A Tale of Two Races - Dunes 50 Mile Race

On Saturday, April 27, I lined up at the start of the Dunes 50 mile race for the second year in a row.

I was running to see if my first 50 miler (a win), was a fluke. I fondly recall that race as maybe the best day of my life (not really- I'm married to an awesome man, have birthed 2 sons... there have been many "best days"). I was running to see if I could have another strong performance and another best day. *Spoiler alert* The answer would be "no." But maybe a little "yes," as well.

It took me about 28 miles to realize that running ultras is so much like childbirth... the further you live from the experience, the more amnesia you have about the pain. This isn't any big news flash, check out the book, The Power of Moments by Chip and Dan Heath. It's just a critical fact to remember as you're preparing to do that extremely difficult thing again.

Even now, a week out, I'm already contemplating the Wild Florida 120 mile race. I've already begun to forget the agony of the struggle, holding onto the ecstasy of the finish.  

The Course:

 

Jonathan Dickinson Park is sandy, with some hard packed trails and soft sugar sand dunes ("The Dunes of Heaven"- smaller rollers. "The Dunes of Hell"- larger, steeper brutes). It's exposed-- I think there might have been 3 miles of shade out of the 50. From the start, runners go out nearly 13 miles and back, then turn around and do it once more. The aid stations were awesome-- "Powerline" about 4 miles in staffed by 2 playful pups and their humans; "The Dunes of Heaven"- 2 miles later and the last stop before the dunes begin; "Railroad"- sandwiched between the first baby dunes and the second behemoths; and "The Dunes of Hell"- marking the halfway out point, just before the big dunes.   

My Race:

I began moving forward at a pace that felt comfortable. Less than 1/4 mile in, my toe caught on a root, and I took my first fall. I knew going out too fast is a fatal mistake, so I was careful to not go too hard (I thought). 

One of the challenging things for me was that 50k, 100 mile relay, 50 mile and 100 mile runners all started together. In an ultra, you should not be bothered by what other runners are doing; you should be running your own race. But that is the reasonable and smart way to run. This was the first of several mistakes I would make. I was already trying to sort out who my competitors were. 

I was running well and felt great through the Dunes of Heaven and to the 50k/100 mile runner turn off. As I continued along the course, I began to run through cobwebs. [Odd. Because that would mean that I was clearing the trail- that no one else had come before me. Either I was on the wrong course (I wasn't) or I was in the lead (I was)]. I FELT SO GOOD. And that familiar compelling feeling flooded me- "Move!" my body or my mind or both seemed to be shouting at me. I felt as if I were being pulled forward and faster.

By the Dunes of Hell aid station (about 13 miles in), I first began to struggle. I was 2:20 into the race, happily on pace to get to the halfway point by 5 hours. But my effort and the heat of the Florida sun had me already asking for bags of ice at the aid stations (to stuff down my shirt, in my pack, and in my mouth). I had drunk next to no water and had only consumed about 120 liquid calories. Those are both big mistakes. 

Not pretty- just after my second fall of the day.

The Dunes of Hell were just that. I was walking. A lot. Only 16 miles in and starting to cramp and nauseous. I FELT SO BAD. Too late, I realized just how badly I had erred in the first 13 miles. Thoughts of dropping came to mind. Maybe I could make it back to the start/finish area (26 miles in) and call it a day. But that's when I reached the Dunes of Heaven aid station. And it was. Those guys saved my race. A cold towel, more ice, ginger ale, potato chips, and friendly banter helped me get back on my feet. 

I continued to mostly walk. Last year, at every aid station, volunteers knew and could tell me my lead and the gap I had. Not so this year. At some point, I asked what was going on: "Is there anyone else out here? Where is everyone?" There were so many stretches of hours where I saw NO ONE. My foggy brain could not compute what was happening. Am I that far out front? Am I that far behind? Am I the only one on the course? It sounds silly, but all I knew was that my thoughts and I felt incredibly lonely. 

I made it back to the start/finish area. And my loneliness was amplified as I entered the crowded area where a few of the 50k runners had just finished. I stumbled around needing something I couldn't comprehend or express. A guy (I think it was Diego, one of the race directors), gave me some fresh coconut water- straight out of the coconut- and helped me as best as he could. But it's hard to help someone who can't express her needs. I did have the wherewith-all to grab an energy bar and drink a little caffeinated protein shake before I hobbled back out onto the course. 

Fortunately, all the ginger ale, potato chips, coconut water and ice I was consuming were beginning to provide some energy, and I was able to return to running a bit. I somehow made it back to the Dunes of Heaven aid station. It was there that I first met up with the eventual overall winner. He sat beside me as we both let the aid station workers take care of us-- refilling water bottles and handing out whatever snacks we needed. He left just before me, but then I passed him half a mile later as he had pulled off the trail to get some shade. 

I somehow stayed in the lead until the Dunes of Hell aid station. By then he had recovered, and I was still trying to bounce back. It wasn't until my final stop at the Railroad aid station that I realized he was running in first place, and I was in second. It took me another 3 miles or so before I realized that I had been the first 50 mile runner for about 38 miles of the race. Stunning. 

At the last aid station, with 4 miles left in the race, they asked if I had a head lamp. I did not. Last year's race finished well before sundown. I did not anticipate finishing well after sundown. Another BIG mistake. I had my iPhone flashlight that I could use if necessary. With thoughts of finishing soon and darkness threatening to slow me, I began to move as quickly as I could, now running more than walking. When I could no longer see the trail clearly, I slowed to a fast hike. At this point, with maybe 2 miles left, it was dark. Seeing a headlamp about a half mile behind, I reached to activate my iPhone's flashlight. The dampness of my phone case, my hands, my clothes, left me frustrated as I frantically attempted to turn it on. It wouldn't respond to my touch. I prayed. I tried. I pleaded with my stupid phone's light to just. turn. on. And the runner behind me caught up. And my race ended. And my heart sank. 

She graciously walked briskly in with me, sharing her light and her excitement.

Finally, I was no longer alone. 

Results.
About half the field didn't finish or couldn't finish under the cutoff.