Iroquois Trails Ultras, Sept. 19, 2009

In the 100 mile race, 19 of 30 starters finished under the 36 hour cut-off time. Three men ran under the inaugural course record and Kelly quickened her own for the women. In the 50 mile race, 15 of 26 starters finished under the 13 hour cut-off. Aliza LaPierre put in a stellar performance to establish a new woman's and overall course record of 8:29 and Ed Housel lowered the men's course record to 8:44.

It was awe-inspiring to run the final miles behind ultra and mountain ace Jeff Browning. Here's a guy that had just hammered 98.5 mostly technical miles fueled mostly by GU, S-caps, and a high-five from a random toddler. His quadriceps were shot, there was no moonlight under a dense forest canopy, a steeply pitched, slick and rooted downhill with a cliff to the left. Never mind all of that, you would have thought the guy was out on a 5 km fun run, dancing down that hill en route to a blistering new record of 17:34. That is what is possible.

Glen Redpath. Here's a gentleman who ran an incredible race at Haliburton, handily establishing a new course record, only six days before toeing the line at Iroquois. Also a technical ace, he kept in contact with Jeff throughout the day, closing the gap to under twenty minutes at one point, and finished an amazing race in 18:56. All of this on 50 mile training weeks and a lot of sesame chicken on Mondays.

Kelly Wilson, the inaugural 100 mile women's victor returned for her second 100 with the goal of breaking 24 hours, a goal narrowly missed in the final miles of her 2008 debut secondary to Iliotibial Band shut down. In the off season she focused efforts on strengthening this relative weakness. Throughout the race she was collected, calculated, and on target. Paces will slow especially on technical courses with fatigue and nightfall but Kelly nailed it. She took what went wrong, fixed it, went again and achieved her goal, in this case the women's win in 23:28.

What may be the most telling feature of the state of the sport is the character of individuals participating as both entrants and volunteers. It's "please" and "thank you" from every entrant aid stations regardless of the state of fatigue. It's the giving of countless hours from hundreds of volunteers while asking for nothing in return. It's not for the money or the exposure but rather the experience of something more personal and pure.

There is a specific moment where you realize how wonderful it is to be part of Ultrarunning. This year it was in the stars. Sometime in the middle of Saturday night, standing in an open field in near freezing temperatures, I found myself gazing at one of the most beautiful and largest star-filled sky's that I have ever experienced. It was Ultrarunning that had taken me there and I felt lucky to be sharing it with 60 amazing athletes and countless volunteers.

(Please Note: the Iroquois Trails Ultras will officially be renamed the Virgil Crest Ultras in 2010)

Jeff Browning's blog

Iroquois Trails 100
September 19-20, 2009
Race Report

Pre-Race

I really hate getting lost. And, as many of you know, I got lost on my first 100 (2007 Rio Del Lago) and spent 2-3 hours trying to find my way. I finally had to listen for traffic, come down off the mountain to the road, and make my way back to an aid station. At this point my feet had been wet for over nine hours and severe blisters were forming on both feet. And I was only at mile 67.

So my main concern this time around is not getting lost. I study the map online. Each trail section. I print off reams of paper from the website to study the week before, and especially the night before. Not getting lost this time. No way. I ran the RDL 100 in 29:45 (with getting lost), so I mentally peg my IT 100 time for 27 hours. No big deal. If I can keep from getting lost, I should be fine.

I arrive at the restaurant, the aptly named "Gatherings", the night before for the packet pick up and pre-race briefing. They offer a big dinner, but I prefer my own food the day/night before, so I get there in time to check in and hear the talk. I grab a seat and look around. Typical running geeks everywhere. One guy has a bushy goatee, long sideburns, these big glasses that look like goggles and a big hoop earring in each ear. He is also wearing shorts and those high black compression socks. He looks like some new age pirate. I, on the other hand, have just come from work, so I have on my khakis and blue blazer, and look like I should be doing somebody's taxes. But tomorrow morning we're all runners. I sit and listen. Ian Golden, the race director, is a young guy and very energetic (in a laid-back, upstate NY sort of way). He starts his talk by thanking everyone, then gets into the details. The first one is, "I'm going to go through the course with you all now, because last year we had several people get lost along the course." Perfect. "The course consists of 2 50-mile loops, each loop having 10 sections." OK. With you so far. By now I am flipping through the pages that I printed from the site, tracing the section maps with my fingers as he speaks. I honestly don't what the hell I am doing, but at least on the surface, nobody can tell that I've just soiled my pants. "John? Where are you, John? This is John, everyone. Sorry to point you out, John, but John was lost for three hours last year and we had to send out people to find him." I don't bother to look at the guy for fear everyone is trying to figure out what loser will get lost this year…and begin staring at me. By this point I have a good sweat going.

"Oh, and another thing," Ian begins, alot like Columbo just before he tells you that he knows you're the killer. "We had another race here last week, and it turns out the trail runs through an area infested with bees. Real nasty ones too. Last week about two thirds of the runners were stung. And tomorrow's race overlaps that course a bit." Wait a minute! What?! Killer Bees? I feel like I've just walked into a Hitchcock movie. I wait for the punchline… "But don't worry," here it comes, "we will have epi-pens at all the aid stations just in case. Last week one guy got stung, but he made it back just in time and we got him." Good god. I'm picturing one of those huge syringes that I need to jab into my heart to get it back going in case I'm allergic. Am I allergic? Don't know. Never been stung before. Then somebody yells out, "They weren't bees. They were wasps!" Oh, good. Feel much better now. At least now my mind is off getting lost.

I head outside to put together my drop bags. There are 10 aid stations along the loop that I will be running twice. The main one is at Gatherings (at the start/finish line), which will be my big one. I'll have my foot doctor kit there. I got my foot doctor kit the week I returned from the RDL. At mile 67, when I had finally found civilization, my feet were quickly deteriorating into raw hamburger. As I pulled my trail shoes off, I could tell I was in trouble. Without missing a beat though, someone from the crew came right over to me carrying what looked like a tackle box. He opened it up, like he had done it a thousand times, and handed me band-aids and anything else I needed. Not only was I deliriously happy to see those band-aids, I knew right then that that box was the coolest thing I had ever seen. Got one the next week and now take it to all my races. My boys call it the foot doctor kit. Thanks to the RDL crew again for the support, band-aids and the idea to get one of those boxes! I am going to need it. I am on my own this time. No crew. No pacer. Solo.

I hopefully won't need the foot doctor kit like I needed it last time. I am going to play it smart this time. I never had to worry about my feet in any of the long runs I had done preparing for the 100s. So what is different in 100 than it is in 50? As it turns out, plenty. I had neglected my feet terribly during the first half of the RDL (getting them wet early on and doing nothing about it), and I paid for it dearly in the second half. This time I would be prepared. Ian had mentioned in one of his pre-race emails to have a change of shoes after the first section, because our feet were going to get wet running through the high grass covered in the early morning dew. And this time I was going to use moleskin. That wonderful invention that sticks to your skin, so it rubs against your shoe so your skin doesn't. The guy who invented moleskin, in my opinion, should go directly to heaven. No questions asked. I had pre-cut 6 different sets for the bottoms of my feet (where I had the most problems last time), so I could reapply as needed. I would also have waiting for me a towel, dry socks and my trail shoes. I would start off in my road shoes for the first section (5.7 miles) then change. What a plan! Sheer brilliance! As it turns out, it had rained heavily the Thursday night before the race and sections of the trail are "a bit muddy" according to Ian. He suggests that the change of shoes should occur at mile 24. By then everything after that should be relatively dry. Twenty-four miles in wet shoes is one thing. Twenty-four miles of wet trails in wet shoes is something else entirely. I'm going to follow his advice though and wait until mile 24.

I must have checked weather.com weather.com a hundred times the week before, making sure it was going to be dry and to see what the temperature was going to be like overnight. It said 70 degrees during the day and 50 at night. So why, when I get to the race the next morning is it so damn cold? I am wearing shorts, a long sleeve dry fit shirt and a shell. I can see my breath. I check in and go back to my car with the heat on. Seems a little cooler than 50 degrees. Oh well, when I get going it should be OK. At 5:45am on Saturday morning (it's a 6am start) we start to congregate at the starting line. There's a 50-mile race taking place as well, so there are about 50+ people waiting to start. I head directly to the back of the line and start to ask a few folks whether they are running the 50 or 100. "Only the 50," I get back. (Only at a 100-mile race can someone "only" run 50 miles.) I hear one guy asking if someone wants to run with him. He's running the 100 and would like some company. I start to think that if I had someone running with me the chances of me getting lost would diminish greatly. Another set of eyes looking for trail markers. He looks about mid-50's and in pretty good shape. I'm certainly not going to break any speed records, so I tell him I'm interested. What is his forecasted race time, I ask. 30 hours. Well, mine is 27 hours I tell him, but we can start together and see how it goes. This is great, I think. I start to think that I can get through this thing without getting lost, and under 27 hours. And then he speaks. And speaks. And speaks. This guy won't shut up. And I remember why I run alone. Because I don't like talking. And I don't like listening either. But I've sort of already agreed to run with this guy, and he's attached himself to me. He keeps talking. Then I start to put together what he is telling me and a chill runs down my spine.

He finished the Vermont 100 a few years back in under 24 hours. "You finished in under 24 at Vermont, but you're trying for under 30 here?" "Yeah," he replies, "this is 18,000 feet of elevation. And very technical. Why do you think it's got a 36 hour cutoff?" I just thought Ian was being nice, I thought. And then it hit me. 18,000 feet. That seems like a lot. But I could have sworn RDL was 17,000. As it turns out RDL is 9,000 feet. Vermont is 14,000. And Mount McKinley, the highest mountain peak in North America is 20,000 feet. I'm screwed. The race is just about to start, and it's as if this guy has just kicked me in the stomach. But he's not done. "My name's John. I'm the guy they were talking about last night. I got lost last year." I have got to lose this guy.

Race

Now I'm stuck with this guy for what should be 30 hours, but will more than likely be 30 days. We are going to get so lost, we could be lapped by the Donner party. And we're off! There is a pack of about 5-6 of us in the back that take off down the road. And he continues to talk. After the first half mile of road, we turn up a ski slope. A very steep ski slope. In this first section we will climb and descend 1630 feet in 4.7 miles. Straight up, then straight down. John starts to huff and puff, and I notice he is sweating profusely, while I still haven't really warmed up yet. John claims his quads are tight. "I'll catch up with you." But before he finishes the word "you", I am gone. I take this opportunity to wish him well and I head off. I bump into him again around 11am as I am coming into the 24-mile aid station, and he is heading out to run the section I have just finished. He is hours behind me. Turns out he had gotten lost (during daylight!). He ends up dropping out at mile 50.

On the way down this first section I am able to really cruise. It's early in the race, I have a ton of energy and the hill is almost straight down. I'm not running as much as I am "falling with style". Making up some of the time I took hiking up the front side of this thing. As I am halfway down I notice a muddy patch and I move right to try and avoid it. I find some high wet grass. Unfortunately the high wet grass is directly on top of about 4 inches of very sloppy mud. I want to slow down, but I'm going too fast at this point, and I hope to just make it through. Well, I do, but my right sneaker does not. It gets sucked down into the mud, which acts like a vice around my sneaker. My foot keeps going, however, and my next step with my right foot (now only wearing a sock) is directly into the mud. I curse, go back, pry my sneaker from the mud and slip it over my mud caked sock. Back to falling down the hill.

The first few sections go well. I'm making pretty good time and come back to the Gatherings aid station (23.7 miles) in about 5:28. Not breaking any land speed records, but I also have already gone up and down over 5,000 feet of elevation by this point. I take some time and completely dry my feet, change moleskins and socks and put on my trail shoes. It takes my almost 20 minutes to do all this, but it saves me hours of pain later. It's at this point, when I have my foot doctor kit out and I'm taping up one of my blisters, when a volunteer comes over and says, "That's the greatest thing I've ever seen. I'm getting one for my race next weekend." I then reach over to my drop bag, which is an old plastic grocery bag into which I've just dumped everything I need at the station. And I'm rifling through it to find my damn gels. "And that's your drop bag?" he asks. I can tell he's a little let down. Yeah, well, I didn't think this all the way through… I finally find my stuff, load up my belt and head out. I go to look at my watch…and the damn band breaks. C'mon! Two volunteers and I try for a few minutes to get the damn pin back in the band. At one point one of them is using the edge of his knife to try to jam it back in there. As I see that this activity has the potential to end very badly, I tell him to forget it. I stuff the watch into my pocket and head off.

My feet feel great. It's like I'm starting the race over. And I'm going to need it, because this next section was designed by some sort of sadist. The trail to the Greek Peak aid station is only 3.7 miles. Straight up. Well, that's not true. The first mile is on a flat road, and then I turn right. And it quickly gets ugly. Ascending 1,100 feet in about a mile, with about a dozen long, nasty switchbacks. At several places, there is a rope to help you get up the side of the mountain. What the hell? All I can think of is that I have to do this again from mile 96 through 100. Not looking forward to that.

Making OK time to the Daisy Hollow Road aid station at mile 37. I've decided to put a drop bag here with more gels, some shot blocks and hammer bars. I look into the box with all the drop bags and pull mine out (another grocery bag). It has a hole in it and someone has taken one of my bars and some shot blocks. I can't believe someone would do that! And then I look closely. Someone didn't. Something did. Some animal had eaten its way into my bag and ate my stuff. I manage to salvage some gels and some of my carb powder. And I go. I've got to get heavier drop bags.

I end up finishing the first 50 in 13 hours. It's never taken me that long to do 50 before, but then the elevation has been a little more than I'm used to. Brooklyn has an elevation change of around 4 ½ feet, so I don't get in a lot of hill training. But I'm feeling good. I take some time again to change moleskins and socks. I'm starting to develop some hot spots, so before they become real problems, I put some more moleskin on. Have I mentioned how much I love the guy who invented that stuff? I spend another 20 minutes at this station to take care of my feet, but it's worth it. I still feel pretty good. It is starting to get dark so I throw on my headlamp and head out.

Back up the ski slope that started the race. What took me 1:18 the first time around now takes me over 2 hours. After that section, it's down, up, down, up for another 20 or so miles. Not too bad. I do notice that it's getting a little chilly though. I'm starting to be able to see my breath. Fifty degrees? I don't think so. As I am coming down the mountain I can notice that I'm approaching what looks like fog. The bottom of the mountain is shrouded in its own cloud. And it's really cold. I've pulled the sleeves of my shell over my hands at this point. By the time I reach Gatherings again, I can barely feel my hands. I need some soup. Not so much to drink, but just to hold the cup. As I run up to the aid station I notice the volunteers are sitting in front of a huge heater blasting out hot air. As I hold my cup of soup, someone walks over and tells us the current temperature: 32 degrees. I'm so cold I can't stop shaking. I'd like to stay, but I need to keep moving so I can warm up. I should have stayed a little longer, because the next fours hours are no fun at all.

I start heading up to the Greek Peek aid station towards mile 78. Up, up, switchback, switchback, grab the rope, another switchback. Is this really necessary? It's a long hike up this time. It's dark and cold, and I notice that I'm not that hungry or thirsty. So I stop eating my gels every hour, and I stop drinking. Just not thirsty. After a few hours of this I notice that my bottles are still relatively full, and dehydration sets in. How can I tell? I start to have problems with my bowels. It's not that I couldn't keep anything down. I couldn't keep anything…in. And as it turns out, Greek Peak does not have a port-o-potty (some aid stations did, just not this one). So the volunteer hands me a wad of paper towel and wishes me luck. I top off my bottles (which isn't much because I am not drinking) and head off. There's just no way I can go in the woods, mainly because I know for a fact that my legs just won't bend that much. I can still run. But squatting after running almost 80 miles is not something that I can do gracefully. And I can picture myself collapsing into my own mess. Not a good visual, I know. So I trudge on towards the next aid station, praying that it has some sort of a toilet. At this point I would take a beach chair with a hole in it. I don't care.

After about 2 miles of nagging stomach pains I come across two port-o-potties alongside the road. In the middle of nowhere. Someone was watching out for me. I opened the door slowly hoping not to wake whatever might be living inside. God knows when the last time it was cleaned. I don't care. I go. Then I go. My pace by now has slowed dramatically and I'm managing to churn out about 25-minute miles. And then, just when I needed it most, I come to the next aid station. I see someone waving me in. He has an Ohio State sweatshirt on and is clapping his hands. I can't hear anything, but I sure am glad to see him, because I'm not feeling too well at this point. I reach the ridge, turn to my right to go into the aid station and…no one there. No table, no person, no Ohio State sweatshirt. Just a bunch of bushes. I could have sworn this guy was waving me in. I take a little drink of my water and continue on. (That would turn out to be just one of many things I see that are not really there: a couple pitching a tent in the middle of the trail, someone leaning against a tree, and a huge balloon in the shape of an alien are just some of the things I "saw".) Great. Trying desperately not to shit myself and now I'm losing it. I finally make it to the Rock Pile aid station at mile 82.
"Are you guys real?"
"Yeah."
"Is that port-o-potty real?"
"Yeah."
Thank god. Even if it's not real, I'm going anyway and will take my chances with falling over. I force down 2 gels and refill the bottles. The sun is coming up by now and I'm starting to feel human again. Let's go asshole. You can do 18 miles in your sleep. Which is good, because I just might have to. The gels kick in and I start to get thirsty again. My pace picks up to about a 20-minute mile. Up, down, up, down. At certain points over the last couple of hours I was just really hoping I could control my own intestinal tract. Whether or not they had to come looking for me was OK, I just didn't want anyone to find me covered in my own filth. Now, as it is getting lighter out, not only do I think I can make it, I start to figure out where I am in the rankings. As I haven't seen anyone in a while I'm pretty sure I'm last. There were a couple of folks behind me, but they've DNF'd by now. I really don't want to be last, because we all know the line "I'm just happy to have finished" is bullshit. It's like those actors who claim "It's just an honor to be nominated," then force out a little grin when someone else's name is called. I'm a little more straightforward than that: I do not want to come in last. By the Daisy Hollow aid station at mile 87 I'm feeling pretty good. The volunteer asks if I'd like to send an email to anyone. Yes. To my wife please. Tell her: "Feeling OK. Probably won't die. G". That's it? No "Love your husband…". Nope. She knows I love her.

I need to summit Greek Peak again and I'm feeling OK this time. What I did in 26-minute miles last time, I do in 20-minute miles now. Up, up, switchback, goddamn switchback. Note to self: more hill training. I pass someone on the way up. Nice. I reach the last aid station before the end and there is another runner there gobbling down food. Are you kidding me? There are less than 4 miles left and much of it is straight down. What are you refueling for? As it turns out, there is a very nice older woman at the station maternally telling everyone to prepare for the descent. "You better eat something. There are a lot of rocks ahead." Lady, I don't care what is ahead. The sooner I get out of here, the sooner I can lie down. I quickly fill up my bottles and head out, leaving the other runner there scarfing down god-knows-what because Aunt Bee is nervous about miles 98, 99 and 100. I will roll down from here. I don't care.

And that's pretty much what I do. I go into what feels like a freefall. With each step my feet are jamming into the front of my shoes, but I don't care. I'm pretty sure my big toe nails are gone anyway. It's as if someone has been driving roofing nails into them for the last few hours. I pass someone else on the way down. For the last four miles I manage a 15-minute mile, and I'm sprinting towards the finish. The awards ceremony was going on right at the finish (by now it's 1pm on Sunday afternoon), and everyone stops what there doing to start cheering me on. "Come on, Gary!" "Push it!" "Finish strong!" I feel like I'm flying towards that race clock as it's ticking away. 100 miles in 30:53. Thirty people started the race, nineteen of us finished, and I came in sixteenth. I actually feel pretty good at the end. I had been picturing myself collapsing into a ball of drooling, quivering flesh for most of the night, but I think the excitement of finishing, along with the fact that there were 30-40 people standing there clapping for me, kept me from collapsing. (A guy by the name of Jeff Browning won the race in 17:34. He happens to sport a bushy goatee, hoop earrings and big glasses. Go figure.) So I didn't get lost and my feet were in very good shape at the end; all in all, a successful race for me. While it was a tough, technical course, the great group of volunteers, who couldn't have been more helpful; and a race director who was constantly looking out for his runners made this an awesome race. And after all my swearing up and down about the elevation, and all the times I was mentally burning Ian in effigy for designing the course, I can't wait to do it again next year.

Gary

The Iroquois Trails 100 is a fifty mile course on the Finger Lakes Trail system in Virgil, NY. The course is broken down into three sections-the Alpine Loop, the Pipe Line Rd loop and Daisy Hollow.

The Alpine Loop is just shy of six miles long and goes up and down the ski trails of Greek Peak ski area. The Pipe Line Rd loop is accessed by a mile long climb up a paved road to the Finger Lakes Trail. The trail is a mixture of hardwood and soft wood forest. There are some sweet, runnable sections through the pine trees where the trail is soft and cushy. Other sections it's hard to keep a steady pace with ups, downs, roots, rocks, stream crossings and fallen trees across the trail. The Daisy Hollow section is a thirteen mile out and back over Greek Peak again and beyond on the Finger Lakes Trail with a little bit of dirt road mixed in.

The race started at 6am Saturday morning with a chilly temp in the 40s. I wore my favorite pair of Brooks PR short, a short sleeved shirt under a long sleeved shirt, a hat and made in Vermont Darn Tough socks. Last year I wore Montrail Hardrock sneakers which worked well over the rough terrain protecting my toes. This year I was going with the Brooks ASRs which is what I've been training in all year. They don't have as much toe protection but are a bit lighter than the Hardrocks. I also had on my Ultimate Direction hydration pack. I figured it was what I was going to use for the whole race so I might as well get used to carrying plus it keeps me warm.

There were 29 registrants this year compared to 26 last year. Along with 26 fifty mile racers, we all lined up behind the line scratched in the dirt between the tiki torches with the clock counting down next to us. We all counted down the last ten seconds and were off! It's a slight downhill to the dirt road where we pick up the ski trail on the Alpine Loop. In a little less than a mile we were turning right to head up the trail. It was a nice hike up and I made sure to look over my shoulder and catch the red glow of the sunrise behind the mountains. Once at the top, it's a short flat before you're heading down a service road back to the bottom. Ian was waiting for us on a corner to make sure we went the right way and to cheer us on and I wondered how did he get there so fast?

We climbed back up to the top of Greek Peak only to run down another ski trail that parallels the initial one we went up. Ian warned us it would be wet and rutted on the way down. My feet got a little wet but I have been through worse (the Finger Lakes 50 mile on July 4) and had already decided I wasn't changing my shoes. By the bottom, my quads were talking to me a little bit and I began to wonder how they would hold up.

I got back to the Gatherings aid station and Jack was there with the camera. I grabbed a potato and headed off to the Pipe Line Rd section. Walking up the hill to the trail head, I was joined by Matt Davenport and Greg Loomis. Matt started chatting with me by apologizing for poor race etiquette by passing me at the VT50 two years ago right at the end. Unfortunately his calf cramped up on him after he passed me so that I passed him back and beat him. First, I had to ask who he was and then admitted that I barely remembered it. I accepted his apology and said no worries since I had forgotten all about it.

Matt, Greg and I more or less hung together for this second section of the course. The guys would get ahead of me on the downhills but I would catch up on the uphills. Getting out from under the power lines on this loop was a nice change. Greg got ahead of matt and I coming down from the cell tower but we caught back up when he stopped to question a course marking. I trusted my instincts not to turn there and stay the way we went last year which turned out to be true.

We got back to the Pipe Line aid station and Jack was parked on the side of the road waiting for me and taking pictures. He refilled my hydration pack; I grabbed another GU and was off. I wasn't at the Gatherings for very long since the next aid station on Greek Peak was only 3.5 miles away. My pack was fine and Jack suggested keeping it on the lighter side for the hike up Greek Peak. I got a potato for the road and headed out figuring Matt and Greg would catch up.

The hike up the Finger Lakes Trail to the top of Greek Peak was just like I remembered it-steep and with the recent rain a little slippery in spots. It wasn't until I reached the aid station that Greg caught up to me. Jack and Amy Lane (who was there to crew and pace Daniel Larson) got me refilled and Jack warned me not to stay at the Rock Pile aid station for too long. I hurried down the trail to catch Greg who had just gone by me and hung with him briefly until he sped up on a downhill. I wasn't too far behind him coming into the Rock Pile aid station. I stayed long enough to chug down a shot of coke and was off while Greg was chatting.

Jack was waiting for me out at the Daisy Hollow aid station which marks the end of this 13 mile third section of the course. Along the way out, the leaders of both races passed me heading back in. It was nice to see some familiar faces and get an idea on where I was in the race. Jack told me I had to run out to the road past the aid station and come back reflecting a change in the course. It wasn't far and along my way, I was gonged by Joe Reynolds who was there crewing for his wife, Chris, who was running in the fifty mile race. Apparently some local music store lent the aid station crew this huge gong and they hung it between some trees. It was really loud and I yelled to Joe that if he gonged me again I wasn't coming back. He did as I asked, said I was looking great and I was off with a potato in my hand.

The thirteen miles back to the Gatherings were pretty uneventful but kept interesting by passing other runners heading out and people hiking on the trail who were always kind enough to let me by quickly. At Rock Pile I had some more coke and grabbed a pb&j sandwich to munch on. Jack was waiting at Greek Peak again where I exchanged empty GU packets for full ones and headed out since the Gathering s was only 3.5 miles away and mostly downhill.

I got back to the Gatherings about ten minutes ahead of last year's pace. I wasn't looking forward to the Alpine Loop again especially since I had just gone by it. But I headed out knowing that when I got back that was when Jack could join me as pacer. I kept looking ahead or over my shoulder the whole way around the loop to see if anyone else was out there. I was alone except for the two deer I scared on my second trip to the top.

Jack was dressed and ready to go when I got back to the Gatherings again. I ate another potato while we walked up the hill to the trail head for the Pipe Line Rd section. Jack jumped right in to his pacer role by suggesting I try to run up some of the hill. I did a little bit and started to run more once we were on the trail but it was still uphill. Along the way out, Jeff Browning and Glen Redpath passed us heading back. They were the leaders of the 100m race. Jack and I are friends with Glen and he said to go as fast as I could now so I could get as far as I could before dark.

We didn't spend too much time at the aid station and were off to get as far as we could before dark. It wasn't quite dark when we had to go into the woods and at that point we had to put on the headlamps. Once we made it back up to the cell tower and got into the open it brightened back up again. Jack was a bit confused on which way to go but I knew. We started down the hill only to find there were no glow sticks to light the way and it was hard to find any other course markings. Once back at the aid station we told the volunteers who called to find Ian and let him know. We found out after the race that section had been vandalized.

We passed quite a few people on our way back to the Gatherings. It was neat to see the various lights dancing in through the trees. Someone had a green light so we thought aliens were coming to get us! Back at the Gatherings, we topped off our hydration packs, restocked our GU and Shot Block supply, grabbed a potato and were off.

We were greeted at the Greek Peak aid station with claps and cheers from the volunteers including Chris Reynolds who completed the 50 mile race earlier. Her husband Joe, who gonged me at Daisy Hollow, was taking a nap in their truck-what's up with that?! I sucked down some chicken soup and was on my way.

We made some good time on the dirt roads between Greek Peak and the Rock Pile aid station. We had a drop bag waiting for us at Rock Pile where I topped off my hydration pack and had some more coke and a potato. Since I asked Ian to have more potatoes out on the course, I better be eating them!

The way out to Daisy Hollow seems to take forever in the dark. We were passing people along the way and finally got word that we were about five minutes away. I went out to the road, no one there to bang the gong, some more soup for me and pirogues for Jack to warm us up. The night was chilly when you stopped moving. Ian was there in his puffy jacket to stay warm. I commented to Ian I was worried about finishing under 24 hours-it would be close. On the way out, Jack said I couldn't stop at any more of the aid stations. I had to keep moving.

At this point last year, I was reduced to a fast walk (at least I thought I was going fast) because my right IT Band had tightened up so badly I couldn't bend my knee to run. However, a year's worth of butt and hip work had paid off big time since I was completely pain free. I hiked up the hills as quickly as I could and ran the flats and downhills as fast as I was able. It always felt like as soon as I got going there would be a tree blocking my way.

I got a piece of banana at the Rock Pile and kept going while Jack topped off his hydration pack and brought a coke bottle full of our Amino Vital electrolyte drink for me to carry in case I ran out. My pack has an exterior pocket that an extra bottle fits nicely in. My tummy was rumbling hungry but the aid station food had lost its appeal. I took another sip of my drink to temporarily get rid of the rumbles.

Just short of the Greek Peak aid station, we heard this loud screech come from the canopy above us followed by an owl hooting. We both jumped and looked up to see what was about to attack us. Nothing ever came and Jack made some hooting noises that were promptly answered. My guess is it was a screech owl but I have never heard one before to know for sure. A couple minutes later, the lights and the bustle of the Greek Peak aid station were a welcome site.

Per Jack's instructions, I walked on through and admired the flashing Halloween eyeball decorations on the trees. There were only 3.5 miles to go which included a short hike to the top, then the trail levels out and you come out under the power lines. Follow the power lines a short way, cross under them and the trail is still flat until about a mile of steep downhill where the trail ends and you pick up the road that brings you back to the Gatherings and the finish line. When we came out from the woods and under the power lines where the stars were so brilliant you had a hard time taking your eyes off of them. It was easy to pick out the Big Dipper and the three stars that make up Orion's belt.

Once back in the woods, I kept wondering when the downhill would start? This was the most painful part for me last year because the pain from my IT Band crept from my knee to the top of my calf. But not this year! The quads were feeling good too so bring it on! I didn't run down it like I hoped because it was so dark and slippery in some places. I didn't need to fall now. There is some sort of metal looking furnace thing that sits just off the trail which I guess is about the half way point of the steep trail. Once I passed that I knew I was almost there and a few minutes later I saw Jack's headlamp make the S turns which are at the bottom of the trail-just another mile of road to go!

I looked at my watch and it said 23:15 or so. I did it! I would finish under 24 hours! I wish I could say I ran all the way in but I had to walk a few steps every so often and I did walk up the slight incline on the main road to the Gathering's driveway. I made damn sure to start running once it flattened out and around the corner onto the driveway and up to the finish line. Jack, Aliza, Ian and all the volunteers cheered me in.

My goals were to break 24 hours, first female and to place in the top ten. I accomplished them all. Ian gave me the blanket off of his back to wrap myself in while I sat down and rested for a moment. Jack got himself a can of Budweiser to celebrate our success. I sat down and it felt good knowing I didn't have to get up again right away. I even had some crazy thought that since I had finished under 24 hours I didn't feel obligated to do another 100 miler! However, that thought has quickly faded and I'm already mentally revising my training for next year and thinking about upping the ante to two 100 milers next year.

Glen Redpath's blog

Aliza LaPierre's blog

The first week of September I was in Los Angeles running portions of the Angeles Crest trail as I inhaled gobs of smoke from the growing Station Fire. The fire was in its infancy but I knew deep down that it would impose itself on the AC100 ( www.ac100.com ) race scheduled for 2 weeks later. Though I enjoyed my training runs, I knew that figuring out a plan B was in order. Upon my return home to Santa Cruz, I received an email from the AC race directors. Even two weeks out they knew that there was no way the race could go on. Unphased, I jumped on www.run100s.com to look for a different 100-miler to do.

The Iroquois Trail 100 caught my eye as it was in upstate New York and only two hours from my family whom I hadn't visited in two years. I contacted the race director Ian Golden and explained my situation. He welcomed my registration and I began my last minute plans to visit family and some old friends.

All I knew of this race was what I read in various race reports from their inaugural year (2008). All in all things were pretty vague – which coupled with my lack of familiarity with the terrain of central New York piqued my curiosity. I was most intrigued by the elevation change stated on the website. 18,000 feet of climbing. It sure seemed like a lot for New York. Most definitely my ignorance to the local geography kept me from respecting the difficulty level until it was too late. But I'll get to this later.

Three days with family in Rochester then off to Virgil I drove. Folks in upstate New York drive pretty slow compared to the California speeders I was familiar with – and the New York State Troopers all wear Smokey the Bear hats. This strangely intimidated me and I opted to drive my rental Ford Focus as close to the speed limit as possible. It seemed like it took forever to drive two hours. There's some irony here when comparing this to the actual race.

As I took the exit into Cortland I stopped to consult my map. When finally I oriented myself I turned onto the main drag heading into Virgil and nearly sideswiped the only other car on the road. He honked and gave me the finger as I shook my head, wondering why I didn't see him coming. I was tired, but not that tired. Not yet. Then I drove to the start of the race – The Gatherings – and imagined how it would look the following morning. I'd have to return later that afternoon to pick up my bib number but decided to find a hotel room in the interim. I returned to the scene of the near-wreck and rented a room at the Days Inn. I was happy they had wireless.

After checking in and relaxing a bit it was finally time to return to The Gatherings for the pre-race briefing. Ian had organized a delicious pasta meal. I sat with some new friends, Scott and Garth, both from New York City, and we awaited the briefing. Ian's briefing was rather confusing for those of us who had no experience on the Finger Lakes Trails. After Ian the author of Born to Run, Chris McDougall was introduced. Under other circumstances his presentation would have been great – but I'm pretty sure the entire room of folks was as ready as I was to hit the hay for the night. Unfortunately Chris seemed to drone on and on. I had originally planned to have him sign the copy of his book I lugged from California but changed my mind on the spot. As he wrapped I was out of there and with a quickness. I needed sleep.

I dozed off watching Ultimate Fighting and woke up many times with a sore back. I grew worried about this as morning got closer and tried unsuccessfully to will it away. 3:30 am arrived and I was up and ready to go in a flash. The plan was to arrive at the start early enough to get a good parking place near the finish line. I wanted to use my vehicle as a place to stash my aid. My preparation paid off and I got a prime spot. It was a cool morning. After checking in I sat in the comfort of a heated car. A few minutes before the gun I headed towards the slowly growing group of silhouettes at the start line. And just as Ian had promised, the race started on time.

In my first loop I managed to link up with a few local runners. No sooner had they warned me about the gopher holes on the newly mowed downhill off the ski hill (Greek Peak) that I stumbled in one and rolled my left ankle. It didn't tweak it too badly, or so it seemed, but for the next 94 miles or so I felt it getting tighter and tighter. Enough so that I chose to not change my socks nor my shoes out of fear that relieving the pressure might allow swelling. I was somewhat pleased by this as I really didn't want to change shoes anyhow – no matter how wet my feet were going to get.

At about the 25 mile mark I hit a low point per usual. The course was taxing me and I started thinking too much about the overall distance. When one's only consolation is the idea of having "only 75 miles to go" there may be a sudden rush of anxiety that makes the next few miles a bit tough. As a friend in Aptos says, I was forced to "suck it up" and have an out-loud conversation with myself. Actually it was more of a scolding. I ripped myself a new one and got over the hump. Then for the next 10 miles or so some amazing classic punk rock songs filled my head. Namely some angst-filled tunes by Suicidal Tendencies.

As my body began to cooperate I also wondered about the random musical selection my brain was unconsciously making. The punk riffs were replaced with other, more relaxing genres. I realized that each song's tempo perfectly matched my pace. It goes without saying that when the mental music shifted from Suicidal's "I'm Not Crazy" to Whitney Houston's "The Greatest Love of All" I've probably started to slow down. No matter how much I tried to impose faster songs into my mental radio, all that was coming out was slow jams. When Lionel Ritchie's "Running With the Night" came on I wanted to turn off the damn thing.

The most challenging aspect of that first 50-miles was the footing. I most certainly was not used to the rooted single tracks, nor was I familiar with having to look up for trail markers. Combining these two conflicting actions together only made me misstep over and over again. My ankle begged for mercy and I grew concerned that the second loop, in the dark, would be tough going. Nonetheless, I managed to complete the first 50-mile loop in about 9:30. I realized the time was respectable but also felt as if it might have been too fast. I was very impressed with the aid along the way and the general support of the spectators. Apparently the access points were very easy to get to – and the crews and volunteers made sure we each arrived at the stations with a fanfare.

The second go of the Greek Peak loop was much more enjoyable than the morning loop in the dark. I managed to negotiate the loop without stepping into any holes. It was also during this loop that I finally met up with a runner who'd been trading places with me all day long - Chris Luberecki from Tahoe City, California. I'd seen his name on the runner's roster and even did a pre-race search on www.zinsli.com.

Upon my arrival at mile 57, Ian connected me with my pacer who was then standing grill-side learning how to cook quesadillas. We introduced ourselves and since I didn't feel in need of a pacer at that time, nor was it dark yet, I told him to continue with his cooking and meet up with me at the Pipeline aid station nearly 10 miles away. I was happy to knock out this section while there was still ample sunlight. I also had decided to put on my glasses and realized that maybe the footing problem I'd been having was more of a vision problem! Suddenly the stretch seemed easier and I kept a pretty solid clip until the Pipeline aid station when I picked up my pacer.

At Pipeline I quickly learned that my pacer had never run more than 26.2 miles (and on road no less). Plus, he'd never paced anyone and hadn't the foggiest idea what his role was. Fortunately I was coherent from this point until the race's finish. Most certainly I learned the hard way about the risk that comes with being assigned a pacer, sight-unseen.

My pacer talked non-stop even after I explained that at this point in the race I'm usually not too chatty. He just said he'd fill the empty space with noise and that's exactly what he did. His banter made it difficult to focus as I was compelled to remain engaged with him in conversation. I didn't want to be rude. But eventually it was too much to deal with and I contemplated asking him to drop at the next aid. However, I knew that he knew the trails and I was worried about missing a marker without him in the lead. In hindsight I'd have probably been fine – but under the gun I felt a sense of relief with a local leading the way. I could tell he was frustrated by my slowly declining pace and soon felt a strange sense of guilt for "dragging" him along with me. Quickly I got over this and maintained the best pace I could – a.k.a. "very slow".

At some point the clock struck midnight. And since September 20th was my pacer's birthday I wished him a good one and thanked him for sharing part of it with me.

The sky was so clear and the stars seemed frighteningly close. Each time I looked up I felt dizzy and overwhelmed. I tried to keep my eyes from glancing up as I feared I'd be pushed over by the view.

My 11 minute miles quickly turned to 13 and soon to brisk 15 minute walks per mile. The last 20 miles of the race were all walked miles and I found myself growing more and more worried about my time goal. Originally I had wanted to break 22 hours, but soon after the sun went down I altered these plans and figured sub-24 would be more realistic. As I was walking I became concerned about this and expressed my concerns to my pacer. "Yeah, I don't think we'll make the cutoff," was his response. Talk about a buzz kill! He also then went on to ask me what a pacer should do. I didn't really feel like going into it at mile 85 but I did anyhow to kill time. It really didn't make a difference though. I only had finishing on my mind.

I have to send three cheers the folks at the Daisy Hollow Road aid station as they fed me perogies (spelling?) for the first time in my life. Though I was craving Dunkin Donuts I settled for this pasta potato concoction. Absolutely delicious! Thanks Daisy Hollow!

Had my wheels still been turning from this point I just may have hit my original time goal. But the best I could do was a brisk walk at best. The last 15 miles took me nearly 5 hours. Ugh. Yes, it was as horrendous as it sounds.

The final 2-mile hill down to Tone Road was a test of fortitude. Knowing that the finish was just ahead put a smile on my face but certainly didn't speed things up. My finish made it look like I still had something left in the tank but I really didn't. As I crossed the line I saw Ian and a small group of amazing volunteers cheering me in. As I crossed the finish line I announced, "Now THAT was a character builder!" I shook Ian's hand, thanked him for a kick-ass race, and within seconds I was shivering uncontrollably and had to escape to the warmth of my rental Ford Focus. My pacer needed a ride to his car so I drove him – then fought sleep for the next 20 minutes as I drove back to my hotel for a shower.

Back at the Days Inn I defiled the towels by wiping off my legs and made the decision to abandon my funky shoes in this New York motel. I took a 90-minute nap and woke up to shower and pack. Slowly. En route back to the start line, I stopped at Dunkin Donuts and grabbed a dozen assorted, eating three within the next 5 minutes. Back at The Gatherings I watched a few more folks come in before seeing my parents pull into the parking lot. We ate breakfast together then went to the awards ceremony. Apparently too many runners finished sub-24 since Ian ran out of buckles!

All in all my experience at the Iroquois Trail 100 was a good one. This course is much more difficult than I expected and I encourage any future participants to respect the surprisingly difficult terrain. I'm glad it was a suffer-fest because it forced me to challenge my limits. Such challenges make me a better runner, and a better person. I appreciate the lesson in self-improvement, Ian!

Next time I do this I'll go sub-21.

See you all in a few years. Thanks Ian for putting on a great race. And thanks to my pacer for dealing with my sleep-deprived attitude. Maybe someday we'll see those belt buckles.

Tom Griffen, Aptos, CA, 23:15