#easternstates100

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2017 Eastern States 100 mile endurance run

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Eastern States 100 | 2017

2017 Eastern States 100: Steep, Loose, Slippery, HARD.

 Sitting here 4 days after finishing the Eastern States 100 mile endurance run (slowly), I’m still at a loss for exactly what happened this past weekend.  I knew when I signed up for this race nearly a year ago that it would be tough, but really how hard could it be? 33% finishing rate, those people must just be weak or unprepared, I thought.  Think again.  I read the race reports, watched the YouTube videos, and heard the stories, studied the elevation profile and slowly but surely I started to believe the hype.  

I’ve never been one to train ‘specifically’ for an event.  I tend to take the generalist approach to training for ultras, integrating cross training and HIIT workouts which I historically supplement for miles of running, but this time was different.  3 months leading up to the ES100, I found myself driving to the Appalachian Trail 3 or 4 days a week after work and on weekends to train.  For the first time in my “running” career, I was training 25-30 mile weeks in the trails and then cross training on the days I would not hike/run.  Friends and family would ask from time to time, “Do you think you’re ready?”  And for just about any other ultra I’d shrug it off and say, “Yeah it can’t be that bad”, but this time I would say, “I don’t think anyone can fully be ready for this.”  And that’s the mindset I had approaching this race.  102.9 of the most brutal, rocky, slippery, wet, hot, humid, off-camber slanting, feet pounding, leg twisting ascents and descents of single track trail I’ve ever seen.  It makes the Appalachian Trail seem like a walk through Central Park.  This race scared me to think about, it frustrated me, made me anxious at times, but ultimately it humbled me, and I think that’s exactly the mindset anyone looking to tackle this beast needs to attack it with.  At the end of the day, everyone who even attempts this type of a race is a risk taker. Plain and simple.  You’re signing up for something you know very little about and hoping that when the time comes, you have what it takes to endure and persist.

I’m going to skip the night before the race, it was largely just people camping restlessly near the start line and packing and re-packing their packs and drop bags.

The race began with a short stretch or asphalt (about a mile), and then bottlenecked into a single track trail that would have been tough to hike during the daylight, much less at 5:00 AM in the dark.  This trail slanted from left to right and like the rest of the course, was carved directly into the side of a mountain.  You see, there’s 3 primary things you should know about Pennsylvania hiking trails… 1. They’re rocky.  And each rock is loose and will break in in half if you’re not careful.  2. They don’t switchback much at all. They take the direct approach to getting up the mountain… straight up it.  It’s not uncommon to be on your hands and knees climbing up the broad side of a mountain or sliding on your butt directly down it… toboggan style. 3.  Every trail is off-camber, and slants drastically to one side or the other. If you’re not careful, you could very easily fall off of the mountain.  I’m not joking, someone broke their hip in this very predicament.  

It’s said that the first 17 mile is the toughest and slowest section, and that might be, I don’t really know. I can tell you this though, you won’t care how tough it was when you get to mile 75 and still have a marathon left to go.  The first 17 miles are definitely tough.  They’re frustrating as heck mentally too because these are the miles where you’re “fresh” (whatever that means in this race), and yet after your first climb and about 7 miles in you’re already feeling wrecked.  I can tell you everyone I saw out there around miles 7-10 felt this exact same way.  You’re climbing the type of terrain that Billy goats wouldn’t even mess with and all the while you’re already worrying about cutoffs.  This race hits you hard and hits you fast, and there’s no way around it. This sentiment was felt by most of the runners I was in contact with throughout the race.  The lack of switch backing on trails in the Allegheny National Forest cannot be overlooked.  The climbs were straight up the mountain, and the descents were straight down the mountain.  The 2nd aid station around mile 11 didn’t have Tailwind, which was not favorable.  Furthermore, this was not a drop bag location and thus I couldn’t revert to my Gatorade Endurance carb mix.  Alas.  I grabbed what I could, mostly chips and M&M’s and several shots of Coca-Cola and headed out across the trestle bridge across the Susquehanna River. 

After a few more ups and downs through single track mountain trails, you do eventually catch a slight break after your first marathon from about miles 25-31.  This stretch was largely gravel fire roads and ATV trails.  I climbed and descended quite a bit more until finally I hit the “Halfway House” around 2230 with a bad headlamp and a drop bag that was never brought to that aid station.  I don’t know who or how it was overlooked it, but 1 of my 6 drop bags never made it to the aid station.  And therein lies a couple pivotal lessons that any 100 mile ultramarathon finisher will attest to. 1. The importance of having a short memory.  2.  Accepting that rarely does everything go according to plan.  I’m without a jacket for the night, without dry socks, dry shoes, and without my iPod.  For a brief moment I was irritated; 6 drop bags, no crew and they managed to not bring the most important drop bag I had.. the one that would get me through the night.  But then the strangest thing happened to me.  I began laughing for some reason.  Maybe it was lack of calories or salt (make sure you bring lots of both!), but for whatever reason I just laughed, I wasn’t really in the mood for feeling sorry for myself just yet so I grabbed as much food as I could and marched off into the night woods.  I guess the easiest way to put it is this: when things don’t go your way, you’ve got to forget about it, accept it, and move forward; relentlessly forward.  

After about 0.5 mile I realized I had forgotten my trekking poles back at the aid station.  Oh well, whatever, I wasn’t about to go back for them.  I quickly found some decent enough, sturdy but not too heavy sticks in the woods and these would serve as my “trekking poles” until mile 69 where they’d become a casualty of the woods.  Most of the night I spent fast hiking rocky, off-camber sections of narrow trails and humming an annoying traditional Irish drinking song to myself over and over and over again, it was Charlie and the MTA if you’re wondering.  Man, it would have been nice to have that iPod.  Still climbing, still descending, and trying not to trip and fall off a mountain summed up miles 54-62.  

Mile 62 was a lively aid station just outside of an old motel with a large campfire burning, but I wasn’t getting anywhere near that thing.  Put me in a chair in front of a campfire at 2 in the morning unattended & I’ll be out quicker than Charlie Sheen can say ‘winning’ after 3 lines of coke.  This aid station was actually the bomb.  They brought in pizza, which marked the first real meal I had had since mile 25.  Side note: it truly does pay to be a front runner because those lucky a$$holes got their pick of the litter with regards to hot food and well stocked aid stations, lucky for me these volunteers understood our pain and ordered pizza for the tortoise crew as well.  I hiked out of that aid station feeling recharged after stuffing myself full of pizza and loading up on carbohydrate mix and other necessities only to start up a wicked steep ascent.  I don’t know if it was the fact that it was 0300 and I was droning or what but this climb sticks out as one of the tougher ones.  

The entire day and night are spent trying to keep your mind occupied and positive and your feet moving a clip fast enough to make the next aid station.  A little back story on me, I’m not a terribly slow runner.  I’ve done a handful of ultra’s but wouldn’t classify myself as a “runner” per se, however I tend to be a middle of the pack finisher.  This race was totally different.  While I was never minutes from making an aid station, I was rarely an hour ahead of one either.  This became extremely mentally exhausting, and that was no more prevalent than the stretch from miles 69-72.  These 3 miles is the toughest section of trail I’ve ever been on and probably ever will be on.  Calling it a trail at all is generous.  This coupled with the fact that by this point in the race my feet were beyond wrecked and my legs were completely drained made for a slow and painful progression through this segment of rocky, moss covered descent as dawn was approaching.  My make-shift wooden hiking poles that I had found back at mile 54 actually broke during this section and I didn’t bother searching for another pair.  This section certainly slowed many down that day, and by the time they made it to mile 75, many dropped and many did not make the cutoff time.  

The next section of trail wasn’t too bad... for a Pennsylvania mountain trail and I painfully made it to mile 80 by around 0800 on day 2, not able to run but not necessarily walking either, more of a shuffle.  This was an incredible aid station.  Really all of the aid stations were decent, and the enthusiasm from the volunteers cannot go unnoticed.  They truly wanted to get you what you needed so that you could get back up out of their chair and proceed on.  The lack of hot coffee at nigh twas a bummer mentally because there’s something soothing and calming about a hot cup of joe but at any rate, this wasn’t that type of race so I took what I could get, which as far as caffeine goes was shots of Pepsi and Coca-Cola throughout the night.  Not all of the volunteers were ultra-marathoners, which was actually refreshing because they didn’t treat you like you had been hit by a mortar and instead just casually asked how you were.  I remember a lady at this aid station offering me a Red Bull and pancakes with syrup, and I said sure why not!  My feet hadn’t really been patched up since mile 25 and even then the doc told me that I’d just have to deal with it through most of the race because he wouldn’t be out again until mile 86.  So I did.  After that I thanked the volunteers and left.  “Bib 125, out!”.  

Heading toward Skytop was no small feat and it was largely a 5 mile climb to Skytop (mile 86).  The aid station workers said that this climb would be our last climb... yeah right.  It wasn’t and they knew that, but I would have told them the same thing if the roles had been reversed.  Sometimes not knowing what lies ahead is what gets you through it.  Much has been written about the gnarly ascents in this race, but don’t get me wrong for a second, the descents are equally as bad, if not worse.  Imagine descending a mountain on single track trail, now tilt that trail another 10-15 degrees steeper, throw in middle to large loose, moss covered rocks and roots, wet mud, and narrow the trail to 6-12” wide and remove any semblance of switchback you can think of and you’ve got your typical downhill at Eastern States.

The strange thing about this race is that it seemed like I always had 2 hours to get to the next aid station, whether it was a 4 mile stretch or a 7 mile stretch.  This added to the stress of making cutoffs but it kept you in the game as well because you knew that if you hustled to cover 7 miles in 1.5 hours, then you’d be able to bank that extra time for the 4 mile segments.  At any rate, I left mile 86 for a 7 mile stretch into what would be mile 93.  This stretch had a few big climbs and a couple short downs, and one particular creek crossing that I fell into.  My shoes were damp since about mile 3, but I tried to keep them as dry as I could. This didn’t go so well and lead to major foot issues throughout the race and by this point I was in some serious pain due to the loose rock and slippery wet steep conditions.  Hot spots all over my feet, they felt bruised and beyond repair.  I had to try and think about something else but the pain was always there and I was becoming physically and emotionally spent.  I made it to mile 93 with 35 minutes to spare and to be completely honest with you, dropping crossed my mind for the first time.  I sincerely appreciate the woman with the VT 100 hat on for giving me a shot of whiskey and ginger ale and saying the simplest, most no non-sense thing to me which got my head back in the game.  She said to me, “you didn’t come this far to quit now.  Now go get your buckle.”  I was rejuvenated, and actually left that aid station teary eyed with a weird mix of joy and agony, both simultaneously.  When you think you’re at your breaking point, you’re not, even if your mind thinks you are.  And I convinced myself that I was finishing this God awful hard 102.9 mile challenge so that I would NEVER have to come do it again.  At any rate, I carried on trying my best to maintain an 18 minute mile and trotted on out of mile 93 headed for mile 99.  

I got to the final real aid station of the course at mile 99, the Team RWB aid station, proceeded on for another couple of miles and then and it was literally all downhill from there.  And when I say downhill, this sadistic race director saved the roughest, toughest, meanest 1.5 mile straight downhill son-of-a-rock scramble you could ever imagine straight to the bottom of the mountain. 0.5 mile, 1100 foot descent with no switch backing on a rocky downhill directly down the mountain.  Yes, you do pass a rattlesnake den.  They were sitting out tanning on a concrete slab, not bothering anyone.  I was so loopy by this point in the race that I couldn’t care less.  People were stopping to get pictures, although I’m thinking that was the runners’ crews.  I didn’t give a frog’s fat ass about photos at this point I was cussing that race director the entire way down that dirty steep mountain.  Then it was across a field and straight to the finish.  “Make sure you RUN to the finish!!”, the volunteers chanted.  Yeah right guys, wishful thinking.  At any rate I trotted across the grassy field to the finish line.  Unlike at the 2016 Umstead 100, I wasn’t emotional, I guess I didn’t have the energy for it or it hadn’t quite sank in yet.  Unreal.  I had finished the Eastern States 100 miler in 35 hours 19 minutes. Couldn’t be happier to finish this race, and I sincerely thank everyone for the support.  The race director ran out of belt buckles, so mine will be mailed in September... kinda bummed about that but oh well.  It will be a nice surprise in mid September when it comes in the mail.  

A few thoughts on Eastern States 100 mile finishers:

1.  We’re not logical.  People can’t and probably won’t ever be able to understand why we push ourselves through these kinds of pain thresholds and misery.  We live in a society that worships comfort and so for most people, the thought of running 100 miles seems stupid or crazy or just plain dumb.  I’m not sure if this is a defense people use for justifying why they don’t want to try this type of event or if they really just feel that way, but either way... it’s something that is ever present.

2.  We’re not all “runners”.  Yeah 100 miles is a long ways to “run”, no question about it.  But physically it’s possible even for the non-experienced trail runner.  People can’t seem to get this when I tell them that I’m not really a runner at all.  I don’t like running just for fun, I do it from time to time, but it mostly bores me.  I like the challenge that 100 miles brings me physically and mentally; with an emphasis on mentally.  I crosstrain because it’s more fun than running through town.  Nearly everyone I know who is fit can complete a 100 mile run with the right mindset, a never quit attitude, a tolerance for pain, and a well thought out planning strategy.  

3.  100 miles is the great equalizer.  You can tangibly observe an athlete in the gym who can likely lift a lot of weight.  You might even be able to spot a swimmer or a cross country runner, but spotting a 100 mile finisher, good luck.  They come in all shapes and sizes and ages.  I’ve seen 50 year old 250 lb men finish Eastern States hours before me.  I’ve seen 70 year olds who can run circles around 30 year olds.  I’ve also seen tough, geared up, studded out athletic looking 20 something year olds drop out at mile 50.  100 miles isn’t what you might expect.