Date: Mon, 06 Apr 1998 20:05:40 -0400 (EDT) From: Joel Subject: Joel / Umstead 100 Mile account Umstead 100 Mile Endurance Run Raleigh, North Carolina Saturday, April 4, 1998, 6:00 a.m. Umstead is run completely within the confines of Umstead State Park, a surprisingly hilly locale that offers 12,000 feet of total elevation change over the course of the race. The terrain is packed dirt roads covered with gravel, and the rocks seemed to grow in size as the run progressed and feet swelled. Ten loops, including two turn-arounds and an out-and-back spur, may have obviated any real possibilty of getting lost as the race progressed, but the hills seemed to grow bigger and the gravel more confronational as each loop was checked off. The record field of over 125 runners was blessed by some great running weather: low 60's during the day, overcast with scattered showers, and nightime lows that bottomed out in the high 30's. This was my fourth Umstead. In the heat, in 1995 (DNF) and 1997 (27:14), I cursed the weather gods and suffered mightily. In 1996, the cool weather caressed my spirit and my body and I cruised to a 23:53 finish, even after taking a 90 minute nap out on the course during the run. One thing about Umstead that is a constant: the volunteers and the aid stations are super, and with the good weather this year I felt confident that I would have a good experience, no matter what the results would record as to my finish. The initial loops went well, as I cruised through each ten mile stretch in just over two hours, running and talking and stopping at the two aid stations to trade jokes with all the volunteers who made fun of my Nu-Yawk accent. My Air Skylon Triax's seemed to be the perfect shoe, for walking the steep uphills as well as putting miles in the bank with steady running on the downhills and flats. Occasional light rain and steady breezes kept me stable temperature wise, and when I hit fifty miles in 10:05 it seemed that my major problem was trying to choose between the five different flavors of PowerGels for carbohydrates and between pizza, hamburgers and grilled chicken breasts for my protein at each aid station stop. You know you're having a good day when you worry about putting on weight DURING a hundred. At sixty miles, I was met by my pacer, Ben Dillon, who surpised me by saying he would do forty miles with me, rather than the thirty miles we had agreed on before. I never look a gift horse in the mouth, so just before 6:30 we headed out on the seventh loop, and I was intent to stay on pace to give Ben the feel of some "real" running. Last year he had paced me from mile 90 to the finish, a horrible struggle that was all walking, and I did not want a repeat of that forced death march, so now I was fully hydrated and fueled and ready to run through the darkness. The half moon was unbelievably bright Saturday night. We rarely had to turn on our Petzl Zoom headlights; I even tripped once, transfixed as I was on the moonshadow from our bodies. Ben, never having run further than a marathon before, was apprehensive about his ability to do all four loops, but with the walking percentage increasing as we hit 80 and then 90 miles, he was steady, even after the pizza he scarfed down at 85 miles caused him to do a full-out sprint to the porta potty strategically placed mid-way between the two aid stations. By now, the rocks had pretty much turned my feet to hamburger, and the downhills were now walking sections for me, as my soles couldn't tolerate the pounding that running the inclines produced. I was still managing to run chunks of the flats and uphills; my quads, screaming from the fatigue that depletion produces, were allowing me to run, albeit slowly and painfully. Leaving the aid station for the last six miles to the finish, I was finally starting to feel a little sleepy, my eyelids begging to close, but I also could taste the end, so near, and the sleepiness and the pain seemed not so much to vanish as to be irrevelant. I sprinted up the final big hill, turned left for the downhill leading to finish area, and shouted "Number Seven, from Nu-Yawk, coming in to finish!" as I rounded the final bend on the road and saw the crowd under the tent. After I shouted a few war cries and gave Ben some sweaty hugs and took some congratulations, I thought I should ask the guy recording the results my time. It was 22:35, a scant five minutes away from the 22:30 goal time I told Ben I was shooting for before Umstead began; after almost an entire day and night of running, I had finished unbelievably close to my target time. Ten minutes later, my quads were so tight I had to walk out to the car backwards. But my legs weren't that important now; the smile on my face would last longer than the pain from my feet or my thighs. With Ben's help, I had once again surmounted the obstacles of distance and terrain, and as the chill of the evening finally got to me, I almost hated to have to leave the finish area and get into the car. No matter how many times you do it, it's always a miracle to finish a hundred miler, and I didn't want to leave the spot where the miracle actually came to be. Joel zuckerj@cortland.edu