Through Hail and Highwater

Race Deets:

Race: Playin' Possum 50k

Location: Delaware State Park, OH

Results: Nathan - 2nd (3:59), Steve - 63rd (6:44)

Of Note: Steve's first ultra foray, Nathan's first head-to-head 
with the O.W.

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Nathan's Thoughts:

Following Tim Noakes’s advice, I made sure to store some creative energy in the week leading up to the Playin’ Possum 50K in Delaware, OH. While this mainly consisted of watching Star Wars (and thinking about how Episode VII would blow away all other space operas if only Lupita Nyong’o was in it), daydreaming about running with one of my heroes contributed to the creative energy cupboard.

Now, I have a number of running heroes--you got your Yiannis Kouroses, your Meb Keflezighis--but there is only one I can run with. Let me be clear, that is not because I am as fast as he, but because we both happened to toe the line at Playin’ Possum. The reality was that I was able to run with the venerable Jay Smithberger for only about 40 minutes before he galloped out of sight. Trying to chase down the Ohio Wonder was about as much fun as splashing through the mud and sinkhole on the course, and that’s saying a lot because I really like a puddle-wonderful course.

Playin’ Possum started out like all of my favorite trail races--with the very best company of Steve and new friend Megan and little fanfare beyond a few wonderful words from the race directors Chad Heald and Mark Carroll. They reminded us that the race benefits Special Olympics and that the 10+ feet of extra water in the Delaware reservoir altered the course slightly. My knowledge of the course was vague at best, so that wasn’t an issue.

The team pre-race (sporting primary colors)

Running behind the O.W. was intimidating but educative as I learned what racing really meant. The long, meditative sections of the course along the levee wall afforded me glimpses of the O.W. off in the distance as hail came down, assuring me that my Polar Vortex training was indeed being put to use. (Seriously though, if you want to make safe (and boring) running decisions, do not share an apartment with your runningmate. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself doing track repeats at 9pm in subfreezing weather.)

More than any race I’d done previously, I felt like I left everything out on the course. Including my cookies. After hitting up the furthest aid station about halfway through the race, where the volunteers kindly warned me not to run into the deer skeleton on my way back, I aspirated a pretzel and tossed all my cookies, which strangely resembled energy gels. In case you were wondering, energy gels look scarily similar coming up as they do going down. After frantically making sure no one saw me throw up (I had already strategically ensured Jay was far enough ahead of me that he wouldn’t get an extra boost by seeing me in such a state, but the next few runners were somewhere close on my heels), I hightailed it to the next aid station to get some fuel.

Nathan close on the heels of the O.W. (but actually not that close)

I usually like to be a goofball going through aid stations. It’s not that difficult during muddy trail ultramarathons, as my rational mind goes out somewhere around five months prior to the start of the race, but by this point I was oscillating between worrying how I would run the next 13 or so miles and maintaining my tradition of telling dumb jokes to the volunteers as I pass through their little slice of heaven, complete with sour gummy worms. My first witness of long distance running was as an aid station volunteer at the Cleveland Marathon. I will never forget how ridiculous some of the top runners were, yelling angrily at us aid station volunteers as they slapped water cups out of our outstretched hands. While I now understand the lack of coordination that comes in the later stages of a tough race, that kind of pomposity has no place in distance races. From that moment, I promised myself I would never be so rude to the incredible people who give their weekend to feed, encourage, and entertain trail-weary runners. My answer to that ridiculousness is to cook up lame jokes as I near an aid station.

By the time I reached the last aid station, I found a bit of stoicism inside of me where the gels used to be (read: As hard as I tried, I couldn’t stomach any food and knew that the O.W. wasn’t losing any ground to me) and took off for the last 8½ mile loop. Jay had something like 5 minutes on me going into that last loop, and widened it to 11 minutes by the end.

The race directors are truly wizards, not only for their ability to throw in a much needed neck-deep sinkhole in a water crossing, but also for their foresight in giving us a layered course. There were many sections where you’d find yourself running toward other racers on the same trail. It was so encouraging and enjoyable to see and meet everyone and to be reminded how much more growing I have to do til I can even flirt with the idea of reaching the O.W.’s level of racing sense.

Megan looking jubilant en route to victory

At this point, even though I had finished the race with a PR, the best part had yet to occur. Megan finished barely minutes later, having passed some of the fast guys in that last loop. We went to the last aid station of the race, which was about 3 miles from the finish and was led by Dan Bellinger. Dan’s the man who opened up the doors of Ohio trail running to me. I’ve noticed in my first few years in the ultramarathoning world, that he leads the best damn aid stations in the business. He’s even made an appearance at the Barkley Marathons. He is a legend. Megan and I waited just a few moments before we saw Steve appear around a corner, bedraggled and hopping high off the impending finish to his first foray into the ultraworld. The only problem was that Steve did not yet know that he was hopping high at the prospect of getting a PR in his very first 50K. Back at the start/finish line aid station, Megan had taken the lead in convincing Steve to go on. I knew deep down that he was going to finish the thing, come hail and high water, but he made this joke about wanting to drop. I consider his rendition of the classic aid-station-dumb-joke gig the greatest form of flattery.

Here, though, was a trail weary Steve. Megan and I decided to pace him (with prior clearance from the race directors) for the last three miles. Nothing beats pacing your best friend. Except Jay Smithberger, of course.

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Steve's Thoughts:

It seems paradoxical to me that something could be incredibly painful yet at the same time immensely enjoyable. Nevertheless, this was my experience with my first ever ultramarathon. I have never done anything remotely as difficult as this weekend’s 50k, but I have also never enjoyed a race or the people I encountered while racing as much as I did this Saturday. It’s safe to say that I am hooked through and through, now a true ultramarathon convert - despite never having done a marathon of the regular, non-ultra variety - I guess it’s like Tony Stark said the first time he took his Iron Man prototype out for a test flight, “Sometimes you have to run 32.8 miles before you can walk 26.2.”

Okay, that might not be his exact wording, but I think it captures the sheer stupidity of Stark’s actual line quite well. What the hell is it supposed to mean anyway, “run before you can walk”? Walking builds the foundation necessary to run successfully. I imagine that in a very similar way completing a marathon builds a solid foundation upon which to attempt an ultra. But I guess that being as impulsive as Tony (though sadly not as wealthy or as smooth with the ladies), I decided to skip a rung on the distance running ladder and go straight for the 50k.

What can I say? Sometimes you’re out on a whiskey-fueled run with your roommate just before midnight on New Year’s Eve and you feel so alive and get so excited that you make stupid decisions. Sometimes those decisions involve signing up for an ultra-marathon as soon as you get home from said run. Then a few months come and go (much faster than you anticipated, and with considerably less training than you promised yourself back in January) and you actually have to run this bad decision called the Playin’ Possum 50k. Was I ready? Absolutely not. Do I regret my decision? My decimated muscles might protest with each step I force on them today, two days postbellum, but I can honestly answer that no, I don’t regret it.

The Possum was a great race put on by some very cool people, and I feel privileged to have been able to participate. I feel especially privileged to have been joined in this endeavor by two outstanding friends and athletes who totally rocked the course and made my own effort seem laughable - at least to myself - but apparently not to them. After coming in 2nd and 5th place overall (Megan was 1st for women), and both setting PR’s to boot, Nathan Szabados and Megan Rieger cheered me on and made me feel like my own virginal ultra-effort was heroic in its own right, which, considering my race, was another impressive accomplishment to add to their resumes for the day. I seriously can’t thank those two enough for their support and inspiration, and the same goes for the rest of the Szaba-clan who came down from Cleveland just to cheer us on.

That damn wall!

As for the race itself, about 20 miles in, coming off the mind-numbing monotony that was the dam levee wall, or “that damn wall”, as I thought of it at that moment, I felt anything but heroic. My race was not going well. The mud-luscious course, and a tricky cambered piece along the highway in particular, had done quite a number on my left ankle, which I had sprained a few weeks prior, and I could sense my impending demise. For the last 7-8 miles I had been struggling along at a pace somewhere south of slow, waging a war with my own consciousness and losing badly. There was a part of me, the competitor, that was determined to finish the race no matter what, but that part was being increasingly sidelined by the voice of reason, the voice that kept growing in volume and intensity and telling me that at the next aid station I could give up and drop out. That I had already gone farther today than I ever had before and to push on even further would jeopardize my bodily well-being. That if I tried to forge ahead through the muddy 8½ mile loop that remained (actually a 9.3 mile loop, although I was thankfully unaware of this at the time), my ankle would finally give out for sure and I’d be unable to do anything on it for weeks.

The competitor in me replied that it was only another 8½ miles: 4-and-a-quarter out, 4-and-a-quarter back. It was manageable, I could do this. This became the mantra running through my head like the drum beat on a rowing galley, my legs the oars, ceaselessly pumping the waves, obedient to the rhythm: 4-and-a-quarter, 4-and-a-quarter, 4-and-a-quarter. Several miles flowed smoothly (if slowly) by, until the words lost all meaning, and subsequently, all motivational power. This was when I hit the low point of my race.

I decided that when I dropped out at the next aid station, now mercifully only a few miles distant, I would consider it a success to have gotten that far. But the competitor in me didn’t see it that way, he saw only my failure, and just like that my emotions went spiralling down into disappointment and self-resentment. Like my mood, my energy level bottomed out, and I realized I was truly done. I slowed to a defeated walk for a bit, before deciding to salvage a shred of dignity by at least jogging the last bit to the aid station, before officially dropping out. By this point my “jog” was probably indiscernible from a walk anyway, but somehow, at least internally, it mattered. Yes, I was giving up, but I wanted to do it in such a way that I didn’t feel absolutely awful about myself.

Steve (his midi-chlorians unresponsive by this point)

That was my state of mind and body when I finally came in sight of the aid station at mile 23 and saw two energetic blurs jogging encouragingly towards me. They asked how I was doing and I remember mumbling something about being “in trouble” but I didn’t want to admit to them yet that I was quitting. They helped me get food and water and joked around a bit. I don’t recall what they said that lifted my spirits, but I do recall realizing a smile was back on my face, and the drum was once again beating in my chest: 4-and-a-quarter, 4-and-a-quarter, 4-and-a-quarter. And so, bolstered by two ibuprofen in my system and Megan’s graciously-offered but too-tight turquoise rain jacket hugging my torso, I was off again, thoughts of dropping out a distant memory, and 8½ miles of mud-luscious terrain waiting ahead: 4-and-a-quarter out, 4-and-a-quarter back.

I won’t say that final loop was easy, but I will say that once the ibuprofen kicked in my “jog” was once again recognizable as a legitimate form of motion, and when it started to hail (for the second time during the race) I may have chuckled to myself a bit, feeling warm and protected in that turquoise jacket’s embrace. And those last three miles? The final push where I was surprised by my two friends joining me for the run to the finish line? Well, those were pure joy.

I won’t pretend that I wasn’t disappointed by my finish time (6:44) but thanks to the awesome support of my friends and the incredible volunteers at each aid station, I finished my first 50k, and that is certainly not an accomplishment to scoff at. Will I be back next year to show this course that I’m tougher than before, smarter than before, and a helluva lot faster than before? You bet. But for now I am satisfied with what I’ve accomplished, grateful for those who helped me get there, and proud of the accomplishments of my friends. I am now body, mind, and soul an ultramarathoner, and am confident that I’ll remain one for the rest of my life. This sport is just too refreshing and too pure to turn away from once you’ve had a taste. And believe me: this weekend, I had a taste.