I kept moving

Gabor Kozinc, a few miles before things went all wrong for him at around Mile 45 of the San Diego 100.

Gabor and I sat down on a rock on the narrow uphill trail, knees to knees, shoulders slumped, heads dropped, too tired to talk.

We sat down at around Mile 45 in one of the few shady spots on the mostly exposed trail just four miles from the halfway point of the San Diego 100-Mile Endurance Run. By sitting down, I had ignored all hard-earned advice from veteran ultra-runners: "Beware the chair." Never sit down.

But I had to. It was 4:30 p.m. We had been running since 6 a.m.

The accumulation of the day's dry air and blasting sun had sucked the life out of us. We had little energy to continue.

"I'm thinking of dropping out at Mile 50," Gabor, a seasoned 100-miler, said.

For the last 10 miles, he had been my guru, advising me on pacing as I struggled with a combination of heat exhaustion and dehydration. He told me to take it slow, to conserve energy, if I ever hoped to finish this race -- my first attempt at more than 50 miles.

And here was poor Gabor, crashing at Mile 45. The heat had done him in, too.

"We'll be OK," I told Gabor, not really believing what I was saying. "Let's get to the 50-mile point and reassess things."

I was looking forward to calling it quits but dreading the disappointment.

We got up. About 100 yards later, Gabor threw up on the side of the trail. He weakly waved a hand to signal me to continue on.

So I did.

***

U2's "Zoo Station" was blasting from my car speakers before I stepped out into the chilly air of Camp Cuyamaca near San Diego to start my first 100-miler on Saturday, June 7. I had been sick and tired of thinking about the race and just wanted to get moving.


Ryan, my pacer and one-man crew

Ryan Yohn, a 30-year-old teacher from Costa Mesa and fellow member of the SoCal Trail Headz, was to be my one-person crew throughout the day and night before running with me as a pacer from Mile 70. The SD100 is great for crewing as all but one of the eight aid stations are quickly and easily accessible by car.

Co-race directors Scott Mills and Paul Schmidt have designed a superb 50-mile loop that runners do twice, with each loop marked by four distinct hills and a good mix of singletrack and fireroad.


Robbi Wollard feeling frisky at the starting line.

For those attempting their first 100-mile race, the SD100 is a great choice, with a cumulative elevation gain of only 12,300 feet -- which doesn't translate to "easy," but increases the chances of a rookie like me finishing (for example, the AC100 or Western States 100 are much tougher beasts, I am told).

There were 81 starters at the SD100. Only 43 of them would make it to 100 miles, for a 54 percent finisher rate.

***

It was a beautiful morning. I was feeling fine after a few miles of gradual uphill, hitting my goal pace of around 12-minute miles. That was my goal for the first 50, with plans to average 14-minute miles for the final 50, thus finishing in 24 hours.

Honestly, though, I had just hoped to finish. But every runner needs a goal, so I had mine.

Heading to the first aid station, Sunrise Highway, at Mile 6.

One of the key psychological challenges of running long distances is not worrying about what's ahead, but finding a groove and staying in the moment. Countless times throughout this race, I would repeat those words aloud. It's so easy to get caught up in how many miles remain, and how fast or slow you are running. When you stay in the moment, the run takes care of itself.

The novelty of running 100 miles still was with me after seven miles when I hit the gorgeous Pacific Crest Trail that overlooks the Anza-Borrega desert. The panoramic views were stunning and the wind, though strong, felt invigorating. I didn't need much from Ryan at the first few aid stations, but he was always there to help, cheerful and full of energy -- a really big mental boost.

Of the 10 or so ultras I have run, I must say the aid stations and the volunteers at the SD100 are tops. They had a great variety of food and the people were so helpful, efficient and encouraging.


Along the gorgeous PCT section

The novelty of running my first 100-miler wore off around Mile 15, during a section of burned-out forest in which the trees looked like stalks of charred asparagus stabbing the blue sky. The adrenaline of the start had worn off, and the reality of the hard work ahead of me set in.

I was feeling OK, though, but struggling, at times, to turn off in my mind the "numbers game" -- how many miles I had run, how many I needed to finish, etc. Get caught up in this game, and you're doomed.

Screw a respectable finishing time, I thought: Finishing this thing would be respectable in itself. I kept telling myself this.

I surprised this runner ( right ) by holding up my camera and taking a random shot over my shoulder. I was carrying a camera and cell phone attached to a fanny pack, with one bottle on that pack and another two hand-held bottles. I wore a hat and a bandana, and another bandana around my right wrist to wipe crap off my face and mouth and to combat the inevitable nasal drip.

I had three drop bags with food, fluids and fresh clothes placed along the course, for insurance.

***


It was warm, but not scorching.

The sky was cloudless, and the air dry. The sun seemed to suck out whatever fluids I poured into me, which up to this point had mainly been an endurance fuel, Vitargo S2, and water. I also was popping two to three electrolyte-replacement pills religiously on the hour, and eating chips at aid stations and potato slices dipped in salt -- not much else. I thought I had myself covered.

Still feeling pretty good, during the first 20-mile section.

Just after Mile 23, during a tough climb out of Camp Cuyamaca (the start and finish, and also Mile 20 and Mile 70), I took a spill -- but caught myself with my handhelds. The abrupt jolt caused a nasty cramp in my left calf, but luckily the pain did not last long.

The climb out of Cuyamaca started to sap me. One of my miles took 18 minutes. I knew I was in for a long day. Still, I had no idea what was to come. It was not even 11 a.m.

Some words from Ryan, at the Paso Picacho aid station, encouraged me:

"Dude, you're on a spiritul quest," he said. "Just do it."


The Paso Picacho aid station at Mile 25. Jennifer Forman, TrailHeadz runner and veteran 100-miler, was on hand to assist.

***

At times, I was able to savor my surroundings. There was beauty in the gnarled limbs of the torched trees, and the wildflowers that occassionally waved in the warm breeze. I saluted some volunteers doing trail work at around Mile 25, and greeted some folks riding horses. I knew I was lucky and privileged to be out here running.

Coming into Big Bend at Mile 30, I saw Charlie.

"Hey, what took you so long!" he screamed, ribbing me in front of the aid station volunteers.

Minutes earlier, feeling low on energy but not hungry, I had sucked down a Slim Fast (hah, just what every long-distance runner needs) that Ryan, ever the attentive crew person, had kept on ice.

It was a great lift to see Charlie, who had planned on running the SD100 but had a leg pain and decided to give it a rest. But here he was, reporting for The Rundown and generally helping out folks on the trails and keeping everyone motivated. He is a great guy and great runner, and one of the top ambassadors for the ultra-running community. I left the Mile 30 aid station in good spirits, but that feeling soon ended.

Charlie knew something was up with me. He thought I was dehydrated and not getting enought salt.

The Slim Fast didn't seem to help me much as I slowly climbed out of Big Bend on a relentlessly uphill and rocky fireroad -- the toughest section of the course, in my opinion. I couldn't fathom, at this point, having to return to tackle this hill at Mile 80.

By the time I was approaching the Milk Ranch aid station at Mile 36, I was in bad shape. Charlie had run down a bit to meet me and get me to the station, where I struggled to eat some chips and peanut-butter-and-jelly squares, and to drink a lot of water and eat a heavily salted slice of potato.

Charlie also put ice in some paper towels and told me to put it under my hat. I also squeezed ice water onto my neck from a sponge soaking in a bucket.

Seeking the strength to keep going.

Gabor Kozinc joined me at around Mile 37, when I started to feel a little better. Miles 30 through 36 were the worst. At around Mile 40, Ted Liao (fellow TrailHeadz member and great runner) zipped past us, but not before giving me two salt tablets to dissolve in water. Charlie had told him about my condition and Ted had come to the rescue.

It was difficult, but I managed to swallow most of the salty water. At this point, I had switched to drinking only water and Heed, an electrolyte drink at the aid stations, and taking electrolyte pills every hour, ignoring my other endurance fuels. Water and Heed were the only things that seemed to keep me properly hydrated, in my condition. I'm a huge fan of Vitargo S2 and Perpeteum, which I completely ignored during this race, but the change seemed to help.


Ted Liao (taken at the start)

Gabor and I stuck together, with him frequently reminding me to go easier on the hills and walk more, and to conserve energy.

An attractive woman on a horse passed us.

"That's the best scenery so far on these trails!" Gabor chirped.

It was a mostly downhill trail to the Sweetwater aid station at Mile 42. I was feeling worse by then, with little energy. Ryan and the voluteers reminded me that the sun would be gone in a few hours, and that thought helped --- I was sick and tired of the sun's unforgiving glare.

It was only a few miles later, the taste of 50 miles within our grasp, when a thoroughly wan and spent Gabor and I sat down on the rock.

I usually take all expert advice, but the five minutes I sat on the rock helped a lot. Sitting down, I was able to pee. Up to this point, I had peed off and on, but the stream had been pathetically weak and the color had been too yellow, indicating hydration issues.

Funny how ultrarunners can swap tales about pee and other bodily fluids with hardly a flinch. Although I could not eat much, my stomach was OK and I had no other issues -- I only had to pee. Cool. And I never felt that I was going to puke.

After Gabor vomited a few times, I started to feel a little better. Was I experiencing some kind of sympathetic hurling?

At any rate, I charged on, feeling a tad better, but in fits and starts. I started to see a lot of shapes (animals, runners) in the twisty tree limbs -- mild hallucinations?

***

I decided I was going to continue running --- to not drop out, and try to finish this thing --- shortly before pulling into the halfway point at Camp Cuyamaca. I figured I could drop later, if things got worse.

And this is how one has to approach a 100-miler: from aid station to aid station. Try to find a groove, stay in the moment, and get to the next aid station.

My Garmin had died on me and I was happy to take it off. I was tired of looking at numbers and worrying about pacing.

Charlie and I, at the halfway point.

Charlie again was waiting for me at Mile 50. Gabor was somewhere behind. I would find out later that Gabor, indeed, did drop out at the halfway point. Gabor helped me immensely, and I will always be in his debt. I am sad he couldn't bounce back. He is a far more talented runner than I, and I learned a lot from him.

I drank a little soup at Mile 50 and soon after was able to eat a bit of a sandwich -- encouraging signs that my body was getting back on track. It was my first solid food in hours.

Charlie, ever the motivator, knew just what to say to keep me from DNFing ( DNF=Did Not Finish ) before saying goodbye to me just past Mile 50.

"Dude," he said, "what else are you going to do tonight -- go home and sleep? You could zombie-walk the rest of this and still finish in time (31 hours)."

That's the attitude, I thought.

***



The night saved me.

The drop in temperature was like a tonic that revived my flagging spirits. People told me I would feel better after the sun went down, and they were right.

A hugely motivating factor was knowing that I was setting a personal mileage record with each step beyond 50 miles. Several times after this distance, I thought about my experience at the Coastal Challenge in Costa Rica earlier this year, and drew upon the knowledge of completing that six-day stage run of 135 miles for strength and inspiration. If I could get through that, I thought, surely I could get through this.


Marisa and her husband, just before the start.

At Mile 55, I shed my camera and Ryan loaned me a windbreaker. I put on gloves and lowered my bandana over my ears as I set off on the very windy PCT portion of the race above the desert floor.

From Mile 55 to Mile 80 was when I felt my best. I ran alone for three hours in the dark until Ryan joined me at Mile 70, and it was during those three hours that I felt a profound connection to running on trails, and the beauty of the outdoors.


Gina Natera, at the start.

The stars in the unbelievably clear sky were like nothing I had ever seen in my 45 years. I turned my two headlamps off at times to savor the view, as the sound of crickets, owls and other unseen creatures surrounded me.

I felt invincible. Normally I would be scared running alone on a trail in the middle of nowhere --- scared of mountain lions, mainly --- but my normal fear of cougars and other creatures shrunk to a mild curiosity. Nothing could stop me now, I felt.

At times I felt uncomfortably chilly, my body traumatized by 14-plus hours of running, but I had no fear. And at Mile 61, just before pulling into the Pedro Fages aid station, I felt overwhelming joy. My emotions raw from running, I thought of my girlfriend, my children, my running friends, and my wider circle of friends, and I burst out crying.

They were tears of unbridled joy and gratitude. It was an emotionally purifying experience.

Throughout all but six miles of running, I had kept my cell phone with me, periodically turning it on to be greeted with text and voice messages that served as an incredible uplift. I spoke to my kids and girlfriend and a sister, but because it took a lot of energy to talk, I kept the conversations brief.

I was feeling my best when Ryan joined me at Mile 70. We passed eight runners during the five-plus miles to the next aid station --- a climb that had sapped me during the day.

Ryan made a game of catching up to the next runners and passing them. He pushed me a lot but always slowed down when I needed to take it easier. It was a huge boost to my self-confidence when I would pass a runner, but I never felt cocky.

It was a joy to see Marisa and her wonderful husband at around Mile 73. Poor Marisa was feeling very sleepy but I knew she was a fighter and was praying that she would persevere. We exchanged encouraging greetings as I moved ahead of her, warmed by her never-die attitude and her beautiful words:

"Greg," she said, "I am so glad you decided not to drop out."

She had seen me earlier at an aid station, when things weren't looking so good.

I still wasn't allowing myself to think that I actually could run 100 miles. I still was concentrating on the moment, of finding and staying in a groove.

***

Catra Corbett's signature legs.

After Mile 80, I started feeling it -- bad.

The climb up from Big Bend (and down) was unforgiving, and rocky. It hurt to trot. I also was experiencing pain in my feet. It was a new pain for me, which I later would find out were blisters.

Anyway, I got quiet and when I felt like talking, I got pretty cranky.

Part of a pacer's job is to listen to a runner rant, and Ryan, ever the gentleman, put up with my F-bomb-laced tirades about all the rocks and hills, and all my aches and pains.

I couldn't have picked a better pacer. For in addition to being a talented and enthusiastic runner, Ryan teaches eighth-graders. He's used to hearing a lot of BS.

I stopped periodically speaking into the digital recorder I had carried. There are times during races when you just say, "Screw it! I'm tired of everything: taking pictures, talking -- even thinking!" You are reduced to attending to only your primal needs.

The last 20 miles mostly were a waiting game -- waiting for this damn run to end. I cheered the sunrise not because of its beauty, but because I could take my headlamps off. It was tough to appreciate the beauty around me. All I wanted was for the agony to end.

Red Bulls kept me alert, and as hunger finally took hold, bites of a chicken-and-cheese quesadilla and a ham-and-rice burrito gave me a boost. I mostly was moving out of sheer determination at this point. I knew I would finish (barring a catastrophic collapse or freak injury) after I started out of the last aid station, Sweetwater, at 92.4 miles.

But I felt no joy, really, or sense of accomplishment. That would come later.


Fresh pacer, toasted runner

An unfortunate runner's back went out some four miles before the finish. Ryan and I had passed him but his pacer had run past us, seeking help. Poor guy. I felt horrible for him. I thanked God that such misfortune had not befallen me.

It seemed to take forever to go those last 7.6 miles. I was convinced they had changed the course to make it five miles longer. The usually comfortable morning sun felt like beams of molten lava on my skin. I was wasted.

It's a funny feeling finishing an ultra. The cheers of the crowd are very moving, but it's a low-key affair, with few people at the finish -- unlike, say, a marathon. And that's fine with me, for completing such a race is a deeply personal experience. The sense of accomplishment is just starting to set in.

I got a bronze belt buckle for finishing the San Diego 100-Mile Endurance Run in 26 hours and 57 minutes -- good enough for 21st place.


Clearing brush at Mile 25.

A volunteer helped me take off my shoes before I put my traumatized feet into a bucket of cool water. The sensation was orgiastic.

Three medics attended to my feet, repairing five nasty blisters. I felt like some sort of celebrity, basking in such attention.

I lingered for only a bit, recounting my experience with veteran ultra-runner Bill Ramsey, who finished in sixth place with yet another sub-24-hour performance on his stellar running resume.

Ted Liao, who finished an hour ahead of me, was there at the finish. I heard about all the runners who dropped and I was bummed for them: my good friends Kirk Fortini and Robert Schipsi and Robbi Wollard, and stalwarts like George Velasco, Xy Weiss and Eduardo Robelo, and, of course, Gabor Kozinc.

I share my success with all of them. And I remain in awe of friend Gina Natera, who kicked my butt by an hour and was the top female finisher.

So, how did I do this?

I dealt with my physical ailments by putting the right stuff into my body, knowing that eventually, it would cycle through and I would feel better. Charlie told me this at Mile 30. I didn't believe him, but he was right. Believe it: You will feel better, eventually.

I changed socks once, at mile 62, which helped immensely. Take care of your feet.

I had a lot of people rooting for me, which gave me incalculable strength.

As for music --- well, I didn't listen to it as much as I thought I would. I first flipped on my iPod at Mile 28 and listened off and on until night, when I kept the music off to hear the sounds of nature and for safety reasons -- and also to listen to Ryan taunt me, of course.

In short, how did I complete a 100-mile run?

I just kept moving.