Thirteen to Thirty-ish Miles

Running that XTERRA half marathon last October, I learned several things:  (1) I was really starting to enjoy trail running, (2) I should confirm that the safety pins holding my bib number on the front of my shorts are safely closed (you only need to be taught this once) and (3) my plan of not running any long races before the LT100 (so as to make my introduction to the ultra-running world all the more dramatic) was impractical and counter-productive. 

Initially, the thought of skipping the usual progression (half marathons, marathons, 50-K's, 50-milers, then 100's), and jumping straight to the 100-milers, strongly appealed to my -- some might say -- overdeveloped flair for dramatics (Incredulous Person upon hearing that I'm preparing for the LT100: "WHAT?!? You've never even run a marathon before?!?"  Me, casually, with feigned puzzlement, "Why, no, no I haven't. Should I?"), and of course, plainly exposed my -- some might also say -- overdeveloped ego and vanity. 

However, that XTERRA race last fall showed me that I could benefit from at least some race experience prior to the LT100 because a race environment is appreciably different from a training environment.  All the other runners, the nervous energy, the aid stations, the crowds, these are all major distractions that can take you out of your own groove and prevent you from running your own race.  And over the course of 100 miles, that could be disastrous, I've heard.  So, I abandoned my vain and dramatic approach, and decided to run a medium-distance race to get some more experience.  I wanted something longer than a marathon, so I chose the Golden Gate Dirty Thirty in Black Hawk, CO because the distance and terrain (~7,700' vertical gain) would make it a great training run.

To give myself something to shoot for during the Dirty Thirty, I set a challenging but achievable goal of seven hours.  Then, because I can be somewhat methodical (I've heard other adjectives used), I determined intermediate goal times for each aid station based on my overall seven-hour goal and my anticipated pace for each segment.  If I could stick close to each aid station goal time, I would hit the thirty-mile finish right at seven hours.  I figured this would be great practice for coming up with a "race plan" and seeing how well I can stick to it. 

On race day, I wrote the aid station goal times on my forearm with a sharpie, and off I went.  Early on in the race, I bumped into a buddy, Patrick Thiessen, and we ran together for a good while.  He's a good runner and had me at a pace slightly faster than I would have run by myself, so I reached the first aid station ahead of schedule.  I felt fine though, so I didn't mind being a little ahead.  About twelve miles in, I settled into my own planned pace, and Patrick ran on ahead.  Things were looking good.

This is when I first started congratulating myself for having such a great race plan, and executing it so well.  And, yes, for those thinking ahead, "pride doth come before the fall."

I reached the second aid station right on schedule, pausing only to pat my own back.  Continuing on at my planned pace, I cruised into aid stations three and four almost exactly on schedule.  Leaving the final aid station, with about seven miles to go, I mentally reconfirmed that my planned pace would bring me into the thirty-mile finish right at seven hours.  Everything was coming together perfectly.

Then... approaching 28.5 miles, according to my Garmin GPS watch, I came upon a volunteer course marshal who was directing the runners which way to go at a particular intersection.  He was standing next to a mileage sign confirming that we were at mile "28.5."  Pointing me in the right direction, he cheerfully said, "Looking Good!  Just under three miles to go!" 

It took a couple seconds for his words to register in my brain, but when they did, the word "three" hit me like a brick to the head.  According to my Garmin and his sign, I was at 28.5 miles, meaning I had one and a half miles to go to finish this Dirty Thirty.  Something was not right.  I slowed down and squawked, "What?!?"  He repeated himself in an even more encouraging tone, which in my growing confusion, I took to be sarcastic.  My brain whirled with the inconsistency between what I was hearing and seeing.  In a mental haze, I continued running on, trying to sort it out.  How could I have almost "three miles to go," when I thought I only had a mile and a half to go?  I considered the only logical possibilities:

• the volunteer was a sadistic liar;
• both my Garmin and the mileage marker were wrong, possibly intentionally, just to screw with me;
• the GPS satellites had strayed from their geosynchronous orbits, again, possibly intentionally, just to screw with me.

I spent a full three or four minutes seriously considering each of these possibilities before the truth hit me like a second brick to the head.  I had screwed up. The race, though called the Dirty Thirty, was not a thirty mile race at all.  It was a 50K race, that is, a 31.1 mile race (I guess the "Dirty Thirty-One Point One" didn't have the same poetic ring to it).  I admit I knew it was a 50K, but the lovely sing-song rhyme of the race's name made me forget this little tidbit of information, and thus I made my race plan based on thirty miles. 

Now I was in a bind.  I realized I had about 2.6 miles left to go, but in my perfect race plan I had only allotted myself enough time to run 1.5 miles.  I didn't want to give up on my seven-hour goal just yet, so in a bit of a panic, I tried to do some quick mental math to figure out what pace I would need to maintain to make it in time.  If you've ever tried to do mental math while panicking (and/or after 28 miles of running) you know that your arithmetical accuracy is going to suffer a little.  So, I was a bit skeptical when I concluded that, according to my frantic calculations, I needed to maintain a pace of 6.8 furlongs/cubit in order to finish in seven hours.  Somehow, even in my hazy brain, that seemed off.

Still, I knew that all but a quarter mile of the remaining course was downhill.  And I was feeling good on the downhills.  So, unable to calculate how fast I actually needed to go, I just switched off my brain, which was annoying me at this point anyway, and I just ran as fast as I could (which wasn't too fast) for the remaining 2.6 miles.  I hit the finish line (31.1 miles) at 6:54.

Lesson for me and other novice runners out there:  it turns out that, among the other important factors worth considering when preparing for a race, the actual distance is pretty significant.