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SRRC Race Reports

JFK 50 Mile Race, Boonsboro, MD —Sat., November 18, 2006
by Adam Borbidge

Why?

It has to be the single most frequently asked question of ultramarathoners. In my own mind I was weary of the question and the dangers surrounding it as the JFK 50 mile eventually got here.

The trick is to never answer in any meaningful way.

When Phil announced that the Last Supper would be at a sushi place, I wasn't too put out. In fact I was glad to accept a dinner out decision—Subway made good sense, but which one and when? I had dined on sushi before a triathlon, and it made good sense.

Samurai Sushi in Broadlands treats its good customers in the same fashion as the great family Italian restaurants do—great service, chef's specials, fried bananas and ice cream. I was focused on dinner being a pre-race meal, but as Phil explained, this just happens to be dinner with friends before a 50-mile run. Phil and Brian ordered sashimi for two and some appetizers and then there were the chef's compliments—it was more fish than I would put in my stomach before running a race. I was half expecting round upon round of sake bombs, but luckily green tea was the strongest order of the evening.

Race morning was exceptionally chaos free. Siva and I woke up on time. Phil picked us up, and we rolled out on time. We parked far away from packet pick-up, and there wasn't too much time to sit around and worry. The walk down to the start was calm. I made a last minute port-a-potty stop that separated me from Phil and Siva—it's a pre-race folly I've committed the last three races, and its caused me some pre-race anxiety, not seeing my training partners off, but it does provide the loner an opportunity for people watching.

The start of the race was in the middle of town. The local early birds were just getting the morning paper off their front step. The start line crowd looked similar to any 5K start. Young kids in t-shirts. Ironmen just out there for a long training session or to complete one more conquest because they can and they will. I wasn't surprised to see more water bottles and packs—I was sporting a 70 oz. Camelback myself, but seeing the cross-country runners and Middies donned in basic shorts and t-shirts amazed me. I suppose they didn't expect to get lost on the AT.

The race started with people running. (I naively thought several hundred people would encourage each other to start slow, maybe hold hands in a big walking group.) So I ran too. I heard that the narrow trail could cause backups and I felt I could at least walk at the front of the line. I wore a heart rate monitor so I kept running until I broke the "threshold"—that was at the first hill. Before one even gets to the park with the entrance to the Appalachian Trail there is a very long, very steep hill. I walked this hill until my heart rate was under the limit. Then I would run if it seemed less steep. I made it to the park in 25 minutes.

Blazing down the Appalachian Trail

Over the next 2 hours and 20 minutes I ran over some nice trail, hiked a bunch more pavement, kissed my wife once, and then haltingly descended the "rock garden" and the switchbacks to the mile 15 checkpoint for another kiss and my first bottle of Ensure. Those cliffs. That garden. Any previous initiative or "fun" I took from the earlier trail sections was not to be attempted for the last 20 minutes of my time on the AT. I don't have a solid grasp of that kind of trail running, so I'll speculate later, but for now let us move on to phase 2: The C&O—that other trail.

The stretch between AT proper and the C&O was kinda like a long triathlon transition area. I got my Ensure and a break just off the AT. I jogged for a few minutes to arrive at the railroad tracks where there was a deluxe aid stop. I took the time to apply more Body Glide to both feet and eat a potato chip—just because another runner enthusiastically piled a handful into his mouth. I tried a generic Oreo as well. Maybe next year I'll be the runner inspiring impulse eats.

The first few miles on the AT felt so normal it was weird. People running but not race fast. The weekend joggers had the same kind of lope but no numbers. The sight of a "raging" Potomac River kept me quiet and sober, but the long, straight, lonesome road ahead had me eyeing prospective pace buddies—gregarious and a wealth of movie trivia desirable. I was ten or so miles out from the Aqueduct, the aid station at mile 27 and official "halfway" mark, when I caught up to Patrick, a runner about my age, with whom I had traded places on and off during the AT trek. We kept each other company till the Aqueduct—close to 90 minutes.

The raging Potomac River

I pulled away from Patrick, the snowshoe racer from Albany, somewhat abruptly when my crew support popped up early on in the tunnel of spectators. My wife had gone off a minute before my arrival, but Michaela was there, ready and waiting with a comfy folding chair and advice on which shoe went on which foot. I traded my trail shoes in for my cushioned roadrunners here. I took my second Ensure. I didn't mind sitting down, chatting up Michaela and Christy and the surrounding Loudoun Road Runners, but within several minutes I was prodded out of the chair to set off again. I wondered what the big hurry was. I mean, Christy and the rest of the crewers only get these brief stops to see their runners, the least I can do is stretch it out, but they acted like I was in a race or something. Silly. Before I get off the tangent I am on, I will add that there was a pancake breakfast in the area available to the crew members somewhere and sometime between Weaverton Cliffs (15.4) and the Aqueduct.

Doldrums? What doldrums?

So anyway, I began to make my way out of the rest stop, snagging a couple of Ibuprofen and Endurolyte capsules on the way. But just as I got to the picnic tables, I pulled off to stretch, physically stretch my legs. After a couple minutes I started off again, searching for Patrick up ahead. I had heard the next twelve miles would be the doldrums of the course. This sounded like hitting the wall in a marathon and I was determined to ignore it/deny it/or will myself through it by sheer disbelief. Think Danny Glover and Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon sitting in the locker room willing themselves not to get old. This stretch and my mood were certainly fit for a Stephen King title. Desperation. Misery.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

I searched in vain over that next one-and-a-half hour for a movie buff. Instead, I got bored with my monotonous pace. I was a little sore, but only enough to recall what Phil had passed on to me from one elite runner: "When it hurts, try running faster." Certainly something new and daring to try in my first ultra, but I figured that it would get me through the neverendingness faster so I pushed the pace. I started passing people. They gave me compliments, every one, and it was like drinking from a desert cactus. I ran faster and took more congratulations, more nods. The water in my Camelbak was mundane. Worthless, save for its slight break in the monotony. But the human contact was energy. I was gaining ground.

When I closed in on the "38 special" (mile 38) I felt like I could see it from a far ways off in the distance before actually capturing it in my field of vision. I saw the road next to the trail again. There were cars! And that meant people.

As it turned out there were people. Little people. Normal people. People with chicken soup cooking on a stove. And chicken broth. Cookies. I can't remember if I had any cookies, but I will always remember that chicken broth is awesome. By the end of the race I would down at least 2.5 cups. When the tables of goodies and their people were behind me and the noise was fading out, I started ambling on again, looking back for Christy. I was very fortunate to scan the road and see her getting out of the car. For our quarter mile jog I got to express with some animation to my wife the loneliness of the last stretch of trail. I got a hug at the edge of wooded trail and clearing and initiated the final miles of the C&O portion.

Although I was buoyed by the mini date I just enjoyed, I found myself raging against the Course each time a neared a trail mile marker post and frequently in between said posts. My acceleration built quickly. I was actually running, and there were fewer runners from whom I could leech salutations and positive energy. I had run so consistently for so long, yet the Course still had so many miles. I remember feeling quite clearly, in fact, I may have said it out loud, "It's time to knock this $@#!er down!" I was mad. And that madness got me to the end of my time on the C&O where there were people with more cookies and more broth. I thought nothing more of the spectator who told me I would be off at the mile 84—it was probably almost marker 85! Liar! So I smiled and tried to make a joke and thanked the girls setting out the broth for me and the rest of the Azkaban escapees.

This is only page 3 of a single-spaced Word document. If the prose isn't working on you, dear reader, the sheer effort of processing 1728 characters must be. Well, the countdown has almost begun.

Dick Clark is watching the ball drop.

There is only one more event before I start to see the "special" mile markers of the JFK. I downed my broth, sampled a PB&J sandwich, and returned to pavement for the third and final phase of the JFK 50. No runner was within eyesight on this pavement as the road curves severely up and around a corner. There is also a gravel road; it could be a driveway before that. Not wishing to append any mileage at this point I waited an additional minute for the next runner to come off the C&O onto the black top—just to be sure the curve in the road was the right answer. It was steep so I hiked and exchanged a few wisecracks with this new navigator by consensus. Eventually (or shortly?) the road leveled out and I returned to jogging. In due time I saw the first of the reverse mileage signs—the countdown miles that start at 8 and work down to zero.

I think my time over this last section of the run was typical of what most JFKers experience. The markers don't come fast enough but there's an undercurrent of optimism. With five or six miles to go I saw families at the end of their driveways. A little girl had a bowl full of Jolly Ranchers and I took a sour apple—the tastiest and best conversation piece if real conversation runs out. The girl's neighbor or brother rode a big wheel down the roll of a hill and I envied the tike but couldn't imitate the freewheeling with my zombie legs that could be controlled but were stubborn and numb. A short while later I pulled up to a couple. The young man was supporting a friend or sister in her first JFK. He told me his story of running the Vermont 100 and how he put down three sandwiches and a pocket full of rocks to make weight from one checkpoint to the next, and I was impressed. He seemed so normal to me.

Approaching the finish.

With only a couple miles to go the route comes to an intersection with some kind of interstate. Turning the corner was lonely because anyone within sight seemed to accelerate. I was running back into a town and there were signs of a school, and the only finish I can expect to see is marathon proportion but that can't be with less than 1300 entrants. In the last mile I catch up to one more runner that I make sure to pass because there's still a finish line, and I want to look good. I remember little fanfare, but there was a Mile 0 sign and banner and PA system. I ran fast enough for the 8:40 flat, but I may have added a second of hang time to give the announcer enough time to look me up so I could hear my name over the PA system.

Officially, I had just completed the 2006 JFK 50 miler. Personally, I was still in game mode so I went through the post-finish line strategy. Take the water bottle. Hand off the bib thing—this isn't a chip race, so that bib receipt matters. Walk away and find a stretching post. Call to leave a voicemail for Christy to let her know I'm at the finish line but I think she picked up so I tell her I'm off to get my post race gear and a hot (please, oh please) shower. I felt pretty good, better than I did after running the Baltimore Marathon, but the fear still lingers that I might spontaneously crumble into dust or a full body cramp, and that's why the hot shower is so important after the stretching and the phone call.

After I'd showered and dressed in comfy clothes, I wasn't feeling any of that game mode worry. I was looking for the pizza and fried chicken and beer and malt liquor even that I'd heard about. I found the pizza and Twinkies of all things. Christy met me in the gymnasium where they have the showers and Twinkies but no booze, and we sat for a while watching the award ceremony. It was dark when I got back outside to spectate at the finish line.

Reflections

As a spectator I observed the following:
- One marriage proposal. Seeing someone drop to one knee after an ultra is worrisome—until that person gets up for a big hug and kiss from a significant other in street clothes.
- Everyone that approaches the finish line puts on his or her best stride. The finish line of this ultra was so much prettier than that of most marathons. Several former hobblers are sprinting even.
- Several LRR and SRRC finishers
- All smiles

My one regret was that I didn't stay till 7pm—the cutoff time to see every official finisher.

The most frequently asked question of rookie ultramarathoners: Would you do it again?

Yes. The JFK is a great first ultra. (Apparently, it's a great repeat ultra since there are so many repeat offenders there year after year). At one point I think the event was called the JFK 50 Mile Run/Hike, and I find the "Hike" appropriate. Hike implies recreational activity. There is no implication of pace or deadline. I hiked from milestone to milestone. In a race, I crunch the split. Besides, running 50 miles is just too much of one thing, as some multisporters will quickly point out. I will also say that the JFK (and a fast Baltimore time) have turned my eye to the off-road marathon and 50K distance. I assume a lot of runners might ask how much it hurts / how long was it before you were ambulatory again. Well, I was out for the SRRC Sunday run the next day. I was a snail mind you, but I was on two feet. In hindsight, I should have waited till Tuesday, since I seem to have contracted a nasty Achilles heel tendonitis, but I maintain that my worst injury from race day was the hiccups.

I returned to the finish line to spectate, and just as I wondered aloud where all the beer and booze were hiding, a kindly crewmember put a brown bottle in my hand. I'll keep Kindly anonymous since I was drinking on school grounds. No sooner had I finished the last drop of beer than I started hiccupping. Usually hiccups will go away after a few minutes. Two hours later I was still performing the involuntary abdominal exercise. After dinner the hiccups came back, and my wife tells me I fell asleep with the hiccups, but apparently they went away in my sleep. The next day I had two more bouts. At a party later that evening, a casual, but brilliant observer suggested I might have irritated my diaphragm on the run. This could be totally off base, but it sounds plausible. Ultimately the 50 miler hurt less than any marathon to date, but the bright orange JFK shirt is my new "proudest" running t-shirt. November 18, 2006 was a whole workday when I looked forward to the meetings and did something enjoyable the entire time.

Numbers

139 Adam Borbidge 28 M 27/98 SOUTH RIDING VA 8:40:00 10:22
2 Ensure
1 Powerbar before the race, 1 during
1 chip
2 cookies
2.5 cups of chicken broth and soup
1 Jolly Rancher
1 or 2 Powergels with more sodium
6 Endurolytes
4-6 Ibuprofen
1-2 refills of the Camelbak and Gatorade at almost every water stop

November 2006

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