From 9:00 AM December 29, 2001, to 9:00 AM January 1, 2002, the Arizona Road Racers staged the nineteenth annual Across the Years 72, 48, and 24-hour races, at Canyon State Academy in Queen Creek, Arizona. It was an weekend of falling records and miracles.
My first encounter with the event was on December 31, 1998, when I visited the race in progress out of curiosity, and fell in love with the ambiance. Little did I know then that it would become my favorite event. Now, it seems, I'm about to become the race's poster boy. (See the last subheading and Republic article above.) But I left the site that day determined that I would be back the next year, and would somehow be involved with the race, even if only as a volunteer.
The 1999 edition of ATY was special because of the Y2K rollover. For this the 72-hour race was replaced by a 6-day race. I volunteered during the running of the race, and ran the 24-hour race myself on the last day, my first attempt at such a feat. Last year I returned to run the 48-hour race, and this past weekend I participated in the 72-hour race.
On Friday, December 28, I packed my car full of the stuff I would need to sustain me through 72 hours of running, and took off for Queen Creek with my daughter and helper Cyra-Lea. On the way we picked up fellow 72-hour runner Marc Witkes, from Durango, Colorado.
As the first runners to arrive, we had our pick of locations. After staking down my tent, I noticed that the stripe marking the middle of the soccer field ran so exactly through the middle of the tent that I couldn't have gotten it closer if I'd done it deliberately. I'd assembled myself a comfy little one-bedroom condo with a front porch, stocked with every piece of gear I might possibly need, square in the forefront of what would soon become a tent village. The luxury of such comfort is possible for me only at a local race. Most runners, especially those who fly in from out of state, have to manage with whatever they can drag onto an airplane.
Because I live barely an hour's drive away, my plan was to sleep in my own comfortable bed the night before the race, and prepare for the run at home. After a meal of home-grilled salmon, I was in bed by 9:00 PM. I set the alarm for 6:00 AM, even though after nine hours of sleep I wouldn't need an alarm. Remarkably, I slept soundly. When I awoke I had to think about it for a minute to remember what it was I had to do that day. Oh yeah, get up and start running and walking for three days straight. No problem.
For me the most complicated part of getting ready on race day is preparing my feet. My routine is: to apply tincture of benzoin on the balls of my feet, and two other areas where I'm prone to experience rubbing; cover that with Elastikon tape; put talcum powder around the edges to reduce stickiness in places not covered by the tape; slather the exposed part of both feet with Bag Balm; roll on a single pair of women's half-height nylons (which I find to be surprisingly comfortable, but don't worry, you won't see me wearing them on the street); and over that put on a pair of SmartWool cushioned running socks. Custom orthotics go into the shoes, under the inserts. The tape will stick for days, even through showers.
On December 29, I arrived at Canyon State Academy precisely at 8:00 AM, with plenty of time to organize the remaining things I'd brought, lay out my aid table, check in, and chat with arriving runners, many of whom I know from other races and the running email lists.
Before the race Marc Witkes introduced me to the Lithuanian runner Rimas Jakelaitis, who now lives in Queens. Rimas is an ordinary-looking man with glasses. He looks like an accountant, and seems younger than his claimed 46 years. Later, after seeing him run for three days, I concluded that he is really part Martian hamster.
When Rimas walked away, Marc informed me: "Rimas will win the 72-hour." Oh. Maybe we didn't need to run the race then, and save ourselves a lot of trouble? I should have recognized his name as one of the greatest superultra runners in the world, one who wins Sri Chinmoy races of 1000 miles and longer.
The race clock is set to watch time, not race time. At exactly 9:00 AM the 72-hour race began. Some early starting 48-hour and 24-hour runners also took off at this time. A minute before the start, 67-year-old race founder Harold Sieglaff, who has now completed all nineteen races, reminded me that we don't need starting blocks for this race. When race director Paul Bonnett said Go!, several of the starters had not even gotten to the starting area yet. What was the big rush?
The skies were drearily overcast during the daylight hours of the first day, as temperatures went no higher than the mid-fifties. That night the cold was not as bad as previous experience had suggested it might be. The day passed, new acquaintances were made, old ones renewed, and the miles gradually accumulated.
One unique advantage that Across the Years enjoys is participation by two medical professionals as runners. Jordan Ross, an osteopathic physician and 24-hour runner, was present for most of the race, along with associates and medical students, and provided osteopathic adjustments to runners who needed them. Christopher O'Laughlin, who ran the 72-hour race, is a nurse, and was also available to provide medical services as needed.
By 4:00 PM on the first day I noted that I seemed to have tired out more quickly than I should have, and was already dragging my feet. Jordan caught up with me and said he'd noticed, and had alerted his people to keep an eye on me. He suggested I stop by the table for a tune-up, which I did after only one more lap. The result of a few exquisite yanks, pushes, pops, and pulls was surprisingly effective, as I suddenly found myself running upright and no longer scraping my right foot on every step.
A month ago I ran 90-95% of a 50-mile run, proving to myself that I can keep going. Perhaps I also undid myself more than I wanted to admit at the time, because I've been tired and did little quality running during December, resulting in my gaining three or four infuriating pounds during the taper period. On Saturday I ran steadily for the first seven hours of the race, and thereafter ran only intermittently on the first day, but walked when I could. I spent little time loafing or dealing with unnecessary matters.
Suzy and Cyra-Lea had obligations to tend to that Saturday morning, so did not come to the track until the afternoon. They lasted until 6:00 PM, by which time it was nearly dark and getting ominously cold quickly. The temperature that night remained reasonable, but with the moisture and small amount of wind, it was no place to be sitting and doing nothing. Both of them supported me until after midnight when I ran 24 two years ago, and decided that in the future they'd prefer not to do that any more. Fair enough. Last year I learned how to go most of the time without a support crew, so was prepared to spend my nights going solo. Suzy and Cyra-Lea returned Sunday afternoon, and then again early Tuesday morning, for the conclusion of the race.
All three nights proved to be extremely difficult for me. In contrast, all the daytimes were pleasant, despite the weather on the first and third days. Because of the time of year that Across the Years is run, there are thirteen hours of darkness in each 24-hour period. The eons of stress and doubt outlast the periods of sunshine, frolic, and hope.
The best support the multi-day runners have is each other. In a three-day race, most runners do more walking than running, and a few walk the whole thing. This gives them opportunity to travel together and get acquainted, which in turn leads to a sense of community in the small village of runners. The 24-hour runners, some of whom run hard from beginning to end, don't have quite the same opportunity, nor do they have as much time available to enjoy this aspect of the sport.
Last year, in the 48-hour, I had grand notions about lasting for 36 hours, or at least to 100 miles, without stopping for sleep. When I knew I wouldn't make my goal for the day, I went to sleep for two hours. I should have learned my lesson then, but didn't. This year I'm in better shape than last year, and figured I should be able to go to 100 miles or 30 hours. This is not a bad strategy for an experienced trail runner, but is a mighty poor idea for a talentless multi-day geezer hoping to last three days.
At 9:35 PM I stopped to take my first nap. I learned the hard way that the way to do this is not to sleep in sweaty clothes in a sleeping bag with piles of heavy blankets on top. The salt buildup on my skin left me feeling grossly funky, and when I reluctantly forced myself to get up, I was drenched with sweat from being too warm under the covers. Getting warm again is not simply a matter of slipping on a clean shirt. I found it prudent to towel off and change clothing completely. When I started moving around the track again, it took at least fifteen minutes to get moving sufficiently that I felt like I was back in gear. But the truth is, I rarely felt comfortable during the nights.
At 5:00 AM I went down for my second nap, fighting the urge to try for 75 miles for the first day. Last year my first day total was 71 miles, with one nap. This year I reached 67 miles, with two naps.
The entire three days I found it impossible to sleep longer than one hour at any given stretch. The conditions were too uncomfortable, and there was too much noise and commotion in the vicinity. Fortunately, whenever I lay down, I was able to fall asleep quickly and to sleep soundly for that period.
The mechanics of staying organized, shuffling clothing, and keeping things straight in my tent, are significant time-eaters. If I'd had the luxury of a full-time crew, I would have saved myself a couple of hours total in the course of three days, but I didn't have that, nor did most runners, so there is no use complaining about it.
Sunday morning at 9:00 AM most of the 48-hour runners and a few more early-starting 24-hour runners began their races. I took some easy laps and paused to take pictures of the new people with my digital camera.
The cloud cover cleared overnight. The weather Sunday was anomalously warm. During the daytime the temperature soared to 78. Personally, I prefer it a little too warm during the day, if it means that the temperature will be warmer at night. By 2:15 PM I concluded that if I continued running, I would drain myself dry. Instead, I opened both ends of the tent, stripped down to running shorts, laid on top of my cot with a sponge of cool water on my chest, and fell instantly asleep. When I awoke at exactly 3:00 PM, the temperature had already dropped into the acceptable comfort zone. Getting started again was the easiest of such occasions during the race.
The second night was ultimately the hardest time of all. The first part went quite well. I changed clothes before heading back out, so was fresh, warm, and dry. Also, I decided to walk only, and do no running, for the rest of the 24-hour period. This worked well until I passed the 100-mile point. Because I was not running, my clothing was relatively dry and comfortable. Sometime after 12:30 AM, a cold front passed through, and I quickly became miserable. For the rest of the night it was a constant struggle to keep warm, and to avoid staggering from sleepiness.
In retrospect, my biggest problem the entire race was what I will describe as a lack of efficient sleep. The second night I fell asleep perhaps six times, for periods of five minutes to half an hour. This was normally preceded by a period of exceptionally slow progress, sometimes weaving around on the track rather than moving straight ahead. Recovery after sleep was little better. The object of a nap was to get enough good quality sleep in one chunk to set me up for a sustained effort, but several times it didn't happen at all, and I floundered as a consequence.
By the end of the second day, I had accumulated 117 miles, better by one mile than my 48-hour total last year, but thirteen miles less than I had hoped for. Even so, it was apparent that I would make my minimum goal of 150 for the race, and this I found encouraging.
It really is a miraculous thing the way we are built to function in cycles. Regardless of my nighttime struggles and growing exhaustion, each time morning came, my energy revived, and I was able to operate through the daylight hours as though I'd had more sleep than was evident.
Sunrise Monday brought the beginning of the third and biggest day, when all the 72-hour runners, all but a couple of 48-hour runners, and the majority of the 50 24-hour runners were all on the track at once. For most of that morning conditions were a little crowded, especially as the fresh and faster-moving 24-hour people aggressively vied for position. Just after 9:00 AM I took the opportunity to nap again, followed by a refreshing shower.
It was impossible to ignore the presence of the circus that had been set up on the far side of the field. Returning to ATY for the second time was the controversial running group led by Yo Tizer, formerly called Divine Madness, though Tizer himself prefers the term the Community.
It's not my intent here to detail or explain the methods of the group. For one thing, all I really know myself is that they constitute what most people would consider a fringe group, and some persons have described them as a cult, a word I know from personal experience is often badly misapplied.
Whatever opinion one might have of their methods, one point is inarguable: they have turned out some outstanding ultrarunners.
The overall winner of the 24-hour race was 24-year-old Joseph Gaebler, with 129.49 miles, running his first ultramarathon ever; the winner of the women's race was 43-year-old Janet Runyan, with 127.01 miles, who set a 200K age group record in the process; and 33-year-old Brenda Klein, an entertainingly sprightly and engagingly attractive lady with determination, who with the help of her handlers, chanted and sang and danced her way to 108.86 miles, while attracting the most eyeball attention of anyone on the track. Even Yo himself acquired over 53 miles before calling it quits for the rest of the race to give full time attention to his role as mentor.
The runners may not have been able to do as well had it not been for the support of the team of six or eight handlers who functioned with the precision of a pit crew at Daytona, performing each task with an apparently sincere smile, unselfishness, and unflagging dedication. Any time I spoke to any of these runners or their handlers during the race, the response was pleasant and warm.
We are obliged to admire this behavior for the sake of the results it brings. So what is it about human nature that causes us to raise a skeptical eyebrow and distrust people who act like they love one another?
One negative tendency I observed was that Yo's runners seemed so intent on winning or reaching their goals that they insisted on owning the inside lane at all times, even though it was announced at the start that the policy was that slower runners do not need to step aside for faster runners, as though their goals or the state they are at in the race (e.g., exhausted and reduced to walking only) were somehow inferior. Many times I was running slowly or walking by myself on the inside lane when one of Yo's runners would call out, "On your right!" (or left, depending on which direction we were traveling), obliging me to step aside. That wasn't supposed to happen, but I never complained about it. I imagine I was not the only person who objected to this behavior, though.
Another runner whose performance should not be overlooked was Bob Sweeney from New York, a lightning fast guy. He rocketed around the course with a smile for hour after hour at what must have been a sub-7:00 pace most of the time, taking only a few short rests. He was there with his wife and baby daughter, and told me during a walk break he had a plane to catch, so would be able to stay at most for 20 hours. He finally left just after midnight, having accumulated 81.03 miles, satisfied that he'd had a good training run. I know nothing about his background, but his running is clearly in the elite category. Furthermore, he didn't push others out of his way when passing them, but just took the shortest path available.
Monday, December 31, after somehow surviving a second night that was even more trying than the first, the weather was cold and cloudy once again. It threatened to rain for a while, but never did. I got off the track for a while at the beginning of the last day, to make room for those 24-hour runners who mistakenly thought they had entered the roller derby. By afternoon, the congestion cleared, as people began taking breaks.
The dreaded long nighttime came once again. It was cold and I was exhausted. Situation normal.
In retrospect I learned that the thing that helped me most through the rough spots was walking and conversing with other runners. Several times I caught up with Dennis Kranz just for the fun of listening to him chatter for a while, and because he didn't seem to mind. I also had enjoyable chats with Gregor Knauer, Marc Witkes, Chris O'Loughlin, David Upah, and 24-hour runners Alene Nitzky and Laura Nagy. In training I almost always run alone, and normally prefer it that way. But at 3:00 AM for the third cold night in a row one's sense of loneliness is intensified, and human contact helps greatly to alleviate it.
The identifying feature of ATY that gives it its name is that it traverses the rollover to a new year. By 9:00 PM, balloons and party decorations begin to appear on the track. Normally, all the runners in the race become active at that time, and time things so they can be present in the aid station area for a couple of minutes of noise-making, drinking sparkling cider, and customary New Year's Eve hoopla, followed by a few fireworks.
Since I avoid these activities myself, the last two years I've arranged to be on the opposite side of the field, running a lap, when midnight came. This year I sat on the chair in my tent with the flap wide open and took pictures of folks clowning around while I rested. Since there is a race in progress, these things last no more than five minutes, after which it suddenly becomes eerily quiet, as the runners get back to the task at hand, namely finishing the last nine hours of a difficult endurance race.
Desperate to get some sleep that would rejuvenate me, on the final night I tried several tricks, including dragging a blanket into the lobby and sleeping on a cot that the school put out for our use.
The thing that finally worked was sitting on my chair in the tent with a couple of thick blankets on my lap, looking through the door at runners passing by, as though looking out a window. I fell asleep leaning on the stack of blankets, and when I awakened, didn't have to worry about rearranging clothing, or putting shoes back on my feet, but was able to just get up and shove off. Suddenly I felt better.
At 4:00 AM a teenage boy appeared outside the fence on the north side of the track, wearing only a short sleeve rock and roll t-shirt without a coat in the 33-degree weather. The school where the race is held is out in the middle of nowhere, not in the midst of a populated urban area, where it would attract the attention of people in the neighborhood. There is no neighborhood — just empty fields, an industrial site next door, a cow pasture on the other side, and train tracks across the street. If it were not that it was New Year's Eve, the boy's presence in that location at that time of day would be weird.
As I rounded the curve he called from the other side of the fence: "Hey!" I ignored him. "Hey! What are you doing here?" I slowed down and asked him to repeat himself. His tone sounded vaguely like he thought we didn't belong there and wanted to chase us off. "Why are you people walking around in there?" The runner behind me picked up the ball and explained that there was a race in progress, and invited him in. As I came around on the other side, I saw the boy standing by the aid station, which was being tended to by four infinitely-cooler-than-him teenagers, and gawking at the goings on. Apparently he was looking for his next New Year's Eve party. He should have started doing laps and joined in the fun. It probably would have improved his life more than whatever else he'd been doing that night. He didn't stay around.
Suddenly, about 5:00 AM, I came alive again, and began walking with pizzazz. At 5:30 I exploded with renewed energy from an unknown source. It may have been a burst of adrenaline stimulated by the knowledge that I was getting close to the end, and that I was going to make a pretty good showing for my effort, finishing well above my minimum goal, though still a few miles short of my ideal of 180.
For the last three and a half hours of the race I did not stop once for anything, not to go to the bathroom, not to pick up food from the aid station, not even to drink water. My body was telling me to get moving, not to consume things.
The end of a fixed-time event has a special sort of excitement to it, as people begin to estimate the energy and time they have left, and calculate how many more laps they can squeeze out in the final hour. I had been cranking as hard as I could, walking for hours without tiredness, and the end was near. With sixteen minutes left I began to run the straight sections and walk the curves, and I managed to run the final two laps at a decent clip. I completed my last lap at just past 8:57:54, not quite enough time to get one more, so like the others who were quitting, I instantly became a part of the cheering crowd hollering for the last runners trying to get in before the clock expired.
The last runner to make it in under time was 24-hour winner Joseph Gaebler, who ran the last lap with only about 1:15 to go, beating Dead Runners Society email list star Carl Jess by only two laps.
In the end I completed 678 laps, for a total distance of 168.515544 miles, good enough for sixth place overall of the fifteen competitors who tried hard, and three more who put in token fun run miles. Woowoo!
The six decimal points of precision is simply a reflection of the way the software calculates the distance based on a conversion from metric. The reality is that the final distance for all runners is determined by the total number of whole laps covered. Therefore, there were two ties in the 24-hour race despite the six-decimal precision.
As predicted, Rimas Jakelaitis won the 72-hour race with 261.22 miles, smashing the previous course record previously held by Canadian superultra star Al Howie by just after midnight on the third day. After that Rimas crawled into his tent and wasn't seen again until 7:00 AM, as it was getting light, after which he just walked the last two hours. Even taking it easy at the end he won by a margin of 53.69 miles over Dennis Kranz, the first fully human competitor. With all due respect to Dennis and all the others of us who came in behind Rimas, it makes you wonder how far he could have run if the field had been ready to challenge the assumption that he would win.
After a long race people always quote Bob Dylan when they ask: "How does it feel?" It's a fair question. I feel like a survivor of a train wreck, thank you very much.
I'm in as good shape as I ever get. Therefore, writing from the perspective of January 2, the day after the race, the amount of muscle soreness I feel is minimal. It's more like a sense of fatigue and depletion, mainly in my quadriceps. My feet survived with only one blister under a toenail, which was not painful. This morning I drained it, and it seems to be recovering fine.
Structurally I'm a little out of whack and could use another osteopathic adjustment. However, I went to the gym this afternoon and walked comfortably for over two miles, then stretched, with no signs of any difficulties.
The biggest danger in such a run comes from compromising one's immune system. The endocrine and other subsystems of the body are stressed to the max from continuous strenuous exercise, lack of sleep, and shoveling in endless quantities of food, most of it not exactly haute cuisine. Sometimes the body can't keep up with the demands being put on it, and in the days or weeks that follow a tough race of this type, a runner will get sick with a cold or flu.
After chasing around in chilly weather for three days straight I definitely have a bit of a low grade cough and a run-down feeling. I've been popping vitamin C and echinacea to combat it, and I believe I will get away without becoming outright sick, though it will be important for me to be sure to get enough rest and to eat properly for the next few weeks, until I'm fully recovered.
I'm not planning on doing much more than token running or walking for a couple of weeks. Exercising lightly is a vital part of the healing and recovery process, and is much better than completely abstaining from physical activity. The danger for a trained athlete is that there is always a temptation to do too much too soon.
This morning (Wednesday) I got a telephone call from a reporter at the Arizona Republic, Arizona's biggest newspaper. Paul Bonnett had given him my phone number. After a brief chat, he arranged to call me back later this afternoon, at which time he interviewed me for twenty minutes, asking an array of reasonably intelligent questions, and also a few that weren't so bright, such as: "Would you say a person has to be a bit nutty to take up a sport like that?" It was a loaded question, and I wouldn't bite.
I told him no. Something is not nutty just because it's unusual or difficult. Multi-day ultrarunning is clearly not for everyone. But there's nothing whatever abnormal or wacko about it. To say that there is would be an insult to the large proportion of professionals, scientists, teachers, medical workers, and similarly intelligent people who inhabit the sport.
The Arizona Republic has a weekly feature in the sports pages each Tuesday, a profile called Athletes Among Us. Next week that person will be moi! Thursday they are sending a photographer out to my house to take a picture of me for the story. The article will appear in Tuesday's edition of the paper.
Hey, I'm going to be famous!
Here is a scan of the Arizona Republic article, which appeared on the last page of the sports section in the January 8, 2002 edition.
