2014
Fear and Loathing at Virgil Crest
Like giving someone their first cigarette, I hate to advocate ultra running to anyone, but it works for me!
It had been a couple of weeks since crashing into a buried log, on what was formerly a trail through the swamps of Junius Ponds in western New York State, owned by the Pecks since the land grab of George Washington’s days. These swamps are bogs of peat moss like ground, struggling woodlands and thorny regrowth. I was out on a run with my son, a 2:25 marathoner. And, I was leading, as a reckless old man- eyes shielded, swinging at the brush, and scaring off wildlife, then ……swack….and down. Ouch! And, Umph! That really hurt. Taking inventory: No blood, and I am up, so nothing is broken. Calling upon just a tease of ultra attitude, I take comfort in knowing that this is just a bad patch, a good thing. But, yes that is going to hurt…for a while. Back home, I inspected what’s under those sweat pants, and there you go. A lump like a half lemon, on the right shin, begging for ice and elevation. A few days go by, and as expected, we are black and blue and a little yellow, down to the toes, warranting an xray according to my loved ones, which is a waste of time, just ask me. Of course, the xray was negative, nothing was broken. I told you, a waste of time. Unfortunately, the rest of the story is that the diagnosis is an underlying infection and to have an antibiotic IV and go home with pills.
That was out of the ordinary, but now it gets weird. The Virgil Crest 50 and 100 is only 5 days away. I am entered and very much looking forward to a weekend of reckless running, raving, and beer drinking with a bevy of like thinking ultra runners. So we will look away from getting a doctor’s ok for this one, as it is out of stock at this time. Oh, The Virgil Crest! In the mountains of Greek Peak Ski area in central New York the weather at Virgil Crest is reliably overcast or worse; and, the trails are a mix of beautiful tree lined single path, or ridiculously steep, traversing up and down the double diamonds of Greek Peak, all with a varying degree of muddiness. The Virgil Crest’s byline is “Virgil Crest ain’t for Sissies!”. The one ultra that you can sign up for the 50 and change to the 100 after half way- but no one has ever done that, it so hard, blah, blah, blah. Ha, ha, ha, could that be me?!
How long had it been? 5 years, or is it 6? About 50 ultras, and no DNFs. “Did Not Finishes”-Can you say that?! Not really a streak on the line, more of an addiction. An addiction worth keeping, like coffee, beer, and laying on the beach. I have been riding a ridiculous run of luck, fueled by boxes of gus, a disturbing quantity of beers, and the camaraderie of ultra friends, driving the body and mind to the Edge with desperate runs that are more mythical than real. The “Edge”...as Hunter S. Thompson would write, “There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over”. Like searching for America in a pink convertible Cadillac on the road to Las Vegas, seeking the good life at the edge of the world, and never quite getting there. Just a pile of spirited journeys to the edge, that we call ultrarunning.
At least I am rested! No miles this week, except for that 50k race last weekend. The bad leg is almost as small as the good leg thanks to rest and time invested in elevation and an electric heating pad. And, it does not hurt a bit to walk or trot. This might work.
I am up with the rest of the Ultra Pros at 4AM. After everyone else has scampered off to the imminent 5AM start, I am taking my ritual turn at the now empty port a pots. Off they go. Treating myself to the privileged dead last starting position, I am with some of the royal running clan who are also experienced in such matters. In a few minutes, I find myself alongside Dean Johnson, who is unconcerned that his light is not working in the black predawn, haunted woods of Virgil Crest. I share my light with Dean for the first miles. Like me, Dean has an inexcusable bounty of cold beers for the end, if not sooner.
Things are going well, I am going easy. I am behind my peers, as is often my habit. It is very steep, no one gets it done without poles today. The forecast is for 100% chance of epic cold rain coming later today. Mud, wind, cold; this is going to be great, almost perfect. I mean it could be better, there could be hail, and bears, but this is close enough to still be weird. It is not daylight yet, but I am already doing the math….. Let’s see, how about 50 miles in 10 hours, decide on the 100 or not as the day develops? That’s a plan.
About 2 hours in, nearing about mile 8, just before we break out of a stretch of haunted woods, I am getting a tightness in that bad leg. Ouch, ouch, ouch, creeping in with each step. Hidden under those ridiculous compression socks, there lies my enemy. That no good injury. The leg is barking now.
Ok, here is a nice, longish, downhill; a runnable road. It is a smooth downhill, and I am good at this, maybe I will be lucky. I hit that full of myself, loving life, and flying.
But the barking is biting now. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Each step is a limp. About a half mile from mile 10, Aid Station number 2, I am limping bad. There is something the matter. The right toes, foot, and leg, are all misbehaving. I look at the leg, it has grown. This is so inconvenient. I stop at the aid station, and the innocent angels ask, “What can I get for you?”, “Heed, water, gus?”, “Fill your water bottle?”. They are so sweet, and I thank them all. Thanks is never good enough, but I take comfort in knowing that they are all likely going to heaven.
As is my tradition, I elect to sit in a chair. I love sitting in chairs at aid stations, a Pro move. This time I suspiciously prop my leg up high, very high; and, take a closer look under that compression sock. Disturbingly too big, too red, and too stiff. Oh, the looks, the horror! Explanations are not plausible, but it is safe here, and I am not shaken. I am not outcast and I am offered rides. These are very nice people, they mean no harm.
This is just beyond the edge and weird. My run is doomed. I pull up the sock, and change the subject while I think this one through. I go about working the aid station, cheering on the ultra royalty, today’s heroes. Go Anna, Chris, Dean, Eva, Jeff, Jim, Kristin, Mike, Lori, Steve, Scott! It is their day, I am proud of each one of them.
I take the ride back to the showers, the pills, the elevating of the leg, the electric heating pad, the beer, and watched the pouring and driving rain outside…..…..and stopped feeling sorry for myself!
I am so much better than this! I come back to reality, get my head together and weighed my chances of getting back to the edge. Like a Pro, I do the math….. Do I have time to go back to the 10 mile aid station and still make the 100 mile cutoff?
Fear and Loathing at Virgil Crest
Like giving someone their first cigarette, I hate to advocate ultra running to anyone, but it works for me!
It had been a couple of weeks since crashing into a buried log, on what was formerly a trail through the swamps of Junius Ponds in western New York State, owned by the Pecks since the land grab of George Washington’s days. These swamps are bogs of peat moss like ground, struggling woodlands and thorny regrowth. I was out on a run with my son, a 2:25 marathoner. And, I was leading, as a reckless old man- eyes shielded, swinging at the brush, and scaring off wildlife, then ……swack….and down. Ouch! And, Umph! That really hurt. Taking inventory: No blood, and I am up, so nothing is broken. Calling upon just a tease of ultra attitude, I take comfort in knowing that this is just a bad patch, a good thing. But, yes that is going to hurt…for a while. Back home, I inspected what’s under those sweat pants, and there you go. A lump like a half lemon, on the right shin, begging for ice and elevation. A few days go by, and as expected, we are black and blue and a little yellow, down to the toes, warranting an xray according to my loved ones, which is a waste of time, just ask me. Of course, the xray was negative, nothing was broken. I told you, a waste of time. Unfortunately, the rest of the story is that the diagnosis is an underlying infection and to have an antibiotic IV and go home with pills.
That was out of the ordinary, but now it gets weird. The Virgil Crest 50 and 100 is only 5 days away. I am entered and very much looking forward to a weekend of reckless running, raving, and beer drinking with a bevy of like thinking ultra runners. So we will look away from getting a doctor’s ok for this one, as it is out of stock at this time. Oh, The Virgil Crest! In the mountains of Greek Peak Ski area in central New York the weather at Virgil Crest is reliably overcast or worse; and, the trails are a mix of beautiful tree lined single path, or ridiculously steep, traversing up and down the double diamonds of Greek Peak, all with a varying degree of muddiness. The Virgil Crest’s byline is “Virgil Crest ain’t for Sissies!”. The one ultra that you can sign up for the 50 and change to the 100 after half way- but no one has ever done that, it so hard, blah, blah, blah. Ha, ha, ha, could that be me?!
How long had it been? 5 years, or is it 6? About 50 ultras, and no DNFs. “Did Not Finishes”-Can you say that?! Not really a streak on the line, more of an addiction. An addiction worth keeping, like coffee, beer, and laying on the beach. I have been riding a ridiculous run of luck, fueled by boxes of gus, a disturbing quantity of beers, and the camaraderie of ultra friends, driving the body and mind to the Edge with desperate runs that are more mythical than real. The “Edge”...as Hunter S. Thompson would write, “There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over”. Like searching for America in a pink convertible Cadillac on the road to Las Vegas, seeking the good life at the edge of the world, and never quite getting there. Just a pile of spirited journeys to the edge, that we call ultrarunning.
At least I am rested! No miles this week, except for that 50k race last weekend. The bad leg is almost as small as the good leg thanks to rest and time invested in elevation and an electric heating pad. And, it does not hurt a bit to walk or trot. This might work.
I am up with the rest of the Ultra Pros at 4AM. After everyone else has scampered off to the imminent 5AM start, I am taking my ritual turn at the now empty port a pots. Off they go. Treating myself to the privileged dead last starting position, I am with some of the royal running clan who are also experienced in such matters. In a few minutes, I find myself alongside Dean Johnson, who is unconcerned that his light is not working in the black predawn, haunted woods of Virgil Crest. I share my light with Dean for the first miles. Like me, Dean has an inexcusable bounty of cold beers for the end, if not sooner.
Things are going well, I am going easy. I am behind my peers, as is often my habit. It is very steep, no one gets it done without poles today. The forecast is for 100% chance of epic cold rain coming later today. Mud, wind, cold; this is going to be great, almost perfect. I mean it could be better, there could be hail, and bears, but this is close enough to still be weird. It is not daylight yet, but I am already doing the math….. Let’s see, how about 50 miles in 10 hours, decide on the 100 or not as the day develops? That’s a plan.
About 2 hours in, nearing about mile 8, just before we break out of a stretch of haunted woods, I am getting a tightness in that bad leg. Ouch, ouch, ouch, creeping in with each step. Hidden under those ridiculous compression socks, there lies my enemy. That no good injury. The leg is barking now.
Ok, here is a nice, longish, downhill; a runnable road. It is a smooth downhill, and I am good at this, maybe I will be lucky. I hit that full of myself, loving life, and flying.
But the barking is biting now. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Each step is a limp. About a half mile from mile 10, Aid Station number 2, I am limping bad. There is something the matter. The right toes, foot, and leg, are all misbehaving. I look at the leg, it has grown. This is so inconvenient. I stop at the aid station, and the innocent angels ask, “What can I get for you?”, “Heed, water, gus?”, “Fill your water bottle?”. They are so sweet, and I thank them all. Thanks is never good enough, but I take comfort in knowing that they are all likely going to heaven.
As is my tradition, I elect to sit in a chair. I love sitting in chairs at aid stations, a Pro move. This time I suspiciously prop my leg up high, very high; and, take a closer look under that compression sock. Disturbingly too big, too red, and too stiff. Oh, the looks, the horror! Explanations are not plausible, but it is safe here, and I am not shaken. I am not outcast and I am offered rides. These are very nice people, they mean no harm.
This is just beyond the edge and weird. My run is doomed. I pull up the sock, and change the subject while I think this one through. I go about working the aid station, cheering on the ultra royalty, today’s heroes. Go Anna, Chris, Dean, Eva, Jeff, Jim, Kristin, Mike, Lori, Steve, Scott! It is their day, I am proud of each one of them.
I take the ride back to the showers, the pills, the elevating of the leg, the electric heating pad, the beer, and watched the pouring and driving rain outside…..…..and stopped feeling sorry for myself!
I am so much better than this! I come back to reality, get my head together and weighed my chances of getting back to the edge. Like a Pro, I do the math….. Do I have time to go back to the 10 mile aid station and still make the 100 mile cutoff?
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