Vermont 100 – A Year and a Day

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The year and a day rule was a principle of English law holding that a death was conclusively presumed not to be murder (or any other homicide) if it occurred more than a year and one day since the act (or omission) that was alleged to have been its cause. The rule also applied to the offence of assisting with a suicide.

In the US, a year and a day is a common sentence length. For some crimes, this is the minimum penalty, as traditionally in English-speaking, common law countries, misdemeanors may not entail a sentence of more than a year (hence, “eleven months and twenty-nine days”) whereas felonies are traditionally punished by incarceration of over one year, hence “a year and a day.” Furthermore, in many jurisdictions, prisoners are eligible for parole only if their sentences are longer than a year; by imposing a sentence of a year and a day, judges can offer defendants a chance at parole. (from Wikipedia)

The Year

My “sentence” was imposed a year earlier, almost exactly to the day. Suds and I decided to head up to the 2009 running of the Vermont 100. We were not crewing, and we did not arrive until late Saturday night, somehow expecting to get an accurate “big picture” of what a 100 mile race was all about. We saw Mr. Bimble, Loopy (with her pacer Ultra), and Sandy (with her pacer Bounce) finish the race. We were both overwhelmed by the experience and were fortunate enough (although too foolish to know it) to NOT see the ugliness that went along with that beauty. While Suds somehow managed to avoid the siren song of the silver belt buckle, I was summarily tried, convicted, and sentenced. I would do penance for some unknown sin, with the only hope of redemption being the completion of a 100 mile race.

As many know, I foolishly thought I had a chance at parole, perhaps for good behavior? So, I immediately signed up for the Iroquois Trails 100 taking place a scant 9 weeks after Vermont. How foolish I was. Despite the expert assistance of Ultra, Loopy, and a myriad other Bimblers, my request for parole was harshly and unequivocally denied. The sentence would stand, and I came to grips with the fact that the earliest possible release would be at the Vermont 100 in 2010, a full year of “hard time”.

Hard Time… In some ways, an exaggeration, in others, an understatement. Unquestionably, a year of extremes, a year of individual days of pure joy and others of utter despair. A year of chronic fatigue, funny gait, constant cuts, bruises, and bites (bug and frost). A year of days in solitary confinement, and days of having my spirits buoyed by my friends. We became “thick as thieves” to push the criminal metaphor to the very limits.

The glimpses of “life on the outside” began early and promising. Bimblers Bluff, a mere 50K long, but a very good performance providing hope after my hopes had been dashed at the Iroquois 100. Then, a long, but not overly dark winter, punctuated by the high point of the Mission to Greylock, perhaps my best day of training. Ever. Then, the Seneca Creek 50K… A perfect microcosm of the year’s feelings, of both solitude and camaraderie, of pain and success, of snow and mud and water crossings. Everything a trail runner needs.

Then, as the year’s sentence waned, I went on to bigger “tests”: Pineland Farms and the Finger Lakes 50s. I must admit, I have grown somewhat confident at the 50K distance, but I only had one previous run at the 50 mile distance and that was several years ago. Pineland Farms was a huge strain on my head and heart, but my legs and lungs refused to be dragged down and I wound up with a race that gave me confidence for Vermont. I filled in the space between the two 50 mile races (which were only 5 weeks apart) with 2 very long run days, both close to 50 miles. After the first of those two training runs, I became VERY easy to spot at a distance. The hobble remains. Off to Finger Lakes, which was a PERFECT (read: painful and unpleasant) final test of body and mind before Vermont.

The Day

[singlepic=6459,280,200,,right] The day approached. Ultra, my crew chief / pacer assured me that I was ready, even while it became apparent he was not (at least not for pacing). IGGY, second in command, did everything possible to put my mind at ease, while Ultra assured me (at my prompting) that a finish could be had, regardless of the cost. So, effectively, the “good cop / bad cop” roles were assumed. The Mayor was recruited to fill-in on the pacing duties. Ultra would show me no mercy (because I didn’t want any) and IGGY would remind me, as she always does, of the joy that can be found, regardless of where you find yourself to be. Ultra’s new camper became race headquarters for the group consisting of The Bimbles, El Toro, IGGY, Ultra, Bounce, Downhill, Mrs AJC, and me. Oh, and Todd who paced the runner who ultimately finished in 2nd place. Many others participated in the race from back in CT. Their presence was definitely noted.

Friday night was filled with feigned calm. Idle lighthearted chatter and sitting around the (metaphorical) campfire took my mind only slightly off the test that was to come. I actually did manage a few hours sleep before awakening in a surprisingly cool pre-dawn mist, made mystical by the faint glow of the start/finish area lights, the soft sounds of Chariots of Fire theme music, and the sporadic whinnying of the horses. I finally sat up when my watch alarm sounded at 3:10 AM.

The race started at 4, down into the darkness. I managed a slow pace, keeping up conversation to slow me down. Still, the fact that we were headed downhill and on very good footing made it difficult to be “moderate”. Around mile 7, I spotted the effortless stride and backwards cap of El Toro, and I caught up with him to chat. I impolitely observed: “Hey, I am NOT supposed to see you out here” (instructions from Ultra). It was my hope that ET did not take this as an admonishment to speed up. Quite the opposite, it was a reminder to me to slow down. In about another 2 miles I realized we were no longer together, which I took to be a good thing. In a few more miles, I realized I wasn’t quite sure whether ET was in front of me or behind. I talked with a man from New Hampshire who had run Bimblers Bluff last fall and thought that Bluff Head was deceptively unpleasant. I had to smile. I also ran with the RD for the OTHER 50K trail race in CT, the Traprock 50K. He had many nice things to say about Mr. Bimble, and was heavily promoting his race. When I finally came into Pretty House around mile 21, the first “crewed” station, Mr. Bimble greeted me with an inquisitive “where’s ET?”. Then, Ultra greeted me with an accusatory “where’s ET?”. I immediately knew what he meant. He meant I was NOT following the plan, and he would NOT tolerate my misbehavior. He also pointed out people I was running with, as he knows everyone in the ultra community, and tried to explain to me, while not deflating my ego, that I am NOT as fast as those people! It suddenly occurred to me that my “sentence” could be extended for bad behavior. I was, in fact, running with people who would finish sub-20 hours, even though I knew 24 hours would be a long-shot for me. So, Ultra slowed me down, IGGY cheered me up, and I was on my way.

The day grew hot and the hills just grew. The stretch to Stage Road was brutal, and my increasingly typical GI problems set in. I came in to the Stage Road station (around 50K), the second “crewed” station, emptied and depleted, but on the bright side, maintaining a better (slower) pace. El Toro passed me while I gathered supplies and advice, and I resolved to “run smarter” not faster. The next crewed station, the first stop at Camp Ten Bear, would not be until mile 47, but I was in for a pleasant surprise…

I was already longing for my crew, and wondering how I would hold out all the way to mile 70 for my pacer, the Mayor. There is just a brief stretch, unfortunately uphill and exposed to the sun, along a state highway. No sooner had I gotten my self into the shoulder when a car horn blared. “What the heck am I doing wrong?” I thought. I glanced to the right to see the Mayor, smiling at me from his Subaru, telling me he would be running with me shortly (shortly meant about 35 more miles). I took tremendous comfort in seeing a familiar face, and knowing the Mayor was ready to run!

[singlepic=6518,280,200,,left]So, I came into Camp Ten Bear feeling confident that I had “fixed” my pacing problems. What I didn’t count on was how badly I had managed my weight. The scale at this first medical check said I had lost 10 pounds! I was not told “Do not pass go. Proceed directly to jail”, but it was close. Ultra gave me my marching orders. Literally, I was NOT to focus on running, but marching, all the while eating like a horse and drinking like a fish. He may have said something like “don’t come back here without GAINING 5 pounds”. IGGY got me thinking happy thoughts, and off I went with handfuls of food. While I found the next 23 mile torturous, despite the 2 more visits with IGGY and Ultra at Tracer Brook and Margaritaville, the miles were an interesting distraction. No longer was my goal to keep on running, but keep on eating. And so, in the middle of this 100 mile running race, I had a marathon length eating/drinking race. The miles counted down to the return to Camp Ten Bear (at mile 70) while the food and drink went in. Getting it in was difficult, keeping it in was extraordinarily challenging.

Finally, I approached Camp Ten Bear, Ultra, IGGY, the Mayor, clean socks, a dry shirt, a headlamp, and the dreaded scale. Oh, and “wet wipes”, you just can’t imagine the pure joy… never mind. I chugged a bottle of something, instantly adding 1.5 pounds to my body, and “stepped right up”. I did it, I gained the weight, SEVERAL pounds. I collapsed in a chair and was tended to, embarrassingly pampered actually, by my crew. I could have stayed forever, and I came close. The Mayor was more anxious to run than I was, and I felt badly for him with all his well rested youthful exhuberance, so I got “packed to go” mainly to accommodate his enthusiasm. My miles with the Mayor, all the way to 88 at Bill’s were varied. Lot’s of walking, but lots of running. Hills and a few flats, trails and roads, confidence, a scary fall, mud and blood, doubts, a beautiful sunset, amazing lightning, conversations, silence, running with my eyes closed, open fields, deep woods. Oh, and “threading the needle” of the rear-ends of two ginormous horses. A little bit of everything all in 18 miles.

[singlepic=6491,280,200,,right] IGGY and Ultra barely got to Bill’s before the Mayor and I. This was where the Mayor would hand off to Ultra for pacing, but I was very confused and didn’t understand what was happening. I got some vitamin I and a dose of caffeine in me, and was sad to see the Mayor go, but happy to find Ultra at my side. While my crew had expressed confidence in me all along, I still questioned whether my sentence was coming to an end. Finally, as the caffeine took effect, I “smelled the barn”. I knew I would finish, and Ultra knew I could get a buckle. Although I had trouble believing him, Ultra said he would slow me down, so I should run ahead, and meet the Mayor at Polly’s for the final 5 miles. And so I went, into the darkness, revived but alone, and feeling great. Into Polly’s I came. I finally “locked on” to IGGY, and a conversation took place, something like this, as best I can remember:

IGGY: “Forrest, where’s Ultra?”
Me: “IGGY, where’s the Mayor?”
IGGY: “Forrest, where’s Ultra?”
Me: “IGGY, where’s the Mayor?”
IGGY: “Forrest, where’s Ultra?”
Me: “IGGY, where’s the Mayor?”
IGGY: ”Forrest, Ultra is supposed to be pacing you”
Me: “No, I left him behind. He said the Mayor will pace me from Polly’s”
IGGY: ”The Mayor isn’t here”
Me: “Huh?”
IGGY: ”The Mayor isn’t here”
Me: “Huh?”
IGGY: ”The Mayor isn’t here”
Me: “Huh?”
IGGY: “The Mayor is helping out someone else, and left here a few minutes ago”
Me: “Huh?”
IGGY: “Do you want ME to pace you?”
Me: “Huh?”
IGGY: “Forrest, are you…here?”
Me: “Yeah, I’m Good. Load me up and ship me out”
IGGY: “Go catch the Mayor”
ME: “WooHoo!”

[singlepic=6508,280,200,,left]Off I went, running the 95th mile equivalent of a blistering (no pun intended) pace. I caught up with the Mayor, who was doing his chivalrous best to help those in distress. I realized that he was helping runners in more need than me, so I pressed on. Finally, the 99 mile marker came into view, a much more welcome mark than the 26.2 mile marker! Then, seemingly hours later, the 99.5 mile marker was achieved. I was bound and determined to make sure the last 1/2 mile didn’t take as long as the previous half mile, and I ran as fast as the terrain would permit. Then the green glow appeared. I had heard stories of the green glow, an ethereal reward, in contrast to the cold hard steel of the belt buckle, reserved for those who finish before dawn. This was a reward denied to the winners of the race, who have the sad misfortune of not witnessing a sunset during their run. I raced by the chemical luminaria and then saw the tiki torches, and crowd cheering. I suspected that El Toro and crew were already tucked in and sleeping, and I also suspected that IGGY and Ultra were still driving to the finish line. I would miss sharing this moment, but this race wasn’t about a moment, it was about a year and a day. I would share the race with them just as I was sharing it with all those back in CT. So on I pressed, knowing that the finish would NOT be diminished. This is what I was here for, and this was why others were here for me. Fittingly, I had not experienced that moment’s hesitation at a finish line since my very first ultra, and it as for the same reason: I didn’t want it to end. Suddenly I heard a WOOHOO! and saw that Ultra and IGGY were there. In no time, I was directed to a seat, only to realize that El Toro was sitting next to me. Mr. Bimble nearly begged me to remove my shoes and socks for a photo op, but he was sorely disappointed, as my feet were 99.9% blister free. El Toro and I sat in a daze for a few minutes, and I surprised my self by immediately starting to eat. IGGY was handing me all kinds of foods which I gratefully accepted. Then, the alarm on my watch sounded, and I had to smile. It was the repeat of the alarm I had set for the race Saturday morning. This reminded me that in 24 hours I had awakened, dressed, prepared myself, got to the start line, ran 100 miles, sat down, took off my shoes, and eaten, all in a day.

I got cleaned up, got about 2 hours sleep, and then returned to the finish line, this time in daylight, to watch others finish. Then all us Bimblers gathered around at Ultra’s race HQ discussing the events of the weekend, and planning our various trips home. I was officially released from my sentence, medal and buckle in hand, although my name still is listed as a DNF, the prison warden assures me this was just a clerical error. I have been released from ever again HAVING to race 100 miles, and also released from the rigors of the associated training.

Have I paid my debt to society? Hardly. Have I learned the error of my ways? No, not at all. Despite my sentence, I remain without remorse. So, I suppose I am condemned to repeat my mistakes and to once again serve out my sentence, in the company of my fellow “lifers”. [singlepic=6514,280,200,,right]

A postscript: The year was not tough just for me, friends and family suffered right along with me when the suffering was plentiful. I plea for their forgiveness and thank them for their patience. Also, a note about my crew… They were, and are, amazing. I could not have done it without them, I would not have wanted to do it without them. Oh, finally, the RD has finally acknowledged that I finished, but that website update is just a very minor technicality. I needed to do this, the next one will be for fun…