One hundred miles. A c-note. Century. No matter how you say it (or write it) in the end, it’s still a long damn way. Heck, it’s a long way to drive, but after running my first hundred-miler I can honestly say it was – and wasn’t – most everything that I expected. I know it’s terribly ridiculous and ironic to say something that took me the better part of an entire day seemed to go by so quickly, but that’s how it felt. Like my wife always says, ‘that’s a long time to be out there with your own thoughts,’ and in a way she’s right. Over that kind of mileage you’d think you’d reach some sort of grand epiphany. I didn’t. But I tried to absorb every minute or at least every mile that I could; to bank the experience for withdrawal in some future trying time that would require my unwavering attention and endurance. I’m still not sure what exactly I socked away. Despite the finite start and finish of the accomplishment, the middle, the actual journey itself, continues to be a mosaic of individual snapshots and micro-experiences that I’m mulling over in no particular order. Not in a post-traumatic, waking-up-in-a-mess-of-twisted-sweaty-sheets way, but in a more meaningful, yet somehow still a “Jim Morrison and the naked Indian dreams” kind of way.
Part of me expected this to be like other firsts. Granted, this whole ultra business is unique in and of itself and the Umstead 100 is a special race in its own right. It’s a familiar, looped course with an opportunity for high performance, redemption, survival and disappointment. It’s an amalgam of veterans and virgins all harboring the same pre-race baggage: doubt. Will I win? Will I finish? Will I puke all over myself? Nowhere was this more evident for me than flip-switch transition from the back-slapping reunions and hearty conversation of the pre-race supper to the stoic, nervous laughter just a few hours later when these very same folks, now decked out in their game day regalia and cautious smiles, massed at the start line.
The weather was perfect and the semi-formal start quickly gave way to the idle chatter of those early miles. Even that eventually trailed off as partners began to separate when nature, hunger, variety or other needs and distractions came calling and the gravity of the task at hand took hold. At this distance a few will race, many will run, most all will walk at some point and some will not even complete the journey regardless of how many miles and months they’ve invested.
I knew the halfway point should be nearly automatic. I was relying on a conservative game plan and the novelty of adding a new running partner with each additional lap to bolster my enthusiasm in the later miles. But my decision-making process in bringing pacers and crew had as much to do with the fear of the unknown as it did with the desire to share this entire experience. And guilt is a powerful motivator in its own right. I’d prefer to not endure a three-hour car trip with friends I’d disobliged only to pull up short of the finish.
With its eight loops, the Umstead course is situated in such a way that you see fellow runners coming and going with every lap. As the miles and the day wear on, happy how-do-you-do’s morph into polite nods of the head, and eventual disregard as the “death march” of the overnight takes hold. It is here, in these cold and anonymous hours well after dark that the burden of doubt is at its heaviest; where exhaustion gives disbelief more credence. I was able to wile away these hours, as well, with the ready conversation of my pacers and crew.
By the time I’d begun the eighth and final loop, I’d realized that this whole thing was about to be over. Done. In the books. Granted, I was ready to be finished, but not sure I was really prepared. I had half expected, almost anticipated, that I’d be overwhelmed with emotion; choked-up at the perceived magnitude of running 100 miles. But I didn’t cure cancer, I didn’t solve the world economic crisis. I didn’t run to raise awareness or money for a cause. I didn’t win. I just ran around in circles, literally, with the solitary goal of getting right back where I started, just 100 miles later. When you really stop and think about it, just how much praise should be heaped upon that sort of accomplishment? Greater goods are achieved each and every day.
But chasing that same “first time” flood of euphoria is what kept me going back to the marathon year after hear in hopes of recapturing more of the same. I never did. I eventually stopped searching. I wouldn’t feel them again this day either. Rather than excitement, pride or satisfaction, it was gratitude that washed over me during those final steps of this 20 hour journey. Not in the sense that I was grateful to be done, although I was thrilled to be so. It was gratitude in the sense that I’d suddenly realized what a selfish pursuit this journey was and that I was now keenly aware of the innumerable sacrifices made and inconveniences endured by so many family members and friends to see me to the finish. Yeah, this “shout out” is the best I can muster because I’ll never be able to fully repay you for everything that each of you did – and you know who you are. Everyone who stayed with me, prayed with me, ran with me, walked with me, rubbed me down or propped me up, listened to me, talked to me, loved me or put up with me. I can only say again, thank you.
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Original run in Endurance Magazine, May 2010. (c) D.C. Lucchesi