Susan Donnelly

“Where are you going this time?”

“Lake Okeechobee, in Florida.”

(Blank look)

“You know, when you look at a map of Florida, there’s a huge blue circle in the middle?” That’s Lake Okeechobee.”

(Blank look)

“I’m running around that circle…it’s 118 miles,” (helpfully drawing a circle in the air)

(Confused look)

“My sister works on the lake and it will be fun to share the race with her and see where she works, let her show us around.”

(Looking unsure, but bravely venturing forth…) “Oh.  Well.  That sounds interesting.”

I was running this race to see my sister Karen and share a unique experience with her.  Thankfully, she thought it sounded fun too and before giving it much thought, happily agreed to crew Rob and I and to join us for as much of the race as possible.  There’s a chance she might not have fully understood what she was getting into, since she had crewed me once before at Javelina 100 but hadn’t stayed up all night.

At any rate, she agreed and I was delighted.  It would be a blast and she would certainly be the absolute A-#1 crew.  She knew the area, the lake, the birds, even the algae.  We might not win the race but no one out there was going to have a better crew!

To explain, Karen, my sister works for the South Florida Water Management District and spends too many workdays out in the sunshine on the lake while I’m stuck in my fluorescent-lit cubicle.  I’m sure she means well but the gorgeous wildlife photos and entertaining stories she routinely shares don’t help.  I’m envious.

This race was the perfect way to see her world and also share something with her a little…different.

Now, Exactly What Are We Doing?

Before I get much further, I need to make an embarrassing confession.  Rob or I (I swear it was Rob) saw “57 miles” somewhere in the race information of and naturally assumed the race was two loops around the lake.  Needless to say, we didn’t want to focus on the race part of the trip until it was time to actually pack (i.e., until we couldn’t avoid it any longer).  Two loops on a flat, mostly paved course that looks exactly the same for miles?  Let’s just say that’s not in any way my cup of tea.

The closer to race day, the further I went into denial, especially about the loops.  It wasn’t until I was packing that I looked over the info again and realized, lo and behold, it was only ONE loop.  The discovery was Christmas and winning the lottery rolled into one.  Rob and I were so happy with one loop that it didn’t matter how flat, paved or long it was.  We were thrilled to be going.

So, here’s a map of the course.  We started somewhere near the 11 o’clock position and ran counterclockwise, one loop, and believe me – one was enough!

The Start, Outside Okeechobee

Dark.  February 27, 2010, at 5:30 a.m. in the Okee-Tantie campground.  Karen, Rob and I managed to locate the handful of race cars clustered near the parking lot reserved for the weekend’s bass tournament.  A casual glance at the two communities preparing for their day’s recreation  was all you needed to see which sport was more popular (hint: it wasn’t ours).

It was colder than I’d imagined Florida could be, 41 degrees, and I thought when we first walked out of the hotel that morning, we might have to scrap frost off the windshield.  Here in the parking lot, runners were standing around in the dark, trying to stay warm.  Monica Scholz wasn’t in sight but Bob Oberkehr from New Jersey and said “hi” and we talked to Jim Sullivan, who was running the relay version of the race with his brother Jerry.  Twenty-nine one runners started the race.

I really didn’t know what to expect, since this was so different from my other 100s.  To complicate things, I’d gotten very little sleep that week and only about 2 hours of fitful tossing the night before.  Having a more important purpose – spending as much time with Karen as possible – was relaxing.

Right on time, we got the briefing, full of so many “turn here’s” and “don’t continue there’s” that all three of us quickly lost track and figured we’d muddle through with Karen to keep us herded in the right direction.

We’re Off!

One minute we were standing in front of Karen, the next we were following the other runners and their headlamps through the dark.  Our first landmark was the Kissimmee River bridge.  In the crowd of runners, Rob and I looked geeky in our neon yellow, reflective safety vests intended to alert oncoming traffic.  There wasn’t any.

Like the curtain lifting at a play, the sky lightened and the landscape began to emerge.  We were now running on a high levee with the lake theoretically on the left (even though it looked suspiciously like grassland), and a nice, neat canal on the right with undeveloped land spreading beyond.  There was zero shade and the sky was huge.

So huge, in fact, that it was alarming.  From my grey, snowy home in frozen Tennessee, I’d imagined a warm, happy, welcoming sky, the kind you see on postcards, but this sky was intimidating.  If the sun came out, conditions would get brutal.  I wanted to thaw, not burn to a crisp.  We would be defenseless on the levee, totally at the mercy of the sky.  I silently asked the protective morning clouds to stay.

Also becoming clear was the levee’s function as a boundary line of sorts.  Karen had told us the lake had two sides and that the levee often had canal on the non-lake side.  The west side of the lake, where we were starting, was all marshy grass inside the levee with no water in sight (a lake in disguise) and quiet farmland with few towns outside.  The east side of the lake was the opposite – water to the edge with several large towns.

As the sun rose, so did the noise.  On the canal side, traffic increased on the nearby highway, and a cow or two would occasionally moo it’s feelings to the world.  On the lake side, entirely invisible, were a few far-off bass boats zooming here and there and a constant chorus of birds squawking and jabbering as they started their day.

We settled into a pace within remote sight of a runner in white wearing headphones and Bob, a walker.  We passed two other runners in black.  A flock or two of egrets flew in and landed to hunt in unison on the canal side.  Otherwise, we were essentially by ourselves.

We talked and speculated when we might see Karen.  She was planning to ride her bike  from the next aid station to meet us and then ride back with us.  Finally, we saw a speck that seemed to be growing larger and coming toward us.  Was it or wasn’t it?  It was!  When she joined us, we shared stories about the morning thus far and Karen deftly balanced the important responsibilities of tour guide and caring crew with ease.  Sharing this with her was going to be fun.

Indian Prairie Canal (9.9 mi)

With early-race enthusiasm, we stocked up, Karen loaded her bike in the car and Rob and I took off.  We soon lost the runner in the white shirt and were alone on the levee.

We watched smoke plumes zigzag up into the sky across the lake.  Karen had told us these were probably sugar cane fields getting burned at the end of the season.  The zigzagging smoke was odd.  Was this a sign of changing weather to come?

Harney Pond (17.9 mi)

By now we were realizing the “trail” wasn’t paved but was’t exactly soft.  Didn’t the Spanish make forts here that have last several hundred years out of stuff like this???

Lakeport (22.8 mi)

A relaxed Karen and the Fun Mover were waiting for us at this transition to road.  We stuffed our faces at the Fun Mover, then migrated to her car for more kcals.

I tried to describe the birds we thought we’d seen (from far off) and Karen selflessly offered her binoculars for the next section.  I declined.  118 miles is enough without having to lug binoculars.  Besides, I’d be much happier to make wild and unverified claims about the birds we supposed saw.

From here it was a short stint along the highway and over ominously-named Fisheating Creek (really?  is this a typo???) to a paved bike path next to the highway.  No bikes, no runners, we had it all to ourselves.  Just me, Rob and the pavement stretching into the shimmering distance farther than I wanted to contemplate.  Really, my ultra nightmare.

The entertainment portion of this section was fire.  A nearby farmer was burning the fields and had considerately set out “Smoke/Fog” signs on the adjacent highway.  Unlike the plumes on the other side of the lake, this dry, dusty smoke lazed around at ground level like a lethargic blanket with no wind to move it away.  I could even taste it.  Thankfully, it started to drizzle as we neared Karen’s car.

Nicodemous Slough (25.9 mi)

Karen was waiting for us as before (I could get used to this!).  We ate, talked and laughed, and then it was time to part again.  Karen said she wasn’t exactly sure where the next aid station was and probably wouldn’t be there.

While the trail was unpaved, this part was spotted with frequent piles of wood chips.  Not the nice little landscaping chips – large, rough pieces of wood clearly left from a tree that had been chipped, except where the trees had come from was a mystery – there simply weren’t any trees around.  With nothing more pressing to discuss and plenty of hours of discussion time left, we mused about it in detail.  As the distance rolled by, musing gave way to annoyance.  The tree fragments weren’t easy to run on.  I even rolled my ankle, of all things.  For maybe the first and only time in an ultra, I found myself craving pavement.

One of my hip joints started to hurt in earnest and navigating over the wood shards began to sap my concentration.  When I finally mentioned it to Rob, he knew whereof I spoke, “like an iron rod being pounded into your hip?”  Yes, thanks for the imagery.  On the down side, finding a pain-free stride was a struggle but on the up side, there were plenty of miles left to find it.

The best distraction was the birds.  I heard the familiar sound of sandhill cranes that migrate through Tennessee and must be wintering here (smart birds).  Plus, birds of prey were everywhere.  Vultures flying low over the levee and exotically-name caracara.  Rob even got buzzed by a red-shouldered hawk so close it took my breath away.

C-41 Canal (29.8 mi)

This was an unmanned aid station well off the road.  Karen really couldn’t have parked here safely anyway, so it was just as well we didn’t expect her.  We jotted our times on the list of entrants inside the cooler lid and got moving.

Still unpaved, the trail stretched straight as a line before us.  I squinted and tried to will it to curve but it lay there like a ruler.  The lake being a circle, there weren’t any corners but I’d really have appreciated some visible proof we were making progress around the giant circle.  Reason said the trail curved but it was hard to run mile after mile on blind faith in what I couldn’t see.

To my relief, the scenery started to suggest we might possibly be coming into a town.  Desperate for a change, I didn’t even hear Juli Aistars coming up from behind.  She introduced herself, we chatted for a moment, and she breezed ahead.  Now I REALLY felt slow.

Moore Haven West (33.1 mi)

Moments before we reached the unmanned aid station, the wind whipped up out of nowhere.  Juli, Rob and I grabbed what we needed out of the cooler at this unmanned aid station, jotted out times and took off, Juli way out front.  A storm was clearly pending.

Juli was running fast but missed her turn.  Rob yelled and caught her attention in time and we all took the left turn toward the bridge, by far the highest thing around. We were by now in town and had to pay attention to the road intersections.

Like the cavalry saving the day, Karen met us near the base of this monstrous, curved highway bridge we had to cross.  We grabbed our rain jackets out of the car seconds before it started to rain.  With a few quick instructions, Karen pointed us in the right direction and said she’d meet us on the other side of the bridge (Karen saves our lives again).

We stepped onto the narrow pedestrian walkway of the bridge and the rain and wind hit full force.  We pushed forward as oncoming trucks and cars sprayed us from one side and the wind and rain buffeted us from the other.  We were uncomfortably high up, defenseless targets for the wind, and I couldn’t wait to get down.

When we arrived at the other side, Karen rolled the car window down a notch and told us it was “right, left, and right again up to the levee.”  Priceless.

Off we ran.  As soon as we turned into the wind, the rain soaked my shoes and began to trickle down inside my hood.  We followed Karen’s directions only to see Juli way ahead following another runner off course.  She was too far away to yell at or catch, so we plowed on through the rain.

Moore Haven East (36.5 mi)

Karen was parked in the lot below the manned aid station. I shoved her my damp camera to get it out of the rain.  “I hope you’ll forgive me but I’m not getting out of the car,” she said.

This stop had to be quick.  We were wet and I was already shaking with cold in the strong windchill.  I asked her to get some ponchos, a towel, and some more Excedrin for my hip.  She wasn’t fazed by where she was going to get this in the middle of nowhere in a limited amount of time.

Before letting us go, she told us this was the prettiest section and that she hated to miss it but she’d be at the next aid station and bike out to meet us again if the weather cleared.

Climbing back up the levee, the only dry food at the aid station was a foil-wrapped, blueberry poptart with white frosting and multicolored sprinkles.  Healthy diet or no, I grabbed it.  It was good.

It took a good ten minutes to get my body temperature stabilized.  Not warm…just stabilized.  The windchill was amazing but at least it might dry us out before dark.  My hands were numb and, it being Florida, I was lucky to have packed one now-soggy pair of gloves.  I certainly didn’t bring enough clothes to have a dry pair to change in to.

Karen was right, the lake here was pretty, a scenic mix of grass and water, and I regretted leaving my camera in the car.

A group of four other runners came from nowhere and passed us.  They didn’t look as cold as we felt and they gradually disappeared out of sight.  Sometime later, we saw a small dot ahead that seemed to be coming toward us.  Sure enough, it was Karen!

Seeing her was a real pick-me-up and she even had the requested ponchos with her.  We definitely won in terms of crew!

Liberty Point (42.8 mi)

Not only that, but she had the requested towel and Excedrin in the car.  I dried off and we ate, re-filled our bottles in less of a hurry and talked about the previous section and the next to come while we watched the vultures watching us and drying their wings.

The earlier Gang of Four walked up from a coffee shop just below the levee and all six of us ended up heading out more or less together.  The levee took an immediate right when it should have been curving counterclockwise to the left.  This was a troubling thought and we had plenty of time on our hands to ruminate about it.

Add to that the unchanging scenery.  The one and only landmark on the horizon was some kind of manufacturing plant off to the right.  It wasn’t passing by, so I looked at the lake for a while instead and talked to Rob, then looked back.  It still hadn’t moved.  No matter how many times I repeated the process, it just didn’t move.

About the time I was starting to go crazy, we spotted signs that we might, just might be coming into Clewiston.  Not a moment too soon for my sanity.

The Clewiston West would have been tricky except Karen was there, perfect timing, waiting to direct us.

Clewiston West (47.7 mi)

The Gang of Four and Juli were already at the Fun Mover when we arrived.  We re-refilled our bottles, I opted for two homemade Tollhouse cookies, and Rob and I, through joint effort, managed to throw my camera on the pavement (argh!).

Navigating through town wasn’t clear so Karen drove ahead of us like a pace car to scout the way.  En route, she doubled again as tour guide.  Turns out that Clewiston, actually Roland Martin’s Marina that we ran by, is billed as the “#1 Bass Fishing Destination in the World.”  Who knew?  Even the Christmas lights were in theme!

Flour arrows were somewhat lacking so we followed the Gang of Four, which included next year’s RD, Mike Melton.  They wound through turns familiar to them and eventually through the Army Corps of Engineers compound to the levee.  Juli on the other hand, had taken off ahead of us again and missed the turn again.  Karen volunteered to go find her.

In the meantime, Rob and I caught up with two women walking toward the levee and they recognized us from earlier in the day.  They knew a little about the race but were properly awed that anyone would run around the lake, let alone do part of the running at night.  By now, the idea was starting to seem a little weird to me too.

I can’t recollect seeing the Clewiston East aid station but now that we were back on the levee, there was nowhere to go wrong.  We waited for Juli to catch up and watched the clouds clear off in the evening light.

As we were leaving Hendry Country (I saw the sign on the adjacent highway below), the sun set behind us – proof that we were actually starting to turn along the bottom of the lake, about 6 o’clock on the dial.  One of the nice amenities of this race was the full moon.  Since the levee was paved and the moon was so bright, we never had to use our headlamps.

I don’t remember the S-236 Pump House aid station (53.2 miles).  The night aid stations tended, as Karen put it, to “meld together.”

Not long before the next aid station, two important things happened: 1) the trail took a perceptible curve to the left (yay!) and the wind intensified (boo!).  With jackets on and hoods up, it was still cold.  This wasn’t exactly the weather I had imagined but at least we were turning.

John Stretch Park (58.0 mi)

The perk here was “real” bathrooms, not only for the civilization aspect but also for the chance to get out of the cutting wind.

Karen was of course there, as well as a support truck and the Gang of Four were already stocking on food.  One of them said that Juli was actually ahead of us, that she had mistakenly run down the highway and instead of doubling back to Clewiston, simply cut up the side of the levee.  At least we weren’t waiting for her to breeze by again at any moment.

In the dark, the land rolled by but the view finally seemed to be changing faster.  The marsh started to give over to water and the area was becoming more developed.

South Bay (63.6 mi)

This was an unmanned aid station but Karen was parked dependably nearby.  As nice as it was to see a cooler and know we’d reached a milestone, it was so much better to see her!

The only thing I remember about this section is that the levee took a noticeable turn north…not quite a left turn, but almost.  We celebrated a little until we realized that the wind was now in our faces and absurdly strong.

Hood up, jackets snapping in the wind…there wasn’t much talking on the two miles to Belle Glade.

Belle Glade (65.6 mi)

Races sometimes have that one really enthusiastic party aid station, and this was it.  The local triathlon club was running it and not only was there an actual fire but also tables filled with food, real food (though, sadly, none of it that qualified for my diet).  Rob gobbled down some pizza while I watched in total envy.  Pringles suddenly just didn’t cut it.

By now, we were freezing.  Rob put on his sweatpants but I resisted adding my tights.  For one thing, I hardly ever wear tights in a race (maybe in 10 out of 110 ultras) and this was Florida for crying out loud.  For another, they weren’t running tights and I needed to wear them home to the cold weather the next day.  If this kept up, I’d have no clean clothes to wear!

Leaving the aid station we looked down on the quiet town of Belle Glade.  Except for our jackets rustling in the wind, it was quiet, and in the moonlight you could see neat little houses and evenly space streetlights.  It was so peaceful, you couldn’t escape the sense that everyone was tucked safely in bed for the night, fast asleep while we ran by.

In contrast, a short distance later we started to see lights and hear voices out in the lake.  The voices were random and it was hard to imagine what was going on this cold night out in the lake.

Karen solved the mystery a short time later when she met us at the road crossing to what turned out to be Torry Island, a “party island.”  She’d had to land the boat here once or twice while out working on the lake when a thunderstorm hit.  It was neat to think I was at the sunny island I had pictured in her stories.  Karen also told us the actual crossing to Torry Island was the only swing drawbridge in Florida and, even more unique, is a hand-cranked bridge.  It really was a cool looking bridge and would have been fun to watch open.  If it hadn’t have been for Karen, we would have run right by this and never known what we were passing.

The Gang of Four joined us at the crossing and we all laughed about the party island for a minute.  As cold and windy as it was, someone out there was keeping the party tradition going.  I told Karen to get some sleep and we headed onward.

A quarter mile later, we ran past one of many unremarkable rain puddles on the pavement but this one was different.  It had kitty prints leaving it.  Big kitty prints.  We probably just missed a bobcat.  It was good to know they were surviving.

Pavement turned to dirt where, according to Karen, they were testing the levee and working on it to ensure it would hold during a big water event (think Katrina).  The dirt of course was now mud.  We squished and slipped along behind the Gang of Four in the moonlight, jackets on, hoods up, wind furiously shaking our jackets.  It felt for all the world like we were still in Tennessee.

The mud and construction continued.  I honestly can’t recall the Rardin County Park aid station.  We just ran along in the moonlight, getting colder and not talking much in the wind, which seemed to be speeding up instead of slowing down.

Pahokee (76.5 mi)

We rolled into the Pahokee marina in the dark and sure enough, on the levee right in front of us were the Fun Mover and Karen’s car.  I knocked on the Fun Mover’s door, figuring we had to register our presence.  There was movement – whoever was manning it must have been asleep – and a dog ran down the ladder inside.  I could see the very top of the dog’s head but was waiting for the human to get down the stairs and log us in so we could join Karen.

A pair of legs descended the stairs oh-so-slowly, with the top of the dog’s head hovering near the door.  Slowly, the dog’s head started to rise in the window as if by magic.  I could see ears, then eyes, then nose, then…a mouth filled to overflowing with a plush, flat, goose toy.  The dog was so happy that someone had appeared in the wee hours of the morning to play, it’s entire body was wagging from its tail.  I haven’t ever laughed that hard in a 100, it was just so absurd (to us humans).

Once we checked in (no playing with the dog), we hopped in Karen’s car to get out of the wind before our body temperatures plummeted.  I gave up the fight and donned my tights.  I also took some Excedrin for my increasingly painful hip.  Both items were a relief.  When asked if she’d gotten any sleep, Karen gave only a vague answer which I took to mean “no,” so I asked her again to nap while we were running.

Same routine.  We ate, filled bottles, got the scoop from Karen on the next section, and off we went, back on unpaved trail.

Like Karen said, there was zero marsh on this side.  Just wind flinging waves at the rip rap below us.  You could see the whitecaps in the moonlight.  This really wasn’t anything like I imagined.

Somewhere in this section, while struggling futilely against the wind, I yelled at Rob that “this wasn’t supposed to be epic!”

Canal Point (80.0 mi)

The aid station here was a red pickup truck with a camper and a couple of nearby tables.  The guy manning the aid station saw us coming and stepped out of the truck.  Without pausing, I told him our numbers and headed for Karen’s car parked just beyond.  Rob told him our numbers again as he ran by behind me.

I was hurriedly getting food and talking to Karen on one side of the car, and halfway noticed the guy walk over to Rob and ask our names.  “Odd, our numbers should be enough,” I thought.  “He must be sleepy.”  I saw him smile and say “I’ve got number 118 sleeping in the back of the truck.”  “Catching runners,” I thought.  “Wonder who it is.”

We finished at the car as quickly as possible and went to the table to fill our bottles.  Preoccupied by the task, I was surprised to see Juli in our midst, filling hers.  Where had she come from?  Wasn’t she ahead of us?  It was odd but I was tired and didn’t really care enough to ask.  This was not a time to get distracted – the next section was a long one, 11 miles.  I strongly suspected Karen hadn’t been sleeping and ordered her to get some shuteye on this next long section (not that she’d listen, of course).

Juli charged off into the night and we shuffled out behind her.  A quarter mile later, we passed her and another quarter mile later, I found my bottle had leaked all it’s water.  Eleven miles was a long way but we didn’t want to turn around.  I was well hydrated, it was cold, we were running instead of walking and Rob offered to share his bottle, so we kept on.  The situation wasn’t ideal but it also wasn’t the end of the world.

But events weren’t ready to improve just yet because I got nauseous and threw up a short time later.  Not fun and certainly not the norm for me but not a race breaker.  In the meantime, my mind inventoried the menu thus far.  Since I’m a vegetarian who doesn’t eat dairy, dairy food can upset my stomach but I couldn’t think of any “unapproved” food I had eaten.  Maybe it would go away.

On we ran.  There wasn’t any point in checking our watches (it was too cold to unnecessarily expose any skin anyway) but it felt like the middle of the night.  If I was going to have sleep problems, they would have happened by now.  How on earth was I staying awake without a struggle on such little sleep?  It must have been the cold, the constant noise of my jacket rattling in the wind, the moonlight, the fact that we were running instead of walking, or a combination.  Whatever it was, I was grateful.  Falling asleep on your feet for hours on end isn’t fun.

Finally, for conversation, I asked Rob where Juli had materialized from.  Turns out that what I didn’t hear while I was talking with Karen was the guy saying “that’s going to be a rude awakening.  She asked me to wake her when you arrived.”  We were alarm clocks!

Somewhere in this section, we passed the 80-mile mark.  In most 100s, this is the joyful point where you know you’ve got it in the bag and that you could walk it in if you had to.  At this race, however, it was sobering to realize we had about 40 miles left.  It was the only time in the race that I really noticed the number 118, and I quickly pushed it from mind.  We’d get to the finish when we got there.  Thinking about it wasn’t going to move it any closer.

In the background, the wind didn’t let up.  Several times, we found ourselves fighting to keep running and deciding it wasn’t worth the effort, so we’d walk.

We passed some more levee construction and ran by some blindingly-bright lights on the adjacent construction site to our right.  Trying to avert my eyes and save myself from permanent blindness, I looked off to the left, out over the lake.  There, across the water, was the manufacturig plant we’d passed so many hours before in the daytime.  It was both depressing (we could still see that and we couldn’t see the finish?) and boosting (at least we’d made some progress).  Again better not to think of it at the moment.

Port Mayaca South (89.1 mi)

Karen was waiting on road by the pedestrian entrance to a huge highway bridge.  She was awake and we hopped in the car to stay warm and fuel up.  She said we had to cross the bridge and that she’d be waiting on the other side at the aid station where I could get some water.

Like the earlier bridge, this one was the highest thing for miles and crossing it in the dead of night over a narrow pedestrian way against the howling wind was spooky.  Good thing there wasn’t much traffic.

From up high, the next aid station was visible below.  Where the bridge finally met land on the other side, the trail cut straight down the steep embankment.  Handling this “hill” was hard and I was almost happy to be doing so much flat running.

Port Mayaca North (91.1 mi)

Karen pace car’d us to this fabled aid station, run by the Boy Scouts, and I was ready for breakfast…only nothing was vegetarian sans dairy.  That’s always a downer when you’ve been dreaming of real food for hours on end (oh, let’s say pancakes, hash browns, maybe even scrambled eggs), but there was nothing to do about it.  A handful of potato chips, a big hug and some conversation with Karen and we were off again, now back on pavement.

Not long after, dawn crept into the sky and the sun rose quickly.  On one hand, it was beautiful and made life easier.  On the other hand, there were no clouds in the sky this morning and though the only skin showing at the moment was our faces, we would certainly shed some layers later…and fry.

A short way from the channel crossing that marked the unmanned aid station, a woman who was working the race came running toward us, “I’ve been sitting too long and need some miles of my own!”  I couldn’t think what to reply, needing miles was such a foreign concept at the moment.

Chancey Bay (98.8 mi)

I never could figure out why but this spot had the deepest, quietest peace.  It must have been the new, sunny dawn, the bright green grass below, and the quiet.  I wanted to stay.  We walked down the paved ramp to Karen’s car in the grass below, out of the wind.  The only other person there was a guy walking his very happy dog.  I tried to breathe it all in.

Karen said she might bike out again from the next aid station (yes!).  Something to look forward to!

Went we got back on the levee, we were alone as before, except for the vultures.  They were everywhere often warming up by sitting on the pavement ahead of us and spreading their wings in the sun.

Eventually, we started to see some nice houses on the canal side.  It looked like the outskirts of a interesting area.

Rob noted that we were passing the 100-mile mark and briefly speculated about our time but we didn’t dwell on it.  Somehow it just didn’t matter as much as the ongoing fight against the wind.

Karen rode out to meet us as promised.  I’d really missed this overnight.  It was great to see her at aid stations but so much better to share the trail with her and this was such a perfect way to do it.

Karen said good news, we only had three sections left: 3, 2, and 2.  Piece of cake!  We each shared what we’d been seeing and Rob and I peppered her with questions we’d been forgetting to ask her all night.

Henry Creek (105.5 mi)

We arrived at this unmanned aid station that was actually manned by the woman we’d just seen running out of the last aid station.  We finally shed some layers and Karen rode down the levee to put her bike and our clothes in the car because the next section was short and she was hoping to have the time to ride out to meet us again.

While Karen was at the car, the woman told us we only had 3, 3, and 3 left.  This nicely corroborated Karen’s report and the day looked happy.

We took off and the mental countdown began.  We shuffled along waiting impatiently for the levee to curve left enough to see where we would be finishing.  Only 3 and 3 to go after this.  It was hard to believe it was almost over.

Nubbin Slough (108.9 mi)

Long before we got there, we could see the Fun Mover with Karen and Mike Melton sitting in the back, arms crossed and waiting for us.  Karen walked out to meet us with a smile and said, “Bad news.”  I waited for the joke.  “You really have 3 and 7 left.”  “What?!?”  Mike happily repeated the mileages.

The news was like a sledgehammer.  This will happen, has happened, in races before, but never after running so far already.  It took a moment but I managed to compose myself.  Arguing or getting upset about something like is a waste of time because ultimately the numbers don’t matter – they’re just a concept.  No matter what the numbers were, the finish line hadn’t actually moved.  We’d still get there when we got there.

The only concern left was whether we’d finish under cut-off and be able to make out flight out of Palm Beach that evening.  Instead of a leisurely saunter in, we had to get moving.

As we walked to Karen’s car, we were all trying to figure out the discrepancy in the mileages.  After all, the woman working the race gave us essentially the same mileages Karen did.  We talked about the plane flights and decided we could still make it, but no lollygagging.

Rob and I started on.  A guy on a road bike slowed down to talk with us.  He was interested in the race and it was nice getting his perspective on the area.  Unfortunately, he confirmed that our last section was 7 miles.

Karen and another unmanned aid station awaited.  Karen wanted to ride the last section with us but we couldn’t think of a way for her to do it and still get some finish photos.  I hated to cut into her fun but we couldn’t think of a good way around it.

We shed more layers here and took off.  There were a few more people on the levee and more houses on the canal side.  Definitely heading into civilization.

Taylor Creek (111.1 mi)

At this unmanned aid station, the course took an odd detour.  We ran across a sandy lot, over a narrow metal bridge crossing a channel, and through a small RV park on the other side of the channel.  We did fine until the RV park where we promptly got lost at the one and only turn and had to backtrack.

Finally back on the levee, we “hustled” as best we could, which after 111 miles isn’t that impressive.

The levee was clearly passing into the most populated part of the lake.  The canal side was packed cheek-to-jowl with cute little fishing cottages, all rented out for the weekend.  Cars were driving along the nearby road, and lots of people were using the levee – walkers, rollerbladers, bike riders and even some runners.  Compared to the other side of the lake, this whole area was bustling.

Canal 57 (Unofficial stop.  Mileage – Feels like 150?)

Thankfully, Karen met us at this unofficial stop, because in all the panic about the race finish, we forgot to put on sunscreen and my skin had been baking now for a few hours.

While rubbing in sunscreen we all three watched the action in the parking lot below.  A handful of airboats were coming and going from the boat ramp and zooming around the nearby area.  Each one sounded like small plane and the combined noise sounded like the tarmac of a major airport.

Meanwhile, the clock was ticking.  Karen said she’d meet us at the finish, and we parted one last time.

Heads down, time to move.  We passed more walkers, runners, and bikers.  Bizarrely, just as we were getting away from the parking lot and the crowd was thinning, the levee was overcome with bees.  Yes, bees.  Honeybees.  They weren’t threatening, they were just everywhere.  It seemed like they were all going in the same direction, from the marshy lakeside toward the city/canal side, but “why” was a mystery.  We ran through them, just trying to keep them out of our faces.  One lone bike rider coming toward us laughed and said that he’d actually swallowed one.

Finally, both bees and people disappeared and we were alone on the levee.  The canal side was filled chock-a-block with RV parks and it was fun to watch the activity in the neighborhood below.

Still, I was ready to get done and worried we’d miss the turn.  We couldn’t see the campground ahead for sure and had no sense of how much distance was left.  Some walkers appeared ahead, which was a good sign, since they didn’t look like the types that would stroll far from their cars, and cars might mean “campground.”

Okee-Tantie (118.0 mi)

Sure enough, we passed a bar gate (where the cars were parked) and a minute later saw the campground and the white flour arrow we’d been looking for.  A left, a right, a short stretch on sandy road, and we saw Karen and the four-person RD crew waiting.  Hours and hours of constant forward motion were over, and as always, it was amazing to cross the finish line and realize we were done.

We thanked everyone and loaded in the car for the trip back to Palm Beach.  If we hurried, we might even have time to get showers and some vegan pizza at a place Karen had found in town.

Would I Do It Again?

Lots of people have asked and I haven’t come to a firm conclusion.  LOST was in many ways an easy course but hard at the same time.  For example, it’s not a technical course but it would be hard if not impossible, mentally, to do on my own, without company or crew to look forward to seeing.  Also, it’s so runnable, you can make good time but I’m not used to running that much in a 100 without hills and rocks and roots to work different muscles, so it actually took me longer to recover from this race than usual.  Ultimately, my shoes are the best example.  I ran the race in almost-new Montrail Hardrocks with around 100 miles on them.  This is the same model I ran multiple 100s in last year and probably way more than the recommended 500 miles before needing to change shoes.  But after one race, LOST 118, the black was totally worn from the heels and the shoes were trashed.

Only if I Have the Same Crew!

I was so proud of Karen – I couldn’t imagine a better crew, and she’d done it instinctively with no instruction.  She was 100% reliably at every aid station and even stops in between, always awake, got everything we asked for en route, pointed out the birds and other sights we would have missed, paced us when she could, and was always calm and encouraging, even when we were worried about the cold, the rain, or my hip and any number of other things.  The only thing she probably didn’t do as asked was get some sleep, though she never even let on that she was sleepy.  She even chauffeured us back to Palm Beach (while I slept), got vegan pizza while we showered, and safely deposited us at the airport on time.  Her company would be the sole factor that would make the race worth doing again.

Posted: Tuesday, March 23, 2010, 11:00 pm | Tags: Blog | Respond | Trackback