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?" 

   

Crash Course in Pacing

My head hit the pavement so hard I thought I had knocked all my teeth out. I popped up off the ground, adrenaline rushing through my veins, and kept shouting, “Are my teeth ok? Are my teeth ok?” Matthew came running back to see if I was alright, and the look on his face told me that he was surprised I was conscious.

We were 26 miles into a 30 mile run that I was bike pacing, and I had taken a fall off the bike, landing full force on the right side of my head.  So much for rolling into a fall. My hands never left the handlebars.  I guess that saved my wrist from breaking, and the helmet saved my brain quite well too. But the impact was astounding.

After Matthew assured me that my teeth were all still in place, my thoughts turned to the matter at hand. I may have royally screwed up the last four miles of this run, I thought. Pacers are supposed to help the runner, not vice versa, and it was looking like I was the man down.

Ultra runner and coach, Tim Long writes a great blog about running, and in his entry about pacing he calls it “one of the most selfless acts a human can perform.” That certainly wasn’t going to be the case if the guy I was pacing had to carry my bike and me for the last four miles of his long run.

Let me back up. Pacers usually run with an ultra racer, typically for the last half or quarter of a 100 mile run. The pacer is there to help, not hinder, the racer. 

Bike pacing a runner works the same way pacing a runner on foot works.   The pacer leads, goes alongside or follows the runner (runner's choice), offering a predetermined amount of moral support, and company. There are rules about what a pacer can and cannot do, such as mule water or food for the racer, and there are rules about how soon a racer can pick up a pacer, but on this particular day, since it was a training run, we set out together from mile one. It was to be a total of 30 miles, and since I can’t keep up running with Matthew until he is about 70 miles in, I was riding my bike.

All had been going well: there had been no complaints from Matthew, the pace was strong, his body was feeling good and we were cruising to the end. And then I crashed.

As soon as I mentally counted my teeth, I formulated a plan. I would go with the pacers motto of always telling the racer how great he seems/looks, and apply it to myself for the last four miles. That combined with the old adage “if you fall off the bike, get right back on and start peddling again,” helped me to squeak “I’m totally fine, I can ride, no big deal, it’s ok, let’s go!” 

I hurt. My hip hurt, my shoulder hurt, my head now knew the phrase “got my bell rung,” but there was no way I was going to let Matthew know this. For a rather lazy girl, I can be pretty hard core when it comes to pacing.

Not in the dark though. No. Have you ever tried to ride your bike up and down rolling gravel hills on a moonless night without a head lamp? One night, Matthew and I were out on another bike/run, and it became dark before we were able to make it back. And we were in the woods. With a lack of moonlight, and any ambient light being blocked by tree cover, I was flying blind. He was alright. His feet could help him feel each step. I was terrified that I would topple over the handlebars at any moment. Finally, as he disappeared into the darkness ahead of me, I began to walk the bike.  Lesson learned: throw a headlamp into your bag or around your neck if you think you’ll be out anywhere near dusk.     

But the day of The Crash, I was determined. It was the last training run before the Boulder 100 and it needed to have a strong finish. This is why I’m a runner, I thought. You don’t bash your head while running.

Until you do. Another day, I was riding alongside Matthew during a long run with 2 miles to go, when suddenly he hit the dirt with a slam! I jumped off the bike, and looked at him – now lying in the dirt catching his breath. Holy hell! Are you ok, I asked. He said fine, I caught a toe, and he continued to rest there for a few minutes. Turns out, runners can get smashed up too – and they don’t even have helmets on for protection.

The day of The Crash ended well. We finished the 30 miles and ended at a great restaurant where Jeff was waiting for us with food and beverages that we were all happy to enjoy. We might have been a little sore, but there were no complaints because we were looking good, totally fine, and we did it. But it was time to buy a new helmet. 

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