Freedom Run Read online

  I realized early on in my ultramarathon running experiences that I was very fortunate to be able to consume foods and beverages without experiencing feelings of being hungry, bloated or nauseous and having to make frequent trips to a bathroom. But each of these training runs served as another opportunity for me to experiment with different foods so that I could find the best options and combinations when crossing America.

  Burning River

  As I mentioned, only seven weeks after completing Laurel Highlands 77, I competed in the benchmark distance for ultramarathon runners—a 100-miler. This is the defining distance for ultra runners, an opportunity to prove their mental and physical toughness. Completing a 100-miler is a landmark moment in a long-distance runner’s career and for most is considered the ultimate challenge. And the benchmark for ultimate bragging rights is to complete the 100 miles within 24 hours.

  Of course, most runners who compete in a 100-mile race spend literally months gearing up toward this one event. I, however, was tackling this distance just seven weeks after the 77-mile race. It is uncommon for long-distance runners to compete in two ultramarathons of these distances in such a short period of time. Your body and mind simply need time to recover and rejuvenate after such a grueling long-distance run. But considering the fact that I was preparing to run 35 miles a day every day for 100 consecutive days, I thought it would be beneficial to test myself with a shortened recovery time by following the 77-miler at Laurel Highlands with the Burning River 100 Mile Endurance Run.

  I knew that it would also provide me with another benchmark in which to measure my progress and offer another mental and physical challenge that would prepare me for my nearly 3,500-mile journey across America. So on July 30, 2011, in northern Ohio, my longest challenge yet awaited me. I knew if I could conquer Burning River, the achievement would be something I could put in my mental arsenal to recall whenever I needed a boost of confidence on my cross-country journey.

  Even though I had completed 50Ks, 50-milers and even the 77-miler at Laurel Highlands seven weeks prior to Burning River, there is something magical and, to be honest, a bit unnerving about tackling a 100-mile run. I knew this was going to be the most difficult challenge I had faced since I first got into distance running two years earlier, so I did my homework. I read stories about people who ran 100-milers, hoping to gain even the smallest tips that I could apply in my quest to conquer the defining ultramarathon distance event. I knew that very few ultramarathon runners ever attempt a 100-mile race, and even fewer actually finish. But it was another step—another benchmark goal—that I needed to take in my progression.

  My wife had served as my crew and my rock during all of my distance races, and Burning River would be no different, except that because of the demands a 24-hour race would place on Tiffany, I knew we needed a second member of the crew. I recruited my cousin Darren, who grew up with my Marine Corps recruiter, to join the team. Darren joined us at the hotel the night prior to the race, and when he burst through the door at 9 p.m. you would have thought he was running the race. He was full of energy and beaming like a kid in a candy store, but he was able to calm down knowing that he had a 2 a.m. wake-up call in order to drive to the finish line and leave his car there before taking a bus from there to the starting line with the majority of the runners.

  My wake-up time was 2:45 a.m. for the pre-dawn start to the race, so needless to say I did not get much sleep that night. Fortunately, I had previously discovered that my adrenaline the night prior to a big race would make me restless, so I learned to get a good night’s rest the two nights prior to the eve of a race. Earlier the day before, we actually scouted out the finishing and starting areas of the race, checking in at the finish line at Cuyahoga Falls, near Akron, before making the 40-minute drive to the starting area in Willoughby Hills, near Cleveland.

  The start was at a beautiful park called Squires Castle. There was a wedding party there when we arrived that afternoon. We toured around the site for a little bit, took some photos and then headed off to find a place to eat. Fortunately, a few minutes from the castle, we found a wonderful small Italian place called Mario Fazio’s, where I could consume my favorite pre-race meal of angel hair pasta covered in garlic, oil and lemon. Mario Fazio’s did not disappoint.

  Having eaten a great meal the night before and having received a couple of great nights of sleep earlier that week, I felt as though my body was as prepared as possible for the 100-miler. My psyche, however, was a different story. On the way from the hotel to the starting line, my wife asked me what was going through my head.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking,” I said. “I could drive from the starting line to the finish line in 40 minutes. But instead, it’s going to take me 24 hours to run to the same spot! Can we just drive there and say I did it?”

  “No chance!” she said. So to Squires Castle we went.

  Lathering Up

  I learned from some of my early ultramarathons that you can never put enough Bodyglide and Aquaphor ointment on your skin. At a couple of events when I first got into running, I experienced some serious chafing, which is when a patch of skin becomes red and raw from continuously rubbing against an article of clothing or another part of your body. In a “mild” case of chafing, often you won’t notice it until you jump into the shower and the warm water makes contact with the area, sending you briefly hopping back out of the water and howling like a wolf. In a severe case, the raw skin will begin to bleed and become noticeably painful during the run, which leads to you attempting to adjust your clothing or stride and as a result often losing your focus and concentration. I had unfortunately experienced both levels early on during my first few ultramarathons.

  I sought advice from more experienced runners about how to prevent chafing. I learned about these ointments and lubricants that have literally saved my hide. So in what has become a part of my pre-race routine, as I prepared for the start of Burning River I spent a few minutes lathering every moving part of my body with lotions and creams. Even parts of me that don’t move, I tend to coat really well with these products.

  Another routine that I developed after receiving this wonderful tip from a more seasoned runner was to lather up my feet with Vaseline, Aquaphor or lotion, so on this morning I grabbed a bottle of body lotion and applied it generously to my feet. Yes, it feels funny putting on your socks and shoes afterward and walking around with lotion squishing between your toes, but I have been fortunate to never get any blisters or lose any toenails (it’s very common for long-distance runners to have toenails turn black and fall off before a new toenail grows in its place) over the past few years, even when I ran across America. Plus, I tell my wife that my feet are soft and kissable!

  When I headed toward the starting area to join the 300 other eager runners, it was still dark. But we all looked like lightning bugs floating around because of the glow of runners’ headlamps and glow sticks. The scene was energizing, as was the wonderful message we heard from Nick Billock, a former Burning River runner who was bravely serving our country overseas. It was the perfect inspiration for me.

  Slow and Steady

  The two weeks prior to Burning River, I really worked on keeping my running at a much slower pace than normal, backing off to a 9- or 10-minute pace. I knew I wouldn’t maintain that pace throughout the race, but I needed to get my mindset on moving at a slower pace than normal. I knew my adrenaline would be pumping and I would want to push myself a little faster in the run, but I had to force myself to keep it slow. The pace was a quick one out of the gates for a lot of people. My wife told me that she overheard some of the folks at the aid stations early saying the pace was faster than normal for everyone, but I wouldn’t allow myself to get caught up in it. Many runners passed me at the beginning of the race, and I was fine with that. We had a long way to go.

  Joe Jurczyk, the amazing race director at Burning River, had talked up the aid workers at the pre-race meal, and his words could not begin to describe what an experien
ce each and every aid station was for me. You could hear music blaring as you approached, tons of food and drinks laid out for us and workers approaching you asking if you needed anything done. Personally, though, I have learned that orange Gatorade diluted with water is what is easiest on my stomach during ultramarathon races. As a result, my crew handled mixing up and refilling my FuelBelt or camelback at each aid station. But I most certainly dipped into the food supplies throughout the day. I wasn’t really hungry at the first aid station, still feeling full from all the pasta the day before, but I couldn’t pass up some watermelon. The sun was starting to come up through the dense fog, and it was nice to have a few seconds to stop and grab some fuel.

  My aid station stops vary depending on the length of the race. For shorter races, I typically run through and grab a drink to slam. For ultras, I will always stop and grab food and drinks, but usually I am in and out within five minutes. The first few aid stations at Burning River I continued my pattern of grabbing some watermelon and grapes and moving on. I did notice, though, that a lot of runners were beginning to hang out at the aid stations a little longer, which gave me an opportunity to leapfrog a few of them.

  I did take some time early in the run to do something I normally never do—chat with other runners. I am a horrible talker when I run; I just don’t talk. But I knew I had a long day ahead of me, and I was sporting my Run for Wounded Warriors T-shirt, advertising my run for next year, and a few runners asked me about it. I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to promote that, so I jumped at the chance, and running at a slower pace made it easier for me to chat. I had a number of runners say they would keep track of my run across America, which was very encouraging.

  After a long, flat stretch, the course began to hit some rolling hills. Remembering how I felt two-thirds of the way through Laurel Highlands, I really wanted to preserve my legs during these climbs and descents, so going slow and steady remained my focus. I remember thinking to myself throughout the first third of the race how pleased I was that we hadn’t hit any major climbs. The initial climbs at Laurel Highlands took a lot out of me, so even though it remained relatively flat, I did everything I could to conserve energy.

  When I hit the aid station at 33.3 miles, I reapplied lotion to my feet and changed my socks and shoes, alternating between two pair of road shoes throughout the race. The sun had finally burned through the morning cloud cover, so at this stop Tiffany took a towel, dipped it in a bucket of ice water and slapped it on my head and around my neck. Initially the coolness of the cloth on my neck and the cold water dripping inside my shirt and down my back and chest was startling. But within seconds I felt refreshed, and on my neck is where that towel stayed most of the rest of the day.

  The next stretch through the halfway point of the race was extremely hot and my pace began to slow. In fact, during stretches on roads that had potholes recently patched, I could see some shoe prints of runners who were ahead of me who had stepped onto the sticky, bubbly black tar. I’d like to think my shoes sticking to the tar was slowing me down, but in reality the heat was beginning to wear me down. About this time I also noticed streaks of blood down the front of my shirt, meaning my nipples had chafed so badly that they were bleeding. In addition to applying Bodyglide, I also did a somewhat common male long-distance runner’s trick by placing duct tape over my nipples. The thought is that covering the nipples with tape will prevent the delicate but constant rubbing from your running shirt that ever so slightly bounces up and then falls back into place with each step a runner takes. At the 50-mile aid station, which I arrived at in almost exactly 10 hours (a 50-mile personal best for me) I ditched my shirt, cooled off with an ice-cold sponge, refueled and kept moving.

  The heat was relentless when the course left the protective covering of leafy, green trees that were providing shade. In an attempt to cool off, at the aid stations I would reapply more Bodyglide to my chest, dip my shirt in the ice and water in our cooler, and press forward. It turns out that it was the second hottest race-day temperature in the history of the Burning River race. I continued to pound Gatorade, cold foods and salt tablets all day to keep my body moving forward. To a non-runner, consuming salt tablets may sound disgusting, but I especially learned during my cross-country journey that they were essential because they help your body to retain water, thus prolonging your ability to run without becoming dehydrated.

  At 63.8 miles, I felt good but knew that I needed to recover for a few extra minutes. A lot of runners came and went during the eight minutes I was at this aid station, but the additional time of rest really energized me. It’s funny, though, to watch the video from this section as my crew attempted to document this event. I keep looking up from my seat while my awesome wife is putting lotion on my feet, and as more runners come in and go out, I have this look on my face like I’m mad. “All these people are passing me,” I thought. “I should be up running.” But despite the disturbed look on my face revealed by the video, I knew it was in my best interest to remain patient and take an extended break.

  Because of the additional rest, I was really able to cruise through the next couple of sections until I got zapped of energy at the 70-mile mark. Fortunately, Tiffany had planned to go the next three miles at Pine Hollow with me, and her presence was really encouraging, especially since this stretch required a lot of brutal climbs and walking. It was at this point that I really began to question my ability to complete the race. My feet couldn’t have been burning any worse had I stuck them in an oven, it was dark and I was becoming disoriented. Having Tiffany there alongside me, however, really encouraged me to keep moving.

  After the next aid station, I believe the energy I conserved by running slower during the first third of the run really kicked in. I figured the next section would take me a couple of hours, so I told Tiffany and Darren to get some rest. Turns out I ran the section in 1 hour and 15 minutes, so at the 80.5-mile aid station my crew was nowhere to be found. I did see two familiar faces from races I had run before, Dannielle and Eric Ripper. Dannielle was the race director for the Mason Dixon 50K and I met her husband, Eric, at Laurel Highlands.

  “You look like you just ran a 5K,” Dannielle told me. It was great to hear that I looked better than I felt. As I entered a covered bridge I found Darren resting on the bridge. He was shocked that I came in 45 minutes ahead of schedule. He informed me that Tiffany was off snoozing in the “sag wagon,” which I was very happy about because I knew she was worn out from chasing me around all day. Darren had planned to run this next section with me, but because I was feeling so good I wanted to continue on at my own pace.

  The next few miles were muddy with a lot of creek crossings and challenging climbs. I love running on trails like that, just not after logging 80 miles! But my energy level had really picked up and I was actually passing some runners I hadn’t seen in more than 12 hours. At my slowest point of the race I was in 78th place out of the approximately 300 runners who left the starting line, and by now I had moved up to 44th. With 15 miles remaining, I had three hours to get to the finish in my target goal of 24 hours. “Woo hoo! I can do this,” I thought.

  At mile 90, however, I hit the proverbial wall. “The Wall,” as it is known in the running community, is that point in a long-distance race when your body just shuts down. The muscles in your legs cramp up and start pulsating as if they are pistons firing in the engine of a racecar driving at top speed. It also often feels as though you swapped out your running shoes for a pair of concrete blocks. In a marathon distance, hitting the wall usually occurs around miles 18-20 for most runners. In a 100-miler, apparently the wall appears at mile 90.

  My legs began screaming at me about what I was asking them to do. It was all I could do to keep pushing myself forward. Running, or jogging for that matter, was pretty much impossible at this point. At the 93-mile aid station I saw Tiffany, and did my best to put a huge smile on my face when I saw her. Seeing her at any point throughout my races always lifts my spirits, but I know she could tell
everything I was doing at this point was forced. My hamstrings and quadriceps were dead.

  I passed a couple of runners who were dropping out of the race at this point and were waiting for crews to come get them because of injuries they had sustained. I offered whatever assistance I could provide at that point, which I knew wasn’t much, but thankfully they told me to press on. Seeing them in the pain they were experiencing certainly didn’t help my psyche, but I continued on with what Darren called “positive forward motion.” As I came to the last aid station at mile 96, I was mentally done. Darren had brought a collapsible camping chair that he had offered to let me plop down in throughout the day, but since it was a green Marshall University chair, I refused to sit in it since Marshall is a rival school of West Virginia University, which is located in Morgantown, where I live. But at this point rivalries didn’t matter to me, so I planted my butt in the chair and stared off into space. Darren and Tiff did everything they could to encourage me, but Tiff also knew I just needed some time to compose myself on my own before I could move on. I was really having a difficult time convincing myself to get out of the chair because it was so comfortable and warm since we were near a campfire the aid station workers had built.

  Finally gathering the strength to lift myself out of the chair, I gave Tiffany a big hug and asked her if she would meet me about 1.5 miles from the finish to run the rest of the way with me. The next 3.5 miles to get to her were extremely difficult. I remembered from videos I watched online from previous Burning River races that there were steps in this last section. I couldn’t think of anything else but that dreaded climb as I approached the end. Those were some of the most difficult steps I have ever climbed. My legs were so stiff they didn’t want to bend and my feet felt like 40-pound weights. And it wasn’t just one set of steps; there was a second set staring me in the face just as I reached the top of the first.