My Most Unforgettable Ultramarathon, and What I Learned From It

Marathon & Beyond Magazine had a regular feature called, My Most Unforgettable Marathon or Ultramarathon (And What I Learned from It)  Most people would write an inspiring piece about the achievement of some great goal or something like that. But that’s most people. Here is what I wrote in 2011. Believe it or not, it is a shortened version of the original article.


June 16, 2001

The 5 AM start came early. There was light rain and fog as we began running through the campground and onto the dark gravel and dirt roads. After only a few miles, about 6 of us realized that we were already off course. Coming to our senses, we nearly sprinted the half-mile back to catch back up with the rest of the bunch. The course was actually well marked, but the rain erased part of a chalk mark, making it appear that we were supposed to turn.  The occasion was the Mohican Trail 100 Mile Run. And the fun was just beginning.

Those road miles were at an easy pace. The folks I was with walked up the hills and ran the rest. These hills were substantial, but we hadn’t seen anything yet. After 9 or 10 miles we started on the trails. The rain had stopped, but now we would have to deal with its after effect: the mud and muck of Mohican. It didn’t take long at all for me to take a tumble. The combination of mud, slippery rocks, extreme downward steepness and my dumb story-telling to those around was all it took. I broke my fall with my hands, arm and leg, all of which wound up with cuts, scratches and gashes mixed with mud and blood.

It didn’t help that my wife, Debbie was there to see me at the next aid station. She had agreed to be my crew throughout the day, until it was time to meet my pacing companion at mile 69. And she had gone into the event quite worried about me. And the problem is that I often worry about her worrying. A nervous wreck the night before, she made me promise to never again attempt such a stupid thing as running 100 miles. In a moment of weakness, I agreed. I want to state for the record that Debbie is as supportive of my running as any spouse can be. She was just very worried in this instance.

Expectations were not extremely high. Although I’d been running for 25 years, I was fairly light on ultra experience. My resume included a poor showing at a 24-hour run, a 50k and two 6-hour runs. I had decided to do this foolish thing only three weeks before. After talking with some running friends about it at a Memorial Day race, I determined that if I could do a 40-mile training run the very next day, I’d register. I could and I did. Given all this, I went into the race hoping only to finish.

Experienced ultrarunners had told me to get plenty of food and liquids (“Eat like a horse, drink like a fish, run like a turtle”), yet to not linger at aid stations longer than necessary (“Beware of the chair”). I did eat and drink a lot, but I also did spend a lot of time at the aid stations. The folks there were fantastic. They provided the usual ultra foods, such as bananas, soup, PB&J sandwiches and pizza. But several went out of their way to provide something unique, like those cherry cheese French toast sandwiches. The volunteers helped me clean my wounds, and even helped change my wet, muddy shoes and socks at about half way through. I was terrified to look at my feet and couldn’t imagine how anyone else would be able to. The nice lady simply said, “Don’t look at them yourself, and don’t worry about me. I’ve seen them all”. Of course the clean shoes and socks didn’t stay that way for long.

The middle 60-70 mile trail portion of the course consisted of several loops designated by color code. They formed a cloverleaf, with the Mohican Covered Bridge in the center. Each section had its own personality, and all were quite beautiful. I didn’t know Ohio could get this hilly, or this pretty. At one point we encountered a wall of rocks and tree roots that we had to climb up, hand over hand. But the reward was a view of a nice little waterfall. Later we had to climb down a similar wall of rocks, and then got to run behind another waterfall. There were some really great runs along rivers, several stream crossings, and one actual river crossing. I was already beat when I hit the 50-mile mark in 11 hours.
For some unfathomable reason, I got a second wind at about mile 55. It may have been that there were actually a few level miles, or seeing a wild turkey in the woods, or the beautiful scenery along the river, or knowing that I would have someone to run with very soon.

My friend Dave Kanners met me at mile 69 in order to run with me to mile 88. I sure needed that! Knowing that he would be there kept me going to that point, and then actually having company for most of the rest of the way helped even more. We mostly walked, but there was a bit of jogging and shuffling mixed in. Dave politely put up with my bad jokes and bathroom stops. It was a moonless night and the stars were fantastic.

The final miles were toughest. It was getting light and I could appreciate the scenery once again. But I was in pain. All of my muscles were screaming at me to STOP! It was surprising that my feet had held out this long, but now the blisters were making themselves known. Dry socks helped. At the final aid station, 3.2 miles from the finish, I tried to get some bandages on the blisters, but they kept sliding off as I put my socks back on.

It took me an hour and 12 minutes to complete that final section. That’s only 2.6 miles per hour! Three people passed me - one of them at a full sprint ¼ mile from the finish. As I turned into the campground, there were a few enthusiastic folks to give applause. I said out loud, “I guess I ought to try to run, to earn your applause”, so I did actually shuffle in. My time was 26 hours, 31 minutes, 26 seconds. That was about 30th place, and not quite last of the Mohicans. I was trying to figure out how in the world to clean myself and call Debbie, when she showed up – only a couple minutes after my glorious finish.

And my solemn promise? I recovered surprisingly well and Debbie needn’t have worried; but I had absolutely no desire to ever try anything like this again. The run will forever rank as one of the highlights of my running career. But it wasn’t quite my most unforgettable ultramarathon.


Spring, 2011

Although I had done a few more ultras since 2001, I hadn’t really gotten into them a whole lot; for me, it was mostly marathons. That changed with a successful 100k at Mad City. It was in the aftermath of this successful effort that the thought of trying another 100-miler began to creep back into my head. Heck, it’s only 38 more miles! I had friends who were registered for one or both of the two local 100-mile races, Burning River and Mohican. Naturally they read my thoughts and cranked up the peer pressure to do either or both. Gobs of training miles and a solid 50k run sealed the deal for me. Evidently I could run trails (although Mohican’s and Burning River’s were relatively tough). I could run in heat. And I could run for long distances. What else is there?

Debbie agreed to let me out of my no-more-hundred-miler promise, although I’m not sure exactly why. She did mumble something about making sure the life insurance was paid up. Now the only question was: Mohican, or Burning River?

Burning River’s trails would be, contrary to the remarks of some of my trail dog friends, more doable (read: less difficult) for me. It is also very well-organized. I know this, because I’ve volunteered there in past years. Mohican, scheduled in June, may be less hot than Burning River, which takes place at the end of July.

At the point of my decision, Mohican was also only a couple weeks away. I didn’t think recovery from my recent 50k would be a problem. In fact, that close-by event date was actually the clincher. I’d have the thing over with. It would be out of my system. I would be able to move on to other, (hopefully) faster things. One could only hope.


June 17, 2011

After three hours of running, Ladd Clifford announced that we’d gone 13 miles according to his GPS. Surely we’d come farther than that! I wondered, not for the first time, about the accuracy of those things. But it actually made sense in comparison to where I thought we were on the course. And this was truly the perfect speed for us to run a hundred-miler; we were right on pace. I had only one very small problem at this point: everything hurt.

It was now ten years and one day since my first attempt at this foolish distance. The race was now called the North Face Mohican 100 Trail Run. The course incorporated some of the same trails, along with other new ones. To run 100 miles, runners would do two 27-mile loops followed by two 23-milers. The start/finish was at a (different) campground that was adjacent to the rest of the park. Most importantly, the road sections were almost entirely eliminated; it was virtually all trail now. The trails were as tough as ever, but there would be more of them. This was considered by my trail dog friends to be a good thing. I can only shake my head and wonder about these folks.

When I say everything hurt, I do mean everything: every bone, muscle, tendon, and brain cell. Every stride, every footfall, was painful. I'd felt general pain during runs before, but never with 87 miles yet to go. And that's the part that was hurting those brain cells. One of my painful body parts was my left heel. I had had Plantar Fasciitis off and on for the past six months, but I’d been fortunate in that it had never become bad enough to slow me down very much. At the time, I didn’t believe that it was so much a problem here either; it was just one pain amongst many.

Everything about this run became a love-hate thing for me. I loved driving down to Mohican the night before with Ladd, Frank Dwyer, and other friends. We three guys had planned to stay together as much as possible for the first half of the race. I loved seeing old and new friends at the check in, dinner and meeting Friday night. I've said it before and I'll say it again: ultrarunners are some of the best people I know. I hated not being able to sleep more than two hours in our tiny cabin due to the campfire smoke that was like being two feet away from a chain-smoker. Less humid air and a small breeze would have helped.

The 5 AM start had come early. It was warm and extremely humid due to the rains the night before and earlier in the morning. After a half-mile, we reached the single-track trail. I'd anticipated that there may be a slow-down as we 300 runners (about half were 50-milers; the rest of us were centurions) entered the trail. What occurred, however, was a total traffic jam. Who wants to totally stop running, when there are 99.5 miles to go? Eventually, we started walking, single file, up the switchbacks. It was still dark, and the long line of headlamps traversing the winding trails was surreal.

After some walking, we began shuffling on some of the straightaways. There were some extremely muddy areas, and without trail shoes, I did some slipping and sliding. As unique an experience that this single-file trekking in the dark was, I hated it. I had absolutely no control over whether I could run or walk; I had to do what the group was doing. Even when I could run, it was hard to do so - it was that tough out there already.

Even several miles into the run, I was still with groups of runners going single file. The larger group had broken into smaller ones, but it was still impossible to get around them. And I was still at their mercy in regards to walking or running. Naturally the steep sections were for the walking, but there seemed to be way too few flatter areas. I even asked Ladd at one point: "Do you think there will be anyplace where we can run for more than just a few steps?"

Ladd, Frank and I were never far from each other. After a couple hours, we could stay together, and better avoid the groups. It was probably about 7am when I started to notice the scenery. The forest was truly beautiful, and now away from the crowds, I thought about how much I loved this. I thought about why I run at all; to see sights and experience nature in ways that are impossible any other way.

The epiphany didn’t last long. Things were beginning to hurt. Now at 13 miles, we were only half-way through the first loop. I tried to adjust my thoughts: just make it to the next aid station, then the next, then to the finish of the first loop.

I forgot about the pain for a while as we crossed a stream several times and then climbed up and over a small, muddy cliff. This half-mile or so section probably took a half-hour or more. It was fun, but also frustrating. The rest of the terrain was also terrible, but this part was the worst. And I’d been here before, ten years ago.

Eventually I found that I couldn't stay with Ladd any more. He was moving at a slow, steady pace, but I couldn’t even hold that. My overall pain was still increasing, and the humidity made it difficult to breath. In addition, I was tired. I’m not sure I understood the fatigue; perhaps it was only from fighting the overall pain. In fact, I was actually winded for much of the time. I made a couple remarks about all this to Frank, but he didn’t answer. I think he was having difficulty as well.

By the time we got to the final aid station of the first loop (mile 22 or so), I was totally spent. Ladd and Frank were still there, and I said that I didn't know if I'd be able to complete the circuit, much less start the next one. I don't think Ladd believed me. I hardly believed it myself. In all my years of running and racing, I’d had only one DNF, in a marathon where I very well could have gone on. Until this moment, the thought of a DNF here hadn’t crossed my mind at all. In fact, I'd had no contingency plan whatsoever; I was going to finish no matter what. I was aware that this race had a very low (often well under 50%) finish rate, but DNF’s were for other people. If I had difficulty, I’d just run through it; it was simply a matter of perseverance.

I’ve been running long enough to know that bad patches can come and go. One has a great deal of time to get over something during an ultramarathon (in this case, cutoff was 32 hours). But it only got worse. More runners began passing me. I knew several of them, and they tried to encourage me. It didn't work. Once when I did try to run I tripped and fell. This was on top of a few other minor falls earlier in the race. By now I hated every minute.

Eventually I saw it: a short-cut! This would eliminate the extremely vertical final two-mile section of the course. Since I was going to be dropping, I had no qualms about taking this route back in.

The 25 or so miles had taken me over six torturous hours. It felt so wonderful to get off my feet, not to mention those terrible trails. For all I know, I may have been the first to drop, but I didn't care one bit. I could think of only one word, and I said it over and over: relief! Debbie was there at the campground to take me home. I later learned that Frank dropped at around 50 miles, and Ladd made it to the finish. For me, even though I had badly wanted to finish, everything had changed. I was now just happy to be off my feet.

R to L Dan, Frank, Ladd at Mohican in 2011

And What I Learned from It

    1) I’m not infallible. Based on recent results I felt I had reason to be somewhat confident going in, but nothing is pre-ordained. Sometimes it appears that success breeds success, but success doesn’t last forever. Neither does failure.
    2) A lot can happen in a day’s worth of running. Much of it is bad. Some of it (like injuries) can be so bad that it’s impossible to go on. This applies to nearly everyone and anyone. I now believe that it was the Plantar Fasciitis and road shoes that got me. I must have been favoring my left foot, and this led the other pain and fatigue.
    3) A runner should recognize his or her strengths and weaknesses. This doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t try different things or get out of our comfort zone, but we should at least know our limitations. I’ve had limited success on trail runs and typically do better on roads. This trail run was simply not my cup of tea.
    4) Besides preparation and good luck, finishing an event like this does require a great deal of perseverance. I greatly admire those who can manage to complete such a thing. Mohican (and several others) are not just 100 miles. They’re 100 miles over rough terrain. Yet, Ladd and several others made it. I'm in awe.
    5) My friends had tried to help, and they were disappointed for me (for, not in) when I dropped. I should also mention that my friend Patrick Fisher had been ready to pace me for the final 23 miles. I'd been thinking that there would be none better. Ultrarunners are the best people, period. There, I did say it again.
    6) I should have stuck with my pledge. On the other hand, maybe I needed to be brought down to earth. It was great to see Debbie there when I quit; I was sorry to disappoint her most of all, but of course she was proud of me no matter what.