issue right from the start because the ground was saturated in several places and there was no avoiding the slop. With the sun at full tilt in a cloudless sky, the meadows supplied all the conditions that a blister could ever want, so we loaded up on Vaseline at every opportunity. We ran from Nordic to Tamarack to Bluff, Horseriders, and Emma Carlin in a steady rhythm, chatting along the way. Lynn told me a bit about his running life, and Sue patiently educated me about kettles and moraines. The course was a delightful mix of shaded trail--up and down, up and down, up and down-- open meadows, thick woods, and the much-loved piney groves. The technical sections with rocks, roots, and tiny switchbacks were not a major issue in the early part of the race, but eventually my feet found a way to hit just about every rock out there. We moved on to Antique Lane, Hwy. 67, County ZZ and finally Scuppernong. I took in as much of the beauty of the course as I could. The tall trees, purple and yellow wildflowers, groomed but soaking meadows, and pine chapels were all achingly beautiful. The smells were delicious. But above all, this was a race for the ears. I have never heard such a variety of bird songs as I did in this run. I was in another world, intoxicated with the splendor of their sound. By the end of the afternoon I was running well, but needed a bit more time at aid stations to attend to my blistering feet, so eventually I parted ways with Lynn and Sue. It was then that I started to focus on my 26-hour goal and meeting Brent at Nordic by 8:30 p.m.; I knew it was getting late. The difficulty of the course seemed to increase the closer I got to the Bluff aid station and the sun was definitely on the wane. Just as I approached Confusion Corner (in reality a place so perfectly marked that I referred to it as Clarity Connection) for the second time, a long strand attached to a tree root caught my foot and sent me sprawling to the ground in a classic spread ‘em. The only runner within earshot turned to check me out and seeing I was up and at it again, took off. No mechanical damage done, but I was really looking forward to reaching Bluff to get a bandage for the throbbing brush burn beneath my knee. I arrived just as the sun made its final exit, got some food, a bandage, and my flashlights and headed out again. It was then that the sad truth hit. My legs were strong, my head was just fine, I felt good, but I could not see. It hadn’t occurred to me that my headlamp and flashlights would perform so differently inside a wooded trail than on a dark road. Despite a yearning to run, I was reduced to a fast walk. As I started the long trek to Nordic, I realized that I would be hours late, and I would be doing it all by myself. Aside from the few runners coming towards me in the opposite direction as I was leaving the aid stations, there was . . . no one. Absolutely no one, until I reached the entrance to the next aid station. This was a brand new test for me and I was starting to relish it. Finally at 11:30 p.m., blisters threatening again, I landed at Nordic and into the chair Brent had set up for me. We had a quick chat and then got down to business: real food, surgery for my feet, a change of clothes. This was the longest stop I was to make at any aid station and we crammed a lot into those eleven minutes. Brent--the wonderful-- crewed the heck out of me, attending to every conceivable need with calm efficiency and speed. He’d brought the hard boiled eggs I’d asked for and gave me chicken soup. I kept on eating, desperate to satisfy my never-ending hunger and thirst. It may be burdensome to some, but I think of fueling as one of my greatest strengths in running ultras. Far from feeling the pain of cramps, nausea, or other forms of bonkiness, it seems I only have to contend with finding enough food and drink to keep the motor happily purring. On that score, I know how lucky I am. As for my feet, Brent decided we needed an expert and brought over none other than Ann Heaslett to take a look. Within seconds she was lancing my baby blister and taping my feet while I watched in awe. After a change of socks and shoes, things got much better south of my ankles. Finally it was time to get going, so Brent walked me out of the station onto the road and sent me into the night. Now I noticed just how much light the (few) oncoming runners’ headlamps were casting onto the trail as they ran by and I grasped how big the price would be for my weak lights. Black, black, black night loomed ahead. As I made my way, I figured I had about four more hours before the sky would start to lighten up a bit. So I pressed on as fast as I could, toes stubbing rocks at every opportunity. In the rockless sections, I had the sensation that the ground was falling beneath my feet, seemingly lower than I could gauge, and I constantly struggled to find it. But then other distractions arrived to take my mind off those things. How come a gaggle of young girls was out on the trail laughing and screaming at the top of their lungs as if in the midst of a frenzied sleepover? Coyotes, you say? It took me a long time to make that little connection. Then, a heavy rustle in the bushes near my feet and who knew what that was? It went on and on like that until I finally lost interest in thinking about it. I placed myself firmly amongst the other animals and headed to the next stop, hours away. Sometime around 4:00 a.m., I started to see runners again, presumably coming back from Rice Lake. One of them, Paul, stopped to ask about Hwy. 12 and I told him he was going in the wrong direction. He barely believed me, but after we asked a few of the other runners, he accepted the fact that he had been “wandering around in a maze” and was lost. Paul and I joined forces and started to pick up the pace oh-so-slightly; by 5:00 a.m. full light was restored. We arrived at Hwy. 12 and to the news that we “would never make the cutoff” on the return from Rice Lake. Oh. Yeah, the aid station co-captain calmly explained that even the best runners worked hard at making the return trip in two hours and our cutoff was 7:15 a.m., too tight to be executed by the likes of us. He explained that the terrain was a mix of rolling technical and flat, making it more like a three- hour trip. But in planning for the Kettle I never doubted I would see Rice Lake and I couldn’t imagine stopping here. Paul was even more determined; he called for me to join him right away, but when I lingered at the food table thinking about what to do, he quite rightly departed. After a few minutes, I knew that I would have to keep going, cutoff or not, three hours or not, hopeless or not. So I got back on the trail. At one point, I started to see a few returning runners who warned me about the cutoff at the lake. I nodded, fully aware that it wasn’t looking good. They looked at me knowingly and continued in the opposite direction realizing that, for them, it was a sure thing. As I got closer to the lake, another runner, Lynn (!) approached me and advised me to get a move on. I was shocked to see him because our paths had not crossed since our initial separation the day before. I asked about Sue and he told me she had dropped at 100km. As I approached Rice Lake, I thought I was in a dream. It was stunning, still, and clear, with tall reeds wrapped up in fog and sticking out of the water. The sun was spread out over everything and made the water glimmer gently. As I ran by, I saw a light-colored bird on a branch with its head pointed straight up at the sky singing a song of thrilling beauty. I was riveted; had to stop, look, and listen. I could barely tear myself away, but finally, I did. As I entered the Rice Lake aid station, I saw three people loading up their truck as they prepared to depart. I call out “21” and one of them took note of my number. A woman quickly gave me some food as I wheeled around for the return trip. Even though I knew the game was lost, I began to pick up the pace, at least until I hit the rocky section nearer to Hwy. 12. As I slowed down there, I came upon Lynn--again! I asked him why he was walking and he said he’d been mixed up about the last cutoff which he, too, was obviously going to miss. His daughter had joined him and we three trudged back to Hwy. 12, dejected. We crossed the highway and discussed our options. For one thing, if I were going to be thrown off the course, I still needed to get back to Nordic somehow. But just as we started exploring that option, the other co-captain, Laurie, responded to my previous comments, namely, that I was in fine form, had only slowed down overnight because I could not see, and I could do 15 miles anytime. She turned to me and asked, “Want to try?” Oh my, what emotions were churning inside. Here was the moment when all of my mental training came surging through, as my head warned me not to stop even though I had already reconciled myself to a 100 km finish and a return home by car. I said I could run 15 miles anytime, but that meant doing about four miles an hour over some winding, rocky sections and the PUDS. Could I? At this point my legs were “fresh” but fresh is a relative term at mile 85 knowing that the 100 km is already in the bag. I turned to Lynn, but he declined, saying he was done. Sue was there to pick him up and he had already crossed over to a post-race mood from which it is almost impossible to emerge. It was now about 8:00 a.m. Paul, who had made the cutoff at 7:14 a.m., had been running towards Nordic since that time. I paused for a second and told Laurie, “Come on.” We headed out so fast that I forgot to stock up on food and water, and although Laurie’s initial pace was do-able, I wondered how long I could keep it up without my precious fuel. She reminded me that we would probably find water at Duffin Road, mile 90.2. I finally got to see some of the sections that had given me so much grief in the dark. As Laurie picked up the pace, I stuck with her. She laughed and talked so cheerfully that I wanted to stay close, and except for the hills, I did. I kept fantasizing about Duffin and the promised water, without which, I knew that I would be done. After a few miles, I imagined I saw the water tank and eagerly asked, “Are we there, Laurie?” “Barb,” she replied patiently, “ we’re always there”, mistakenly thinking I was referring to Nordic. I dug deeper. We kept running and finally reached Duffin to find the water barrel still intact, but only just. Moments after I filled my bottles, Jason arrived to take down the station. He wished me well and we took off. Now that I was somewhat refreshed and knew that the last few station captains had been warned of our impending arrival, I started to push. Laurie was extremely encouraging, accelerating at just the right pace. We moved smoothly through the trees, luxuriating in the shady pine sections--a big relief from the new conditions of the day, which had turned hot and buggy. I kept running, despite a temporary dip in spirits in the meadows where the rising sun, mosquitoes, and mud attacked. But Laurie had a genius for setting targets and I eagerly chased them. We increased our speed and came bursting into Bluff, about a half hour before we were expected there. Strawberries and congrats all around and then we were off to Tamarack, where, announcing my number for the last time, I took more water and a final stash of brownies for the road. “Get going,” the captain urged several times. We had made excellent time and were almost guaranteed to beat the clock. The absolute deadline was noon and I had no choice but to make that. My energy started to increase even as I faced those doggone PUDS, over and over and over again. Once they were done, there was no stopping us and we picked it up to the point that Laurie took a dramatic spill, rolling over in the road. She, who had delivered perfect pacing, got up without missing a beat and continued. The scent of the barn was everywhere. We did a ten minute mile at 98 and another just about as fast as the finish line came into view. I pushed with a final sprint giving it everything I had, feeling great. Timo and the Nordic crew were there to welcome me, as were the two runners who had written me off as a “lost cause” near Rice Lake. Everyone was cheering and clapping, making me--the penultimate finisher in 29:21--feel like a star. Laurie and I plopped into our chairs while the volunteers, vigilant as ever, brought—what else?--more food and drinks. (A note about those spectacular volunteers: in addition to the usual fare, they offered me everything from fresh socks to batteries to a new flashlight. When I was hurt, the volunteers came running to fix it. When I was down, they cheered me on. When my running plan bombed, Kevin Setnes set me straight. Brent was as loyal and supportive a partner as I could hope for. And Laurie, well, she was the unexpected balm for my soul.) Timo came over with my kettle, plaque, and a pink Nalgene from Montrail. A roar went up from the tent as Paul crossed the line a few minutes later. Then that deep sense of satisfaction and bliss started to flow through my 100-mile body as I carted my gear to the car and went home. The surprise, the wonder, and yes, sense of pride about this race were all linked to the revelation that the 100 miler is no longer a fluke for me; always to be respected, but no longer feared. Moreover, I may just have what it takes to dare to dream that a faster run is out there for me another day. I’m already looking forward to it. (1)Jason Hodde, Race Report: Kettle Moraine 100 Mile Endurance Run, 1998.