Lapped By the Sun:
By John Prohira
I Can Eat An Elephant If I Take Small Bites
Beware what you wish for, for it may just come true. I believe that to be how the Chinese expression or curse goes. I take it to mean that one should not tempt fate. Superstitious? I don't really think that I am but know that the woman I was running with at mile 35 of the 11th annual Vermont 100 Mile Trail Run was. How did I recognize the depth of her belief in the supernatural? Because she began to mummer, "nice kitty, nice kitty" to herself a full five minutes and almost 1/2 of a mile away from where a black farm cat that sat watching us navigate the back country road. And as we crested the top of the hill the where pussycat seemed to wait it stood, stretched, then nonchalantly crossed the road in front of us. "Oh no, oh no" my companion whispered, "that black cat just crossed our path. Bad luck, bad luck!" This was the point at which I decided to follow advice from Scott Tinley who had written that one should, "above all, train hard, eat light, and avoid TV and people with negative attitudes." I try to do that and was not about to be sucked into any pessimism so I moved on. I thought the cat pretty cool.
The rain that had greeted us at race's beginning had stopped. It was cool and rather pleasant and I was feeling strong, capable and experienced enough to completely embrace the task at hand. Moving through the first 1/3 of this race all appeared well. 4 miles per hour was fast enough. Remembering to eat and drink and walk the many uphills, I piled one mile upon another, as easy as placing one foot in front of another; one bite taken after another. Last year's race here in Vermont's Green Mountains had been most challenging, a torturous ordeal in heat and humidity. This year I had wished for, and received it seemed, cooler weather. Peace. I was expectant. I knew that good things would come from this effort, that all would be well if I only had faith. And I was correct.
For a third year now I returned to Smoke Rise Farm which sits on top of the mountain outside of South Woodstock, Vermont. 261 other men and woman had registered for this run in the hills, we had all signed on to traverse 100 miles of trail and country road that comprises the Vermont 100 Mile Trail Run. These men and women ranging in ages 25 to 71 (there were three 70 year olds entered) came to run and/or walk the distance with more than 14,160 feet of climb and equal amount of descent. Something for everyone, those preferring the ups and those with iron quads who were partial to the downs. The Vermont 100 Mile runner could spend to 30 hours on the course, enjoying the vistas, the aid stations and great company and still be considered an official finisher.
This year the moon would be near full and high in the sky as night fell. I watched it on the nights leading up to the race, watched in anticipation, looking forward to running through the night illuminated by its light. This would be my 6th 100 mile race, the 6th time running through the night and only the first time under a fat moon. Saturday morning instead of being greeted by the moon's yellow glow it was dark outside my motel, with a close and humid feel to the air. It was cooler on the mountain but hard rain began to fall 10 minutes before race start. I'd never begun a race like this in the rain but was reassured and told, "don't worry, it only seems kinky the first time." We began. We took our first small bites out of the elephant, our first steps towards the finish line 100 miles away. The first mile drops 150 ft on road, the next almost 200 ft up on trail, then down 200 ft the next mile then up about 300 ft the next 1/2 mile and on and on. Some of the climbs and drops seemed to go on forever, the downhills were glorious! It was a good test to see whether my plantar fascitits was gone and I'm happy to report it is. Between mile 9 and 13 we ran down over 900 ft, so fast! I felt almost like a runner again. Miles 13-17 had us going up again this time close to 1000 ft. You get the picture, it was either up or down but seldom flat and never, ever boring. Step by step and nibble by nibble until it was finished, until is was gone.
As always the people I meet are the best part of the experience. I enjoy running and talking with everyone. My habit is not to stay with any one person too long, I don't want to wear out my welcome. Really I prefer to run my own race and not get caught up in someone else's plans. I spent time with a retired nuclear weapons expert who still lived near and had worked at Los Alamos, N.M. He spoke to me of the wildfires there this summer. There were those I'd met at other events, from out west and up north. My friends Monica Scholtz from Ontario and Hans-Dieter Weisshar from Germany were there. They had entered and planned to run every North American 100 mile race offered in year 2000, 14 or 15 in all I believe. Interesting people, gentle people, strong people, all consuming the same pachyderm piece by piece, bite by bite.
Dairy farms and their pastures lined our route, one smelled the same as another but I did notice that not all the cows were of the same breed nor looked the same. There were the standard black and white Guernseys, most of the bovine were of that stock but there were also brown, black and white cattle that I assumed to be beef on the hoof. I found their docile and low mooing, especially after nightfall very reassuring. This is also horse country and evidence of equine could be seen on trail and road. Many of the horse farms were complete with rolling green pastures, neat and well kept stables, barns and houses, most with metal or slate roofs. There usually is a horse race on the same course and day as the footrace, but this year's schedule had the horses and riders resting in anticipation of a more prestigious event elsewhere and a couple of weeks away. I missed seeing the riders and their steeds before, after and during the event.
As mentioned earlier the rain stopped soon after dawn and the day went well. The sun never really came out but it was pleasant. I took a packet of Gu every hour on the hour and made sure I drank at least a liter of liquid during that time plus salt. The food was not exotic but ample and nourishing. Sandwiches, potatoes and fruit were my stables. Some coke was appreciated later as was the warm soup and broth after dark. After time my senses seem to become more attuned to my surroundings, to the myriad of small sounds and subtle changes taking place. The greens of the forest and meadows appeared deeper and more lush as morning turned to afternoon turned to evening, the horses in the fields more majestic, more regal. The people in aid stations and along the course in driveways and on lawns seem kinder and more wishing well of us. I loved seeing the children here and there along the route, hoping for high-fives or that we would stop and take a cold drink from them. I enjoyed them all. And there are times when this seemingly asinine endeavor makes sense. The reasons for starting this type of running a few years ago included showing other people that I could, but now I understand that it is during an event such as this I find a place where I go and where I can look into myself, into my soul, and see some of who I am and what I'm about.
I managed to maintain my blinding 4 mph pace until about 11:30 Saturday night. At mile 68 I'd reached Camp Ten Bear and my dropbag containing my headlamp before dark. This was another first, in years past it had been well after dark that I entered camp and submitted to my second weighing and medical evaluation. The runner agrees to be weighed three times during the race and to stop if the medical help believe his body to be under too much stress, a good indicator of such stress being weigh loss. Since it was cool I opted for a long sleeved polypro shirt but kept my shorts on. I didn't change shoes or socks for I seldom do during these long events. I'd lost only 4 lbs. and was on my way out of camp and up the hill nicknamed Solzhenitsyn Hill as day's light ended. Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, the Russian Nobel Prize winning author, chose this vast and sparsely populated expanse of Vermont's Green Mountains as home in 1976 during his exile from his homeland. This wooded, snowy region with rough weather had the advantage of reminding him of his beloved Russia. Solzhenitsyn returned to Russia in 1994 triumphant after the fall of the USSR. I've read a couple of his novels and their plots played through my head as I climbed. It was soon after this climb that the real rain began. I had gotten my wish, the day had remained cool but wet and the night was soon to become much cooler and wetter. Be careful what you wish for was the thought that came back at me. Was I being any less superstitious than the runner who was afraid of black cats? It was here that the real race began.
The summer rains I am accustomed to are fleeting phenomenon, like those experienced during the first 20 hours of this race. It pours and then stops and sometimes clears. It wasn't until later this week that it was explained to me why the rain on Sunday morning didn't abate. The part of Vermont we were running through was underneath a stalled low pressure system, sometimes called a cutoff low, that just circled around and around slightly north of the jet stream dumping water down on what lay below. Down it came onto the trails making muddy messes of them, down came the pouring rain onto the rocks making them slippery impediments, down on the unsuspecting heads and shoulders of the unprepared runners. I had packed no rain gear, a miscalculation on my part. And I wondered and prayed to my higher power for strength and enough courage to continue. It was here that I began to ask myself whether I should continue on in spite of the deluge. In each race, I have learned, the desire to quit comes but once. It is a coward who once beaten does not return. It is then at this point that I believe each runner must pass in order to arrive at the finish. It is here, stripped of any of society's false privileges, that we find no hiding place, no shelter of convenience. Face to face with ourselves we must look deep inside. It was here approaching Bill's Barn and the aid station at mile 83 that I looked inside myself. Then while leaving there after the last medical check the desire to quit left. It was gone as I returned to the trail, it left and didn't come back. We left the warmth, dryness and relative comfort of Bill's and returned to the task at hand, still 17 miles worth of elephant to be eaten. "Those hills and the miles beyond," wrote George Sheehan of the long distance runner, "will challenge everything he holds dear, his value system, his life style. They will ask nothing less than his view of the universe." And luckily my view of the universe was compatible with what was required to finish what had been started 22-1/2 hours ago. It was still hungry enough to take another bite.
Leaving Bill's I found that I had acquired new companions: two Frenchmen who's lamps had failed asked to follow me and the light of my headlamp. One of these gentleman I had run with last year. That man, the older of the two, spoke no English yet in the summer of 1999 and now again we understood the value of and the payment required for finishing the task at hand. Soon after leaving Bill's I began to get very cold. The polypro shirt was trying to do its job, wicking moisture from my body but there was no place for that wetness to go. I was cold, OK, but I had to be honest and acknowledge that this was not a life threatening situation. I was not headed towards hypothermia, I was just uncomfortable. At one point before dawn we were dumped onto a patch of road with some traffic. The cars there were moving slowly and for the most part looking for loved ones, for their runners and offering them assistance if needed. I began to flag cars down and beg a plastic garbage bag for use as I raincoat. The third vehicle that stopped offered a bag but first had to dump empty pop cans from it onto the bed of their truck. I wasn't choosy, just thanked him and turned the bag inside out and punched holes in the appropriate spots, pulled in over my head and soon grew somewhat cozy now protected from the brunt of the storm.
Dawn would arrive soon and with it I knew resurrection of sorts. Why do this? I have to ask myself this question at least once each race. What came to mind last weekend was something that I heard in the movie "Seven Years In Tibet", when the boy Dali Lama asks of his new friend, Henri, "Tell me a story about mountain climbing, Henri?"
Henri says, "No!"
"Ok, then tell me what you love about it."
"The absolute simplicity - that's what I love. When you are climbing, your mind is clearer, freed of all confusions, you have focus, then, suddenly, life becomes sharper, sounds are richer, then you are filled with deep, powerful presence of life."
And I do like my mind on ultrarunning, simple and focused and filled with this presence of life. My biggest challenge isn't someone else. Its the ache in my lungs and the burning in my legs, and the voice inside me that yells "CAN'T", but I don't listen. Just push harder, continue. And then Ihear what I've been waiting for, for the voice that whispers "can". And I am so enamored with the sound of that whisper, "can". Then I remember that the person I most times think I am is no match for the one I really am.
I like to read and sometimes remember to jot down meaningful quotes. I never could get comfortable with Nietzche, I always found his philosophy too harsh. I recall his writing, "that which does not destroy me makes me stronger". I prefer this paraphrasing of those famous words, "what doesn't kill me sure does make me hungry." And hungry I was in those hours after dawn, hungry even though I'd spend the last 27 hours eating an elephant, bite by bite. I wanted the race over, I had had enough elephant and wanted real food and drink. I knew that there used to be a trail somewhere on that last hill between where I was and race's end. I could almost smell the open barndoor. And that is where this race ends, the runner must step into the barn at Smoke Rise Farms, 100 miles from where he started.
I saw the barn door and stepped inside just before 8 a.m. on Sunday. It was soon after that I heard that race had been won in under 14-12 hours. That there was a record number of fast times this year. I realized that anyone finishing before midnight hadn't had to deal with Mother Nature's downpour and resulting muck. I remembered that I had been on record pace myself until then. Not fair! Not fair was my first reaction. Last year in the heat and humidity everyone shared in the ordeal, some longer than others but everyone had a taste of the same, not this year. Not fair! I then realized that I sounded like a spoiled child. Not Fair? Well of course not. Is life fair? Is anything fair? Shouldn't I be grateful for what was given me? I had been given the opportunity to once again play in the woods all night. Yes, I should be grateful and was. I am. Another lesson presented me while out there on trail and one that I'd like to keep close to me always, to be grateful.
Another lesson presented was the realization that it's easy to imagine how I'll act when things go according to plan, that's why I should have prepared myself for what I'd do when they didn't proceed that way. Well I didn't pack a raincoat but I did bring with me the faith that all would be well if I remained true and honest with myself and asked my higher power for strength. I asked and wasn't disappointed.
Third time's a charm they say. I believe that. I received what I had hoped for, cool weather. I was also given other intangibles making the task possible. The elephant was eaten, I was finished, it took more than a day, but it was consumed faster this year than last. Vermont just outside of South Woodstock was the perfect place to do it.
So in closing,
"Vincit qui patitur: he conquers, who endures"
Copyright © 1999-2000 John Prohira