Crew: Cranky Runner, Endless Waiting

I had my first taste of the 100 mile life this past weekend.

Reminded me of mud.

With high hopes for blue skies (as forecast) with cool temperatures, I set off on Friday with Debbie, Jodi and Logan to act as pacer and crew for their first attempt at a 100 mile race.  When we didn't see dry pavement for nearly three hours, I knew I was in trouble.

We hit the bog known as base camp at 6:45 am or so, vainly scouting for a fairly dry, easy to access patch of land we could dump the enormous amount of equipment we had managed to fit into my car.  We settled for a less squishy spot of ground, set up the tent and threw the gear inside before the race got underway.

The very hungry caterpillar marks the tent as ours. 

The light drizzle promised to let up, and at first, things looked nice and cozy.

Deb enjoys a pre-race moment in the chair.

 Spirits high, I snagged a photo of everyone getting ready to start.

Logan, Debbie, Jodi & Steve - all smiles. For now.

The race director gives his announcements to the 70 or so runners waiting to start.  Tucked into his directions are some ominous words.

Did he just mention thigh-high mud? Why yes he did.

The racers set out to find out how the course was going to treat them. I head back to the tent to make sense of the gear that is everywhere.

The rain started to fall harder. I finally faced the truth that this weather wasn't going to get any better any time soon and fall in to the difficult task of keeping the tent relatively clean and comfortable.

We had enough supplies to last a couple of weeks!
The propane heater was a life saver.

Thankfully we had another friend who had driven down to help me get things set up.  Her husband fixed our rain fly and even found us a pallet to use to cross the growing puddles of water just outside the tent.  She drove me to find some hot coffee and brought me lunch.  I considered hopping in the back of their car and riding back to their warm, dry home.

The view outside our tent.

I fought off the urge and started the long wait.  About 10:15, Logan arrived in.  I had already prepped his food, and I anxiously asked how I could help. He was pretty self sufficient, hung around for awhile, and then set out again. And so I waited again.

Jodi and Debbie come in after the first loop.

Things were a bit more exciting when Debbie and Jodi came in.  I had their needs prepped, but there was a bit more shuffling around to do.  Their spirits were good. Before I knew it, they were off.

And so it went.  I tweeted.  I huddled over the propane heater.  I went in my car and heated up my seats, desperate to get warm. I tried to dry socks.  Wait, wait, wait.

Logan came back through.  Looking good. A bit more tired.  Jodi & Debbie passed again. A little crankier, a little hungrier.

At the start of lap two.

On Logan's third pass, he mentioned that his knee was acting up.  I tried to tape him, assess what might be going on. Checked on his nutrition, his hydration. He was doing well, but that knee was going to be a problem. I worried that his spirits were low, but I wasn't sure what to do. A veteran hundred miler suggested that he just get going, claiming "the aid station is poison". And so Logan head out down the trail again.

Not too long after, I received a huge text of food requests from Jodi and Debbie. I hauled out the campstove and used the pallet as a makeshift table.  We had a table in the car, but I was cold and tired and didn't want to mess with it. I fried up some quesadillas and heated some veggie broth.

Ghetto crewing.

After this pass through, they were getting down to business.  I cleaned up after their stop, rearranged gear and waited for Logan.  The aid station volunteers started a fire and heated up the grill, so things were getting more comfortable. The rain finally eased, and it was just cold and muddy, but standing by the fire, it wasn't too bad. I made friends with some of the folks hanging out to crew and help out at the aid station.  All the runners agreed - it was rough out there.

Comfortable and warm now, I get the text: "Can you pace on the next loop?"

Jodi needed a break.  Her knee was killing her.  So I headed out with Deb onto the nearly dark trail.  She wasn't feeling that well herself; her stomach was upset, and we tried to work out what was wrong so that we could fix it.

The trail quickly initiated me.  Deep, squishy, dark mud was everywhere.  As we climbed, we found spots where the mud covered your foot and could, if you stepped right, suck your shoe right off. We slipped; we slided.  It was fun for awhile, but I didn't think I would want to do this for a 100 miles.

Deb started to feel worse.  I suggested an S-Cap, even though I knew they haven't agreed with her in the past. I felt like she really needed to balance her electrolytes - she had been peeing a lot and had drank a ton of plain water.

S-Cap in - projectile vomiting out.

Not good.

But she felt better so we kept on trucking, focused on getting to the aid station at mile 4.5.

More puking.

She complained that the ground was moving and it looked like eggs pulsating.

This couldn't be good.

I wondered what protocol was for a runner in trouble.  Do you leave them on the trail and go for help?  Do you wait for another runner to come?  I had no business being out here, I thought. I didn't know what to do.  Humbling.

One foot in front of the other.  I kept her moving, hoping that it would pass.

She was throwing up bile.

I felt like crying.

Finally, after much worry and concern, we reach the aid station.

If you can't get this nausea under control, I told her, we can't go on.  Tough decision to make, but one I would make again.  She sat for awhile, eating a few ginger snaps.  Then some Heed.  Then a sandwich. She is feeling better. An hour and a half later, we head out on the trail.

Things go well for awhile.  I eat some pizza at the next aid station.  We are getting to know each other in a way that only the trail allows, and the miles keep passing.  We even run a bit, transforming the Elf song - "We're running! And singing! And running! And singing!"  But it was perhaps a bit too much, because the nausea comes back.  Six hours later we get back to the first aid station.

At this point, we know the race is over.  It is now just a question of how far.  Deb decides to wait for Logan, to give him some much needed support and her a chance to at least make 100k.

We wait again.  It is cold.  We are nearly in the fire, getting as close as we can without burning our shoes.  He is late.  Later.  When we finally see him cross the ridge, we are quiet.  It has been six hours since he left.  That can only mean one thing.

The knee has been too much.  He is finished, disappointed that it did not turn out better.

Jodi has decided she wants one more lap so that she can make 50 miles - any less and she gets her first DNF. Deb is ready to go out again, but she doesn't feel well.  We head out into the night.

We are quiet.  A bit down the trail, Deb turns to us and says, "Do you really think I should go?" The look on her face says it all. She is done. "I don't want to walk back alone."  We take her back, and then set back out on the trail to finish this thing.

The trail is even worse in places.  The first section, which is wickedly muddy, nearly claims my shoe.  But at the late (or is it early?) hour, it has become funny.  I start laughing.  Embracing the mud.  Our spirits lift, and soon we are moving along, chatting and getting to know each other better.

We cruise through the aid stations.  I deliver chocolate promised nearly nine hours prior to the ladies at the first aid station, who we got to know so well when Debbie felt so bad.

The light has come up, and it is an entirely new course to me.

In the daylight, I can see the beauty of the area.

Before we know it, we are heading over the last ridge - finish line in sight.  4 1/2 hours after we started, I fall behind and watch Jodi splash through every puddle on the way in, laughing and singing "Chariots of Fire".  It is a glorious finish to a tough day.

Hugs around, smiles, and tales fill our time around the campfire, enjoying a cold beer at 9:30 in the morning.  Fabulous friends Liz and Anna help us pack up, and Liz drives my car home so that I can get a bit of sleep.

Like so many adventures, the Lumberjack 100 turned out differently than we had all imagined. But in the end, the lessons learned were well worth the price of admission.