With 29 miles completed and just two miles to go, my calves cramped with such force that I was thrown to the ground. Writhing in the dust of the trail, muscles locked shut, I screamed with pain and frustration. So near and yet so far . . . My day had started at 3 a.m. and preparation for the Bulldog Ultra went well. By the time Todd and Tiffany arrived to pick me up at 4:30 a.m. for the drive to Malibu, I was buzzing with excitement and apprehension. Six months of training were about to be put to the test.
There were plenty of nervous giggles on the way up, but predominantly we traveled in silence, each of us acclimatizing to the magnitude of the adventure we were committed to. "It's not too late to pull out," I joked. "Yes it is," came a unified reply from the front of the car. We were, clearly, in this together. It felt good to know we would journey our first ultra together.
All too soon we were gathered with a couple of hundred other 50k entrants, stretched, fueled, and lubed. I said a prayer of gratitude for the early morning mist that would keep us cool for the first 10 miles or so. After the first calf-crunching 7-mile climb, the trail broke through the marine layer. The view was spectacular, reminding me of trekking in the Himalayas, with numerous mini peaks jutting through the low cloud. Here, there were just a few hundred feet below the clouds, but it might as well have been several thousand. The trail was quiet, wildlife still waking.
A quad-busting decent took me back down to sea-level, and by the time I arrived at the half-way point at a little over fifteen miles, about three hours out from the start, I was ready for a major refueling stop. Fresh clothes, peanut butter and honey sandwich, fluids. I emerged from the aid station refreshed and ready for the real challenge of the second half.
First time around the two-loop course, I had run through the first aid station at four miles, chatting idly with other runners as we moved past. This time, temperatures now in the 90s, I stopped willingly. Ice was poured into my hat, freezing cold water sprayed on my body, my bottles refilled, and encouraging words thrown at me . . . "Just another 3 miles of unforgiving, calf-busting climbing to go!" they joked as three of us headed up the slope.
Although my legs had started to feel painful at about mile 22, making each step of the final descent uncomfortable, I kept taking in plenty of fluid and what I though was enough nutrients. As I came out of the last aid station with two miles to go, it was going to be hard, but not, seemingly impossible. And then it happened.
To be thrown to the ground by my own body was a new experience. And as I sat up to stretch my calves, my thighs cramped in response. I had never know cramps this intense, strong, or long lasting. When another runner stopped to praise open the muscles in my legs, I could see him sweating with the effort. As he pulled me to my feet, my body weight on my legs was enough to fire my calves into cramping again. For a moment, I thought the pain was going to be enough that I would soil myself. Right there on the trail in front of my fellow runners. This was going to be a day of many firsts!
That moment passed, thankfully, without becoming a first. But I was still just a mile and a half from the finish with not even the ability to crawl. I lay on my back and started to laugh. I started to think of all the stories I'd read in the last month of long distance runners in moments of bodily breakdown. Each one had survived by invoking the same ritual: focus on one step. Take just the next one step.
My running buddy Tiffany arrived up the trail and volunteered to gently massage my legs. When they cramped, I swore at her out of pain, imploring her to pull on my muscles harder to unlock them. Eventually, they stayed looser for several minutes. Another runner gave me some Endurotabs to swallow. After sitting for 15 minutes, I stood up. Ouch. Horribly painful yes. Throwing me to the ground. No. This was progress.
As I shuffled up the trail like a robot, wincing with each step, an EMT came running up the trail. "You guys seen a runner down? We have reports of a runner down." I think that's me. But I'm up, I'm OK. Behind him came the race director. I was getting the full experience.
She looked at me with concern. I could tell she was considering pulling me from the event. A little more than a mile to go and I was about to be pulled. "Who's running for President?" she asked. "Obama and McCain," I answered. "And who's going to win?" Obama of course. "Wrong answer!" she replied. And then laughed. "I don't think I can pull you for that though. OK, I want you to go in to the finish with these guys," she said pointing at a race volunteer who had been at the previous aid station.
I hobbled off the trail and into the last mile-long section of covered road that lead to the finish. On the flat, I was able to break into a slow run with Tiffany one one side and Deb, a longtime ultra runner at my side. When she heard this was my first ultra, she beamed. "Awesome! You're gonna make it, I promise you."
And I did. Eight and a half hours after starting, I cruised over the finish line, where my wife and daughter were waiting. Their homemade sign said, "Ultra dad. Ultra husband. Ultra marathoner." That moment was one of the sweetest in my 15 years of running.
Now Sheehan's quote had become more than inspirational. It had become a lived experience . . .
“If you want to win anything—a race, yourself, your life—you have to go a little berserk.”
