The true measure of a race

Between time and place lies a greater meaning.

Back when I was young and halfway foolish, I thought the value of a race lay only in the measurement of cold, hard facts. The clock begins counting when you pass over a starting line and doesn't stop until you cross the finish. Nothing could be more clear cut. 

Now that I’m older, and hopefully wiser, I’ve learned the true currency of competition lies in all the things that take place between the start and finish. Yes, there’s a finishing time that’s non-negotiable, as well as a placement that’s set in stone. It’s still up to us as individuals to determine whether or not our race was successful. 

In the crucible of an endurance event, we inhabit a reality that’s unique from everyone else’s perspective in the field. We may all be going through the same types of things – adverse weather conditions, muscle soreness, mental fatigue, etc. – but no one else is running our race. How we define the experience belongs only to ourselves. 

On Saturday, I ran 50 kilometers (31 miles) in 5 hours and 22 minutes, shaving 13 minutes off my personal best. To get that mark, I had to battle physiological issues like muscle cramping, tendon inflammation, and insufficient fueling. My mental state was teetering on the brink of outright surrender. 

When my race started unraveling around Mile 26, I put the pieces back together through the grace of hydration mix and whatever primal source of energy remained in my soul. I’m immensely proud of this performance, even though you may notice the race didn’t actually stop at Mile 31. By my watch, the course measured 32.5 miles. 

Officially, my finishing time had me in 18th place overall, which was a very respectable showing given the quality of runners in the field. Not a PR, but not too far off my old mark of 5:35. Still, these are just numbers. 

What made this race memorable was gathering support from people I barely know who have become friends in the span of a few weeks. They are folks I’ve met volunteering at local races and at group runs who have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome and included. 

It was a strange feeling to experience this much camaraderie during an activity that has always been a solo endeavor. Yet, I knew this day would be different when one of my new friends yelled before the race, “You’re going to have a great day, Paul!”  

It was a great day, even if it wasn’t the one I had in mind. As it turned out, I needed all the help I could get to complete five 10K loops at the Jericho Town Forest in nearby Weston. That’s what made it special. 

Impeccable race vibes.

The first two loops were sublime, mainly because I ran them with Andy. We met the previous week working at an aid station, and it turns out that we’re the same age, with comparable abilities, and similar levels of experience. 

We didn’t plan on running together. It just kind of happened organically after linking up less than a mile into the event. There we were for the next two hours, stride for stride, chatting about families, work, running philosophy, and whatever else came to mind. 

It just so happens that Andy will also be running the Vermont 100K in July, so we made plans to go for training runs over the next few months. No matter what else transpired the rest of the day, making this kind of human connection guaranteed the race was already an invaluable experience. 

The third loop was my best loop. Coming out of the aid station, I managed to put a little distance on Andy and stayed in my race bubble the rest of the day. Nothing personal, I simply wanted to get into a more competitive headspace. 

My legs felt reasonably good, my fueling and hydration were on point, and my mind was engaged. All the elements were in place to establish a new PR. Time to see what this old body could do. 

The only thing weighing on my mind was that each 10K loop measured 6.5 miles on my watch, rather than 6.2. Say what you will about the vagaries of GPS tracking, but I was inclined to believe my watch more than the course. 

Psychologically, I knew I’d have to run the equivalent of an extra mile and a half to finish the race. That little glitch threw a giant wrench into my racing strategy, making the concept of a PR feel more and more uncertain as the miles rolled along. 

You learn early in trail running that not everything will be perfectly measured and calibrated. You accept those discrepancies and make peace with the idea of going above and beyond because that’s just how these things go sometimes. At least, you try to maintain that mindset.  

As I came through the aid station for the third time, I saw my friend Brian hanging out with some members of the Northeast Trail Crew (NTC), who were on hand to offer support. When I use the word “friend,” please understand that we’ve met exactly two other times. That’s how quickly bonds can form on the trails. 

“Looking strong!” he bellowed. 

Feeling strong!

Everything went to hell a few miles later. My one big mistake was not bringing enough calories with me on the fourth loop. I had only one gel left because I decided before the race that was all I would need. 

Rather than pack an emergency gel – or two – like I have for every other ultra I’ve ever run, I allowed myself to be complacent. To be clear, I’m not sure if my stomach would have tolerated another gel, but the risk of GI distress would have been preferable to running on empty. 

Lesson learned. 

In my depleted state, the extra distance went from minor irritant to full-blown catastrophe. There was no way I was getting that PR unless I dug really deep, which didn’t seem like a good idea given my rapidly deteriorating condition. 

As my competitive fire dimmed, I began entertaining notions of dropping out at the next aid station. I didn’t fight the idea of quitting like I normally would because it seemed to relax me knowing I could end my race whenever I felt like it. In hindsight, I think the decision to not engage with the concept of failure saved my race.

The other saving grace was that I remembered to pack enough salt capsules, which came in very handy as runners began cramping up along the course. All hail electrolytes, they truly are a lifesaver.

Still, I was pretty much resigned to calling it a day after four loops. Then I saw Brian with the rest of the NTC runners by the aid station, and without thinking too much about it, I yelled over to him, “Hey, can you crew me?” 

In a flash, Brian leaped out of his camp chair and found my stuff amid the other drop bags. I pointed to my last serving of hydration mix and asked him to fill my bottle while I stuffed my face with candy, orange slices, and potato chips. Between bites, I mumbled that I was falling apart. 

“This right here is what’s going to turn your day around,” he said, putting the bottle back in my hand. 

“Yeah?” I croaked, my voice barely audible. 

Brian looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Absolutely.” 

And that’s how I started the final loop, unsure of what I had left in reserve, but emboldened by the spirit of friendship that defined the day. The next few miles were awful. They were slow and hard, as I walked every hill with even the slightest degree of uphill climb. 

The steady pace of 9-10 minute miles had become 11-12 minute miles, and I could feel myself getting further and further disconnected from what I was trying to accomplish. It’s funny that these races always hit a massive low point, and yet it’s still surprising when they do. 

My body was sore and cramping. The plantar fasciitis in my left heel felt like it was on fire. As exhaustion set in, and cognitive function declined, I began kicking rocks on downhills, which sent brutal shockwaves of pain radiating throughout my quads. What a weird way to spend a Saturday. 

The only silver lining was the hydration mix had actually stabilized my metabolism. Son of a gun, Brian was right. My day was turning around. As I slowly made my way through the twisty, knotted trails for the fifth and final time, I remembered the next few miles up ahead were exceptionally runnable. 

I looked at my watch and saw that I had run 29 miles. I noticed the time – a little over five hours – and made a snap decision. I came here to run 31 miles faster than I ever have before, and by God, that’s what I’m gonna do. 

Who cares if the course measures long? What does it matter if my time isn’t officially official? I’m all alone in the woods, and the only thing that matters is running as hard as I can until I’ve completed 31 miles. 

So, that’s what I did. This was the reality I chose to inhabit and I make no apologies for claiming victory. When that 31st mile beeped on my watch, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was the fastest I’ve ever run 50 kilometers in my life. 

Strava tells no lies. (The marathon PR isn’t real, but whatever.)

Want to know something crazy? The last mile and a half was actually fun. I felt so good that I kept up my renewed pace until the very end when I very carefully navigated the one technically treacherous section. No sense injuring myself at that point. 

I even caught a much younger runner who passed me during my low point, and managed to hold him off down the stretch with a strong closing kick. Not a bad bit of business for an old man. 

So, how was my race? Pretty freaking good, if I do say so myself. 

Look at that turnaround!