(Almost) 100 laps of solitude

I’ve said this before: Runners talking about their races are similar to golfers talking about their golf game. The reports are passionate, full of exquisite detail … and usually of greatest interest to the author him/herself. In other words? Yawn. OK! Having posited that wordy disclaimer, please allow me (more than) a few paragraphs to discuss my one and only foray into “racing” (in quotes, yes) each year – the Sweltering Summer Ultra in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Held on a meandering dirt track that measures exactly .3553746428 of a mile at Clapp Park, the 8-hour race falls into the category of “fixed-time ultra,” something that NYC ultramarathon stalwart Phil McCarthy wrote so eloquently about. Fixed-time ultras are a bit different. There are no DNFs, per say. You go as you please, for a fixed time (in this case, from 7 a.m. until 3 p.m.) and then you stop. Whoever covers the most laps/the longest distance is the winner. You can run, walk, eat, sleep, order out some pizza, go shopping, come back, etc.

Odd, I know, but somehow it suits my admittedly quirky personality trait of reveling in boring, repetitive tasks with little or no meaning – not to mention my lack of training. Training? Ha. I remember that, vaguely. I mean. Who would dare enter a marathon (heck, a half marathon … even a 10k!) when the longest you’ve “run” (in quotes, yes) in training was about 7 miles? And that’s, maybe, twice a week. And that’s wallowing in self-pity and wondering where my race bib is when my training partners have the audacity to dip under 9 minutes a mile. Add in a few walk/jogs of about an hour, and add about 25 pounds of girth around the midsection (not proud about this, but it’s a fact), and this is surefire recipe for a marathon or half marathon DNF, or a very embarrassing 10k time. But an 8-hour ultra? All you gotta do is start, keep moving, and stop. On a boring, nondescript dirt track. Neat. Let’s go!

Those who have been around me for a long time know about my streaks. I had a few of them; most of them are retired, and with good reason. I have one remaining streak. Since 1987, I have completed at least one marathon per year (if I had not skipped 1986 while chasing shorter distance PRs, this marathon streak would stretch back to 1983 … but alas, I didn’t do a marathon in 1986). Anyway! This means that this year would make 30 years in a row of completing at least one marathon. That’s a neat, round number. Speaking of round numbers, that’s exactly 74 laps around the aforementioned dirt track in Pittsfield. So when race director and good pal Benn Griffin yelled out “ready, set, go!” a little after 7 a.m. on Saturday, that was the primary goal. Last year, after making it to 74 laps, I half-heartedly did a few more laps before packing it in at a little more than 28 miles; I left a lot of time on the table. This year, along with getting to the marathon, my other goal was to keep moving for the entire 8 hours.

Remember my lack of training and my not-lack of belly blubber? Yeah. That. Well, I tried to forget both, which leads me to my first trick of fixed-time ultras. It’s all about the laps. If you think in terms of miles … well, then, you’re screwed. It’s all about laps. I started playing games. Get to 12 laps. That’s Chase Headley (#12, New York Yankees). Get to 21 laps. That’s Lucas Duda (#21, New York Mets). 26 laps? A marathon in laps! 31 laps? A 50K in laps. Or Ichiro (#31, when he was on the Yankees). Such was my warped mind. Oh. And there was this cone covering up a piece of PVC piping on the track (that I most assuredly would have tripped on, if Benn didn’t tell us about it and then put the cone there). From that cone, to the end of that straightaway … I walked that stretch of the track, every lap. Jog. Walk. Jog. Walk. Gatorade. Jog. Walk. Water. Jog. Walk. Gel packs (eeeew … but they work). Jog. Walk. Gummy energy snacks (also eeew … but they also work). Water. Jog. Walk. On and on and on. No stopping (other than to use the port-o-potty). No sitting. Definitely no sitting.

Wow. This is getting boring just typing it! Sorry … but I will plug on, as I did on Saturday. The key, for me, is reaching a state of homeostasis – where I can balance all of these boring tasks, keep moving and make my legs not turn to stone; sitting turns my legs – I already have the flexibility of a piece of lumber – into immovable, heavy objects. My ultra tricks were working. I was feeling fine on an unbearably humid day, in which it was cloudy, breezy, pouring rain, blazing sunshine, cloudy again, etc. … hey, it’s August. Eight hours is a long time. Laps. Got to 74 in a little more than 5 hours, 20 minutes. Last year, this lap -- reached in an even slower "split" -- was cause for celebration. This year, it was just another lap, and now I was plotting a run at 100 laps. Why? I dunno. Why NOT? 

I kept up with this routine for a little while longer, but somewhere around 85 laps, sun blazing, self-loathing rising quickly, things started unraveling. The homeostasis wasn’t working anymore. Each lap was a struggle. I got to 88 laps (50K) and was totally gassed. I stumbled to 90 laps at around 7 hours and thought, “Man, I gotta sit down.” I sat down. NO! Bad move. Changed shirt, hat, sneakers. Got back up. I really wanted to keep moving for 8 hours. So, I walked a lap. It took about 11 minutes. This was a weaving, drunkard’s walk of a lap. Do the math. That’s painfully slow; like, almost backwards movement slow. I succumbed to the temptation and actually had some soda. And then an orange slice. Another 10-minute lap. Embarrassing. I calculated that at this snail’s pace I would get to 95 laps at the finish. Whatever. Keep moving, keep weaving. Then, in the long-held “it never always gets worse” mantra of ultras, I started to feel better. The idea of jogging was still repulsive, but I actually walked a “brisk” lap in 6 minutes. Felt good. With about 10 minutes left on the clock, I was approaching 97 laps. As absurd as it sounds, it would have taken an all-out sprint to squeeze out 3 more laps in the allotted time. Running was not an option, jogging a humorous and silly thought that I absolutely would not entertain. Two more brisk circuits, and I completed 99 laps. 99! This, of course, met with ridicule among my merciless children, upon arrival home later that afternoon: “Dad! You couldn’t do ONE MORE LAP!?” But really, this is trivial pursuit: 99 laps is 35.1820896372 miles (yes, I’m keeping score at home!); 100 laps is 35.53746428 miles (of course!). WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE?

I walked away feeling wrecked but satisfied. The last hour of ambling provided a nice “cool down” and the subsequent recovery has been a breeze. I feel as fine as I can feel, given the circumstances. Kept the streak going (oh, sure, some would dispute this way of extending the streak, to which I reply: My streak, my rules, na-na-na-na-na). And I renewed my love affair with these fixed-time ultras. These races have so much camaraderie – you see everybody, so many times – but really, the solitary grind is each of our own personal races. The title of this post is an offshoot of Gabriel García Márquez’s famous novel “Cien años de soledad” (One Hundred Years of Solitude); I had my (almost) 100 laps of solitude, even among friendly faces at the park. Dirt covered sneakers and socks, ugly toenails and a really cool T-shirt are the prized memories of my one (and only) day in the sun each and every year.