Ode to a Running Partner

"There's a bench up here, let's just sit down for a second." It was the middle of the night, 80 something miles into the Boulder 100 and my running partner was tired. "There's no bench, Matty, let's just keep going." I said, worrying that if we sat down we'd never get up. It was my pacing duty to keep him going, to make sure he made it to the finish line, but he was determined to take a break. He sat down on the bench and managed a laugh. "You thought I was hallucinating this bench didn't you?" And so the story of the bench that appeared out of nowhere became legend. "And we're running along and I saw this bench and I say we should sit down for a second and Clythie thinks I'm hallucinating because she couldn't even see it! How did I end up with a pacer who can't even SEE?" And I would try to say that I just thought we should keep going, and the story always ends with him explaining to the audience that I was the one who was so tired I couldn't see the bench and that I was convinced he was hallucinating when he was completely fine. And we always laugh, at me. I've learned to laugh at myself a lot over the last 6 years that Matthew and I have been running together. Maybe that's what I've given to him. A lot of great laughs, mostly at my expense. I tell him he is awful and he says "You're laughing too." And I say, "Well, if the story was about someone else, I'd be laughing so I guess it *is* funny." And we laugh more. 

We met at work at a winery in Virginia and together with a group from the winery, we joined the Fauquier Running Club. During the day we would haul cases of wine, count wine, clean the winery, pick grapes, bottle wine, plan events, present tastings to customers, whatever the winery needed. And at night, we'd run. Neither of us had been runners growing up, but we were fascinated by it, and we wanted to get better and faster, and soon all we talked about was running and runners and more running. On Tuesdays we'd join for a group run, and on Thursdays, speed work or hill workouts. Before we started training on Thursdays we'd run The Fast Mile. It was an insane mile, starting out from the track downhill through a parking lot, with 2 big turns and then around a baseball field and through the woods, back to the track. We would all run our hearts out. Matthew was always in the top 3-4 finishers. And I was nearly always in the bottom 3-4 runners. And he was always there waiting at the end of The Fast Mile to cheer me in. And after track work or repeatedly climbing Hades Hill, we'd go back to the track and cool down and talk about our lives at the winery and our running and our shin splints and our aching backs and the sun would go down and we'd go home to sleep and wake up for another day of wine and running.  

Soon we signed up for our first race, a 5k in Front Royal, Virginia. Matthew finished first for his age group and I did not finish last and this became somewhat of a pattern for both of us. We've always been unlikely running partners. Not matched in age or pace or gender, but we shared a similar schedule and a love for running and a friendship like no other was born. 

Front Royal 5k. The real genius of this pic is the fact that we were both running in gigantic gym shorts.  

At another 5k, a mountain 5k, which was also our first trail race, by the time I was coming up the last hill, I was exhausted and near tears. Matthew finished racing and came back for me, as was now tradition, and started shouting. "YOU CAN CRY LATER. FINISH FIRST! RUN NOW! RUN!" And that day we both won age group medals. Full disclosure, his was first place and mine was for 3rd place in a field of 3 women in my age group. But I wouldn't have even made it to the finish line without him. That medal means more to me than 3rd out of 3. It's the one that reminds me to run through the pain, cry later, finish, run NOW. 

This picture was taken moments before they called my name to come pick up my medal. Needless to say I was surprised. 

We flew out to California and ran America's Finest City Half Marathon, the furthest we'd ever run in our lives at the time. My brother and Matthew finished and came back to run me in. Matthew would do that again for me a couple of months later at the Annapolis Half, a race which gave us both Half Marathon PRs and dual hangovers - the Annapolis runners know how to throw a great after party.

Big smiles after our first Half Marathon

And even bigger smiles after our second Half Marathon, double PRs and a few beers too.

I crewed for him at the Bull Run 50 Miler and when he started training for Boulder 100, I'd do my long runs (for Half Marathon training for Reston and Chicago) on Saturdays and then pace him with my bike on his long runs (17-30 miles) on Sundays. 

Between races, we'd run trails, always creating a great adventure out of a run. We'd start and end at the same place and run our own paces and then report back afterward. "I had a great run today, Matty!" I'd say, excited about how great I felt. "Yeah? Do that for 3 days in a row and report back to me again," he'd reply. Or he'd give me sage advice, "You, know, Clythie, if you want to run faster, you're going to have to run faster." He always pushes me, always encourages me to be better, work harder, not to let up. And I've always, I don't know? Been there for him?  Laughed with him? I can't keep up with him, even when he's tired. But we somehow help each other out. 

We've run many many miles on the Appalachian Trail, on the W&OD, the C&O Canal, through Rock Creek Park, in the mountains in West Virginia and at running camp in Colorado, and too many races together to recount. Despite the fact that we rarely run the same pace, we always run together. There's more to running together than matching pace. We're each other's running support system.

And now, in four days, I'm moving to San Diego and Matthew and I will no longer be running together. For 6 years we have run together and now we'll be 3,000 miles and 3 hours time change apart. How do you say goodbye to the best running partner on the planet? Hopefully with more laughs than tears but it won't be easy.  

I suppose it won't be that strange after we get used to it. After all we don't really run together. At least, that what I've been telling myself. And I'll have my brother and my sister in law, who are both amazing runners, and I have a group of wonderful running girlfriends in California. And I'll join a new running group. And Matthew has his friends in Woodley Ultra Society and other friends who  he runs with as well. And we'll plan running vacations and meet up for races and we'll see each other, not every day like we're used to, but we'll make it happen as often as we can, and we'll be there for each other as much as possible, like all running partners are. And we'll run at our own paces, and catch up with each other at the end and he'll likely elbow me and say, "Remember when you thought I was hallucinating that bench at the Boulder 100?" 

   

Boulder 100

Matthew and I arrived at the Boulder Reservoir for a recon run, the day before the Boulder 100. The race would consist of 14+ 7.14 mile loops around the Reservoir with two well stocked aid stations and no elevation gain to speak of. Flat and fast with no worry of getting lost in the mountains in the middle of the night. It sounded like a pretty great course for a first 100 attempt.

The recon run proved out a few things. The course was flat. The Reservoir was gorgeous. The elevation was 5,200 feet. That's a fine enough elevation for say, someone from Denver, which sits at 5,000 feet, but East Coast runners can feel it. We looked at each other and said nothing, because we were both breathing harder than usual. And I hadn't even gone on the recon run.

In the days leading up to the race we spent time with Matthew's coach, Tim. I think the general consensus was "Hey - you're going to run this thing regardless of worrying about it or not, so you might as well have fun. And run." Tim has the ability to be the most intense yet laid back guy, so when you talk with him, especially about running, you tend to believe you can accomplish feats of strength, or at least you know that you're going to keep going till you no longer can, *and* you'll likely have a laugh about any nerves leading in.

And hell, I wasn't going to be running - all I had to do was stay awake for 24 hours while handing Matthew food and drink.

Have you ever tried to stay awake for 24 hours and help/support someone at the same time? It's not as easy as you would think, especially without the benefit of speed or cocaine. Jeff and I set up our base camp while Matthew began to race. We clicked off loops as friends arrived to visit us: my dear friend Dayna and her girls, Hannah and Maddy, Jeff's old roommate Matt - it became a bit of a party and we cheered for Matthew every 7.14 miles and wished him well as he headed out for yet another loop.

Things were going fine for the first 50 miles. Matthew wasn't feeling good but he kept it to himself and we told him he looked great every chance we could. He had to check in every loop at the main Aid Station and at the secondary Aid Station on the backside of each loop. I was jotting down splits as well, though I wasn't being as diligent as Bull Run 50, because he had to officially check in at the Aids anyway and they were keeping count.

Darkness fell and the party quieted down, friends went back to their lives and we settled in for the evening. Tim had left and returned, in time to begin pacing at mile 50, after the 7th loop.  Tim and Matthew ran off into the darkness and before we knew it, they were right back to begin another. After another 7+ miles, Tim let Matthew go on his own for the next one, and while Matthew was gone, Tim said, "Clythie, I think you should pace him for a loop."

This was quite unexpected. Matthew is my running partner, but we run our own paces and rarely run together. I was planning on crewing but had never paced before. But like I said, Tim has a way of making you feel like you can accomplish things so, I said yes, and changed into my running clothes and joined in after Matthew had run more than 70 miles.

We headed out onto the course, jogging along and talking a bit, mostly about the light that was coming off of my head lamp, which was bothering Matthew. His eyes had grown used to the darkness so the headlamp bulb was a hindrance. I turned it off and ran along in the dark. I could not see anything. What kind of pacer was I going to be if I was dependent upon my runner to lead me? But quickly my eyes adjusted and we hit the backside Aid, turned around and headed to base camp.

We grabbed a grilled cheese sandwich, chicken noodle soup and coffee, checked in and headed back out, this time walking. We walked and ran and made it around again. We talked and hiked and jogged a bit and Matthew hallucinated and I tried to pretend that it was alright that he was seeing things that were not there, and we kept going. Tim took over for 2 more loops and then switched with me again.

The middle of the night does strange things to the body and mind. Add massive physical exertion, sleep deprivation and cold, and humans just start to break down. Matthew was getting tired. Tim, Jeff and I were getting tired. Things were starting to blur a bit.

At each Aid, Matthew diligently checked in. Sometime in the 70s, he either was not marked for a loop (which another racer, Becca, also complained about) or someone's calculation was off, because Matthew was told several times he had "this many" more loops to go to get to 100, and several times, he was told different numbers. It was confusing and maddening and frustrating and we were all really really tired.      

By the time dawn arrived, The Low had been reached. None of us were sure what number loop he was on, including race officials. Tears were shed. Objects were thrown. But there were moments of rational conversation too: Should he DNF? Should he go on, potentially to race 107 miles? Which was the better choice? We were blearily debating this when Jeff, who had been quietly listening, said, "I'd like to go out for a loop with you, Matthew."

Jeff does not run. He says he'll run only if something is chasing him or if he is chasing something, but that's it. Matthew, Tim and I stopped talking, looked at Jeff and we all nodded. Yes. Jeff should go out and run with Matthew. Jeff took Matthew out into the rising sun, as everyone at the Reservoir began to awaken, and hauled out the fastest loop Matthew had had in hours. It was beautiful. It was what Matthew needed. It was what we all needed. Matthew was going to finish this race.

In the end, he finished. In the end, he won his age group. In the end, we all cried again. And later that night, when none of us could walk very well, we smiled and shook our heads and made a toast to Jeff for turning it all around, and to Matthew for running his first 100 and to Tim for being the best coach ever and to all our friends for coming out to see it happen.  

A good morning beer in one hand, proper hydration in the other. 

Post Race Bliss + Sunburn

Running with the Bulls: A Tale of the Bull Run 50

I set out gear and clothing for the morning, each piece carefully having been decided upon weeks before. Race days are not the time to try out new things. Stress is relieved by knowing in advance what gear you’re using. By planning ahead, you don’t have to think about anything other than the race on race day. But here I was, second guessing myself. Nerves were getting the best of me and I had to tell myself over and over, do not deviate from the plan. You’re ready for this. You’ve prepared. You can do this. It was 9 hours before the start of the Bull Run 50 and I was revved up with fear and stress and excitement and terror.

Just hours before, Matthew and I had attended the pre-race meeting. We were both trying to stay calm, and even though Matthew is, by nature, a much calmer person that I am, I sensed his anticipation too. Here we were, two unseasoned runners amongst a sea of Virginia Happy Trails Club veterans, people who had run the Bull Run 50 over and over again, people who eat the Bull Run 50 for breakfast.  Old and young, they all seemed to know each other. They delighted us with stories of the race and its history. At some point the RD said, “It’s not a question of if you’ll puke, it’s a question of when you’ll puke.” I turned to Matthew and said adamantly, “He’s crazy. You will not puke.”  It was my job to instill confidence in Matthew. I would tell him he would not puke. And the next day, I would tell him he looked great when he did puke. It was my first ultramarathon crewing job and I was determined to do whatever it took to get my runner across the finish line.  

The Bull Run 50 is a fifty mile race on single track dirt and gravel held in Northern Virginia in April, and if Mother Nature is in a good mood, blue bells bloom along the course, creating a sea of flowers that runners cruise through in the forest along Bull Run and the Occoquan River.   

The first challenge is getting into the race. Only 350 runners are given a spot each year, based upon winning lottery numbers chosen due to their proximity to a particular day’s DOW Jones Industrial Rate closing number. Or something like that. By the time I had read the lottery explanation several times, I had gone cross eyed and decided to let them and my fingers remain crossed in the hopes that Matthew would be chosen. I did not have a back up race in mind and neither did he.

As luck (or the stock market) would have it, Matthew was chosen and here we were, he with 6 months of training under his belt, and me with 6 months of reading every crew instruction to the point of memorization, along with every race report I could find, paying particular attention to what runners mentioned about their crews, and a healthy dose of adrenaline, ready to race.

I dropped M off at Hemlock Overlook (no crew allowed at the start) in the pitch dark with a shout of good luck and headed off to find my crewing partner, Alyson. We met up at Starbucks, fueled with espresso and headed to Aid Station 7.2/11.6: Centreville Road.

When you crew a race, RDs give you detailed instructions on where you can and cannot go, when you can and cannot aid your runner and other helpful hints. The instructions for Centerville Road Aid Station are as follows: “Access to this aid station is difficult and dangerous. We recommend that crews skip this station.” OK. Danger. If we skipped this aid station we wouldn’t see Matty until mile 21.5, which was 1.5 miles longer than he had ever run in his life. Shit. We headed to Centreville Road, survived the entry and parked out of the way so we would not bother anyone at the aid station. Before we knew it, Matthew was in and out of the aid at mile 7.2, in the front of the pack, and headed out and then back to us for another stop there at mile 11.6. We switched out his fuel (a combination of maltodextrin and water) and hit the road.

Alyson and I met up with Matthew’s parents at Bull Run Marina, Aid Station 21.1/44.9. I had spent the day with them at The North Face Endurance Challenge the year before and was happy to see them. Matthew’s mom was eagerly anticipating her son’s arrival at 21.5 with a typical mother’s concern and his dad was puffed out to “here” with pride that his son was running a 50 mile race. M came rolling into the aid in the same group as before, looking pretty good, albeit a bit tired. He sat down with us and took a longer break than we had planned for but he eventually ran on down the trail and we moved on as well.

Next stop was Fountain Head Park, Aid Station 28.1/37.9. We waited and waited and started to see familiar runners coming in and then in came Matthew, running up to me with the words breathlessly pouring out of his mouth, “I-just-puked-four-times-and-diarrhea.”

The job of a crew is to get their runner across the finish line. Pacers can do it in a more physical manner, by actually running with the racer, but crew meets the racer at each (allowed) Aid Station and offers him or her a series of previously planned out items, like a fresh fuel bottle or hydration pack, some food, first aid, a change of shoes or clothing. Crew also writes down splits, and gives the racer a run-down of exactly what has been happening with the race since the last aid station. “Here is your time, you’re doing awesome. These runners are in front of you, this guy just dropped, the next section has 2 small hills, the next aid station is 7 miles from here, and you look AWESOME.” You get the picture. Crew always tells the racer that he looks AWESOME. And that he is going to be just fine. And that he is doing GREAT. No matter how the racer is doing, and no matter how he actually looks, unless he is literally going to die, the crew will always tell the racer that he is doing just great. And then it’s the crew’s job to push the racer out of aid as quickly as possible.      

So. Here we were at mile 28.1. Eight point one miles further than Matthew had ever raced before and he, by his report to me, despite still looking strong, was internally depleted, dehydrated and weak. OK. I was prepared for this. I took him by the arm and said the magic words. I pulled out the trump card, gave him the golden ticket, the magic medicine of ultra running, “Coca-Cola.” 

It was at this point that something unanticipated happened. You learn things from every race. You learn that you cannot know every single thing that will happen ahead of time. You have to be able to anticipate the unexpected and react in real time. I definitely did not anticipate that while assisting my runner, his mother and my crewing partner would turn into mama bears, attempting to shield their cub from the evils of the world. Simultaneous to my utterance of the word that would fix all that ails, “Coca-Cola,” Matthew’s mother started muttering that he should quit, while Alyson started talking about how Coke is very bad for your health. Both of them were hovering in close proximity to Matthew. This could not be. Both were new to crewing. Both were probably in some world correct in their commentary and with their concerns. But neither are ultrarunners. Neither knew the rules: No quitting except in the case that death is impending, No arguing against the crew chief, No negative comments in front of the runner. Even if he is your kid. Even if you are a personal trainer and know correctly that Coke is not *the best* health drink on the planet in normal life.  I had made an error in not listing out these rules before the race began. I won’t do it again. You learn something at every race.

I had to act quickly. Seeing one’s mother fret about you is not good for a racer’s mentality. Getting a health lecture is a distraction that won’t assist in completing the race. I gently took Matthew’s arm, led him away from his mother and Alyson, and whispered to him again, “Coca-Cola.”

People who don’t understand ultras don’t understand ultras. Hell, people who do understand ultras sometimes don’t even understand ultras. So of course my racer’s mom was going to flip out when her kid was reporting body breakdown with 20+ miles to run. Of course Alyson, who is a personal trainer and writes about world health issues for a living, would want Matthew to consume only the best of things during his race (and always).

The body can do and take a lot. And I knew that the likely reason Matthew’s stomach had freaked out was because he had eaten too much or he had eaten the wrong thing. It didn’t necessarily mean that he had to stop running as long as he wanted to go on. And he did want to go on. Hopefully just meant that we had to get something into his system to get him through the next 20 miles. Enter the savior: Coke. It works. It offers calories and sugar and a little bit of magic. Especially if it’s a little flat. Take a poll of everyone you know who has competed in anything longer than a 50K and I am guessing you’re going to get a 99% Yes to Coke response. Matthew drank some Coke, and we filled a handheld half way with it as well, and sent him along with another one filled with water.

We waited patiently for his return at the Aid, which he would double back to at Mile 37.9. He came back before too long and looked good again – no problems and with a quick stop, continued on. I was happy to see him looking strong and to see so many now familiar faces cruising through 37.9 One more aid station to go and he’d be on his way to the finish.

We drove back to Bull Run Marina and set up our crew station at the Aid Station Mile 44.9.  Mid-pack runners started coming in. To put it mildly, it was a shit show. I remember feeling shock at seeing some of the runners’ faces as they hobbled into 44.9. The lightheartedness of the 37.9 Aid was gone. The last bit of trail into 44.9 was “up” hill (so mild you would not even think of it as a hill on a regular day) and we watched runner after runner struggle to the top. Matthew came in and took a seat at our little station. We helped him get refreshed and talked about the next 5 miles. “Everyone is looking really strong, including you.” I said. “You are doing great. You are doing awesome. I know you’re tired, but that’s understandable, and you are going to rage the last 5 miles.” He wanted to sit a little longer. (Who wouldn’t, man? 44.9 miles is a long bike ride even.) “You have to go now. If you want me, or your dad or Alyson or someone to go with you, OK, but either way, you have to go now.” It’s tough to be a best girl friend and want to hug a person so hard and at the same time know you cannot do that, and that you have to tell him to GTFO ASAP.  Guess what? Off that badass mo fo went running into the woods.

The finish line at Bull Run 50 is a party. There’s a band, there’s BBQ, there’s beer and there are a TON of people. It’s really exciting and people cheer like crazy for every single finisher that crosses the line. It’s a festival of ultrafamilies. Matthew came running out of the woods and down the hill to the finish line looking AWESOME. I didn’t have to make it up. He really did look GREAT. He finished his first 50 miler with a big huge smile on his face.  I was smiling as well - for him and for myself – I had proudly finished my first ultra that day too. 

Crew and Racer Happy at the Finish - Bull Run 50 Miler