"This bracelet makes me invincible to bugs."
I looked up at the young boy standing before me. He was pointing to a yellow plastic bracelet he was wearing on his left wrist. He was maybe 4 years old and was clearly enjoying my company. This was hard for me to imagine - I was around 25 miles into a night trail race in the Texas hill country and basically felt like death warmed over. It was the middle of the night and I can't imagine what I must have looked like (much less smelled like) at that moment. I asked him which bugs.
"All of them, pretty much. Scorpions, spiders, AND snakes." He was trying to put on his father's headlamp without much success. I helped him adjust the strap so it would fit snugly against his little head. His face lit up with a smile, ear to ear. This little trooper and his family were manning an aid station out in the Pedernales Falls State Park for a group of adventurous souls who were participating in a night race there. It was around 11:30pm yet he and his two slightly older (but no less enthusiastic) sisters seemed to have the boundless energy of young children up way past bedtime while noshing on candy and soft drinks. The same could not be said for me, however. I had just decided that my foray into this dark wilderness was over.
It turns out he was in charge of the Pringles potato chips, which I think meant he was the "quality control" supervisor. The little guy and his sisters kept my mind off of myself by sharing their thoughts about their favorite TV shows, light-up shoes, and how much they love sleeping in a tent. A few moments later their father came over and tapped me on the shoulder.
"The car's here. There are a bunch of you guys heading back so you might have to squeeze in. And remember we've all been there. You'll bounce back, I promise." I thanked him profusely for his help, patted his son on his head, and sulked over to the car, exhausted.
I had decided a couple of weeks prior to June 28th, 2014 that it might be a good idea (not to mention fun) to add a summer race to my calendar. I was coming off the great Miwok 100k finish and was looking to give myself something to train and work toward for the next several weeks. I came across some information about a series of night-time trail races put on by the Tejas Trails group down in the Texas hill country around Austin. This seemed like a perfect opportunity to try to stay sharp and run a race in one of my favorite parts of the state. Tejas Trails always puts on top-notch events so I knew I could count on a well-marked, well-organized event. They offered a 60k, 30k, and 10k option. I would opt for the 60k.
The drive down to the park was about 4 hours from my home so I set out with plenty of time to arrive at the park, set up, and hopefully even get a short nap in before the start. I arrived at Pedernales Falls State Park (PF) at around 4:30 in the afternoon, checked in at the organizers' tent and started to set out my gear. I was excited for the event but surprisingly relaxed. I felt prepared for the task at hand and was ready to get under way.
The "staging" area for the race was what is essentially the halfway point in the race I was participating in. Our course would be made up of an 18.4-mile loop (approximately 30k). Since I had chosen the 60k race, I would be running the loop twice. The race directors were setting the stage for the evening's festivities and a few folks were milling about, setting up campsites and preparing their gear. I unloaded my car and set up my table and chairs, selecting a strategic spot in the shade. (This would not matter later but for now it certainly made life more pleasant.) I had a couple of hours before the race began so I wandered back to my car to try and catch a short nap.
The "staging" area for the race was what is essentially the halfway point in the race I was participating in. Our course would be made up of an 18.4-mile loop (approximately 30k). Since I had chosen the 60k race, I would be running the loop twice. The race directors were setting the stage for the evening's festivities and a few folks were milling about, setting up campsites and preparing their gear. I unloaded my car and set up my table and chairs, selecting a strategic spot in the shade. (This would not matter later but for now it certainly made life more pleasant.) I had a couple of hours before the race began so I wandered back to my car to try and catch a short nap.
Try as I might I was not able to sleep. As more runners would roll into the starting area I couldn't help but get caught up in watching the buzz of activity around the race. I continued to hydrate as well. Temperatures were in the mid-90's with a heat index of almost 100. Needless to say, these types of conditions can make racing very difficult. The margin between racing hard and doing well and blowing up completely on a day like this is very thin. (I would soon find out how true this is.) I unpacked my team gear and dressed for the race. I took an opportunity to get a few short strides in on a dirt road adjacent to the staging area to settle my nerves. Soon it was 6:30 - time to head to the starting line.
The race began at 7pm. I was going to roll with 2 handhelds - a 16oz bottle and a 12oz bottle, both filled with water and electrolyte tabs. I felt great, my legs were light and loose, and I was itching to get going. Given that the race hadn't started yet and I was already sweating profusely I decided to leave my camera phone behind; besides, since most of this race would be run in the dark, there wasn't much point to trying to take pictures. I noticed a couple familiar faces at the starting line with me but no one that I would say I knew particularly well. I felt confident as the race director counted down to the start of the race. It looked like there were a couple of strong runners in the front, but it was going to be a long day, and I felt good.
 |
| Feeling good at the start line. |
At the sound of the horn at 7pm sharp, we were off. I settled into a comfortable pace behind the leaders. The first few miles were down a grassy and wooded stretch of trail that would open up into stunning views of endless tree-covered hills in every direction. One of the joys of trail running is the experience of being out in creation, in what may not always be pristine wilderness, but which is certainly a welcome escape from the "boxes" in which we so often find ourselves passing our days. The trail itself was a mix of technical rocks, long stretches of soft, runnable dirt, and occasional (but not too severe) hills and rollers. I didn't find it that difficult and the first few miles passed without incident. I was taking care to drink but the amount of water I had with me allowed me to bypass the first couple aid stations. I felt strong, relaxed, and very confident.
I was also drenched. I was soaked to the bone with sweat. I recognized early on that this could be an issue later in the race but given that I was drinking to thirst, that I had my electrolytes, and that the sun was quickly going down, I didn't worry too much. I maintained my pace, passed a few of the runners that had started out ahead of me, and noticed my heart rate had actually settled down even though I had picked up the pace. I passed the 9 mile mark in 1:09, right on schedule. I slowed briefly for a snack, downed some water, and trucked along.
Soon thereafter I came to a long stretch of a straight, undulating road that allowed me to see a couple of miles ahead. I noticed a familiar form cresting a hill about a mile and a half away - Sabrina Little, whom I was accustomed to seeing from behind after unsuccessfully giving chase at Grasslands a few months ago. I felt that if I gently increased my current pace I could catch up to her - if for no other reason than to offer a belated congratulations for her win at that race.
With the exception of a couple miles that I had run with Paul, someone I had met at Possum Kingdom, I was running this race largely alone. I rarely saw anyone else out there. Seeing Sabrina up ahead gave me a mental boost that powered me through the next 3-4 miles. When I finally caught up with her around mile 14 I offered my much-overdue congratulations. We had around 4 miles to go to get to the end of this first "loop" of the course and I enjoyed our conversation the rest of the way in. We were running relaxed and comfortable, exchanging stories, and even though the terrain got a little dicey as we navigated the river bottom stretch of the trail, we were making great time. As we entered the aid station at the halfway point I thought things could not be going any better. I made the turn in 2:49, 11 minutes ahead of schedule. I had a great running partner to help me stay on track. And although I had run harder than planned, I still felt that my goal was attainable.
They say that in Texas, if you don't like the weather, wait a minute. Things can change very quickly and in my case the good feelings I had upon entering the aid station at the halfway mark tuned out to be very short-lived. Sabrina had a crew awaiting her, and after a quick water bottle exchange, she was off. She had her race to run and is a tough competitor as well. In all my preparations, I managed to overlook having water bottles made and ready for this point in the race. I had to fill the bottles, add my electrolytes, and fumble around for something to eat. I was having some problems with the strap on my headlamp as well which served to only further aggravate and delay me. To top it off, all of a sudden I felt very weak, as if all my energy had been drained (like the air from a balloon). I made a brief bathroom stop to discover, much to my chagrin, that things were not the "proper color" (I will not go into detail here but suffice it to say that all systems were not functioning as they should). Despite my attempts to stay on top of it, I was dehydrated. After what seemed like an eternity I shuffled out of the aid station hopeful that I could regain my prior form and catch back up with Sabrina.
Try as I might, I could not seem to get "restarted". Each time I would start to run, I would get dizzy and have to slow down and walk again. I was beyond frustrated as the first couple of miles out of the aid station clocked by and my watch would display my pace per mile - 13:00, then 14:00.....at around 3 miles out of the aid station (mile 21 overall) the organizers had set out a water table with some gels and a couple chairs. I had to sit down for a minute and collect my thoughts. "OK," I assured myself. "One aid station at a time. I've been through this before. I'll feel better. Just keep shuffling." I stumbled off again into the inky blackness hopeful that a turnaround would come at any moment.
Sadly this was not to be. My pattern of hike/jog/dizzy/stop/repeat continued over the next couple miles. Yet I remained optimistic. I had never dropped out of a race before and I certainly wasn't going to do so after THIS distance. I repeated the mantra of the ultrarunner in my mind - Relentless Forward Progress. I needed to toughen up, dig deep, and keep moving. I glanced at my watch to check my heart rate. 120. Good. And as I looked up at the trail again, it became evident to me that this wasn't simply going to be a case of toughing it out. The trail seemed to darken from the edges, as if I was entering a tunnel. I assumed it must have been an issue with my headlamp but after a short stumble in my step and a moment to collect myself I realized this was not the case. I had a difficult time walking a straight line on the trail and was overtaken by exhaustion. My race day was done.
I had about a mile and a half of slow hiking to the next aid station. I expected to be overtaken by a number of other runners, but surprisingly, this was not the case. I was passed by my friend from earlier in the race Paul, whose stride and pace at mile 23 was no different from what it had been at mile 3. Steady and smooth. I was impressed and took note of his patience and discipline. (Paul ended up taking 5th overall.)
As I crested a small hill and looked down at the aid station I had no remorse for my decision not to continue. Had my issue been as simple as cramping, I would have waited it out and continued. In my condition I was not in the mental place to try and gut out a finish over the gnarly terrain in the darkness that awaited me over the next 11-12 miles. I stumbled in, sat down on a cooler, and took off my headlamp. Dave, the aid station director and head of the household running it, came over to offer me some food and drink. And a little boy came over to talk to me about bugs.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
And so ended my day at Pedernales Falls. I have always been acutely aware that when racing, one must always respect the distance. Whether a 5k, half marathon, marathon, or 100 miler, each race presents its own set of unique challenges. On this day, I chose to push the envelope harder than I should have given the environmental conditions. I could not keep up with my body's needs for food and fluids fast enough, and much like a car's engine that overheats when pushed too hard for too long, I gave out. I read once that until one DNF's they don't really know what their limits are. I am not sure I have answered that question yet but I am certainly aware of what led to my meltdown in a central Texas forest in the middle of the night. It has given me much to ponder, but in the end I am grateful that I was able to safely end my race on my terms and make it back to the starting line in one piece.
As an epilogue, I had the chance to speak for a few minutes with co-RD back in the "command center". I talked about my experiences on the trail and my unexpected departure from the race at mile 25. He asked if I picked up my medal. I was confused and asked why I would get a medal. I will always remember his response - "Man, you ran the 30k! AND the 10k! You deserve it. A lot of folks backed down to the 30k, it's nothing to be bummed about. You had a great race!" That kind of glass-is-half-full optimism is one of the reasons I love ultrarunning. No whining. Get over yourself. Look at the bright side. Learn from it, move on. When put in that light, I proudly picked up my 30k finisher's medal. I wasn't exactly hanging the "Mission Accomplished" banner on this race but, all in all, there was still a lot of good that could be taken from it.
Namely that there's a magical bracelet out there that keeps away all manner of bugs and snakes....
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I was also drenched. I was soaked to the bone with sweat. I recognized early on that this could be an issue later in the race but given that I was drinking to thirst, that I had my electrolytes, and that the sun was quickly going down, I didn't worry too much. I maintained my pace, passed a few of the runners that had started out ahead of me, and noticed my heart rate had actually settled down even though I had picked up the pace. I passed the 9 mile mark in 1:09, right on schedule. I slowed briefly for a snack, downed some water, and trucked along.
Soon thereafter I came to a long stretch of a straight, undulating road that allowed me to see a couple of miles ahead. I noticed a familiar form cresting a hill about a mile and a half away - Sabrina Little, whom I was accustomed to seeing from behind after unsuccessfully giving chase at Grasslands a few months ago. I felt that if I gently increased my current pace I could catch up to her - if for no other reason than to offer a belated congratulations for her win at that race.
 |
| A stretch of the trail ran along the rocks on the left along the river. (http://www.tpwd.state.tx.us/state-parks/pedernales-falls) |
With the exception of a couple miles that I had run with Paul, someone I had met at Possum Kingdom, I was running this race largely alone. I rarely saw anyone else out there. Seeing Sabrina up ahead gave me a mental boost that powered me through the next 3-4 miles. When I finally caught up with her around mile 14 I offered my much-overdue congratulations. We had around 4 miles to go to get to the end of this first "loop" of the course and I enjoyed our conversation the rest of the way in. We were running relaxed and comfortable, exchanging stories, and even though the terrain got a little dicey as we navigated the river bottom stretch of the trail, we were making great time. As we entered the aid station at the halfway point I thought things could not be going any better. I made the turn in 2:49, 11 minutes ahead of schedule. I had a great running partner to help me stay on track. And although I had run harder than planned, I still felt that my goal was attainable.
They say that in Texas, if you don't like the weather, wait a minute. Things can change very quickly and in my case the good feelings I had upon entering the aid station at the halfway mark tuned out to be very short-lived. Sabrina had a crew awaiting her, and after a quick water bottle exchange, she was off. She had her race to run and is a tough competitor as well. In all my preparations, I managed to overlook having water bottles made and ready for this point in the race. I had to fill the bottles, add my electrolytes, and fumble around for something to eat. I was having some problems with the strap on my headlamp as well which served to only further aggravate and delay me. To top it off, all of a sudden I felt very weak, as if all my energy had been drained (like the air from a balloon). I made a brief bathroom stop to discover, much to my chagrin, that things were not the "proper color" (I will not go into detail here but suffice it to say that all systems were not functioning as they should). Despite my attempts to stay on top of it, I was dehydrated. After what seemed like an eternity I shuffled out of the aid station hopeful that I could regain my prior form and catch back up with Sabrina.
Try as I might, I could not seem to get "restarted". Each time I would start to run, I would get dizzy and have to slow down and walk again. I was beyond frustrated as the first couple of miles out of the aid station clocked by and my watch would display my pace per mile - 13:00, then 14:00.....at around 3 miles out of the aid station (mile 21 overall) the organizers had set out a water table with some gels and a couple chairs. I had to sit down for a minute and collect my thoughts. "OK," I assured myself. "One aid station at a time. I've been through this before. I'll feel better. Just keep shuffling." I stumbled off again into the inky blackness hopeful that a turnaround would come at any moment.
Sadly this was not to be. My pattern of hike/jog/dizzy/stop/repeat continued over the next couple miles. Yet I remained optimistic. I had never dropped out of a race before and I certainly wasn't going to do so after THIS distance. I repeated the mantra of the ultrarunner in my mind - Relentless Forward Progress. I needed to toughen up, dig deep, and keep moving. I glanced at my watch to check my heart rate. 120. Good. And as I looked up at the trail again, it became evident to me that this wasn't simply going to be a case of toughing it out. The trail seemed to darken from the edges, as if I was entering a tunnel. I assumed it must have been an issue with my headlamp but after a short stumble in my step and a moment to collect myself I realized this was not the case. I had a difficult time walking a straight line on the trail and was overtaken by exhaustion. My race day was done.
I had about a mile and a half of slow hiking to the next aid station. I expected to be overtaken by a number of other runners, but surprisingly, this was not the case. I was passed by my friend from earlier in the race Paul, whose stride and pace at mile 23 was no different from what it had been at mile 3. Steady and smooth. I was impressed and took note of his patience and discipline. (Paul ended up taking 5th overall.)
As I crested a small hill and looked down at the aid station I had no remorse for my decision not to continue. Had my issue been as simple as cramping, I would have waited it out and continued. In my condition I was not in the mental place to try and gut out a finish over the gnarly terrain in the darkness that awaited me over the next 11-12 miles. I stumbled in, sat down on a cooler, and took off my headlamp. Dave, the aid station director and head of the household running it, came over to offer me some food and drink. And a little boy came over to talk to me about bugs.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
 |
| It happens, man. |
And so ended my day at Pedernales Falls. I have always been acutely aware that when racing, one must always respect the distance. Whether a 5k, half marathon, marathon, or 100 miler, each race presents its own set of unique challenges. On this day, I chose to push the envelope harder than I should have given the environmental conditions. I could not keep up with my body's needs for food and fluids fast enough, and much like a car's engine that overheats when pushed too hard for too long, I gave out. I read once that until one DNF's they don't really know what their limits are. I am not sure I have answered that question yet but I am certainly aware of what led to my meltdown in a central Texas forest in the middle of the night. It has given me much to ponder, but in the end I am grateful that I was able to safely end my race on my terms and make it back to the starting line in one piece.
As an epilogue, I had the chance to speak for a few minutes with co-RD back in the "command center". I talked about my experiences on the trail and my unexpected departure from the race at mile 25. He asked if I picked up my medal. I was confused and asked why I would get a medal. I will always remember his response - "Man, you ran the 30k! AND the 10k! You deserve it. A lot of folks backed down to the 30k, it's nothing to be bummed about. You had a great race!" That kind of glass-is-half-full optimism is one of the reasons I love ultrarunning. No whining. Get over yourself. Look at the bright side. Learn from it, move on. When put in that light, I proudly picked up my 30k finisher's medal. I wasn't exactly hanging the "Mission Accomplished" banner on this race but, all in all, there was still a lot of good that could be taken from it.
Namely that there's a magical bracelet out there that keeps away all manner of bugs and snakes....
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