100 Miles with James Joyce: My Foos Won't Moos

A transcendent romp through the night that meshes the real and imaginary, capturing life's tragedy and triumphs in the sample of hours between dusk and dawn.

A circuitous, all day journey from watering hole to watering hole, where the same clutch of people cross paths throughout the day until they all come together in a liquid and calorie-fueled finale.

Description of the last 100 miler you did?

Most likely. But they're also the plot lines (as they are) of James Joyces' Finnegans Wake and Ulysses, respectively.

Though I've been a runner and a devotee of Joyce for most of my adult life, it was only in the last month that I saw any parallels between his writings and my running. During my usual mind games a couple weeks ahead of Wasatch, a phrase from the washerwomen chapter of Finnegans Wake kept coming into my mind, a phrase that would presage my first mile heading out of Brighton on race day.

In the close of Book 1, two washerwomen are doing laundry in the river, sharing rumors of the novel's two main characters. As night falls, they begin to transform - one into a tree; another into a stone (you just have to go with it). As the one woman changes into a tree, she tells the other: "My foos won't moos." Written in Joyce's at-times-maddening "night language," the line translates to, among other things: "My feet won't move."

So I had a great time playing this line with my wife in the lead up to the race, thinking of the 26,000 feet of climbing to conquer and the ever-increasing temps called for on race day. And the night of Wasatch, I actually did my best-ever washerwoman impression heading out of Brighton at mile 75. If I wasn't the personification of someone slowly turning into a tree, I don't know what I was (see previous post). Just ask my pacer - and the four people who passed us.

But, even beyond such a direct connection, Joyce's general philosophy meshes wonderfully with that of ultra-running. He reveled in the extraordinary within the ordinary. Whether it was a lowly advertising canvasser (Leopold Bloom in Ulysses) or a hod carrying father of three (Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker in Finnegans Wake), he saw within each person's life a complex web of history, philosophy, mythology, observation and desire forged in the trials and triumphs of every day. Who of us who has been lucky enough to race, run, or walk through a 100 miles hasn't felt such a broad transcendent experience in that enriched time between the gun and finish line?

Moreover, Joyce's characters are nothing if not peripatetic. In Ulysses, the main characters journey in and around Dublin in an exhausting and event-filled day that begins at dawn and finishes with a final collapse into bed in the wee hours. In Finnegans Wake - perhaps the most ultra-esque novel - the characters traverse time, space, and reality as dreams and hallucinations play out over the course of a single, wild night.

Yes, I know. Such simple parallels between Joyce and ultra-running are not the thing that dissertations are made of, but I've always treasured the connections in my life - the small things that cross-over from one passion to the other, magnifying both. So, it was a real gift to finally see a connection between my favorite sport and my favorite author, so much so it was almost OK that heading out of Brighton my foos wouldn't moos.

Race Report: Wasatch Front 100 Endurance Run

When I started to see my breath reflected in the light of the headlamp, I felt it might happen: I might actually finish my first Wasatch Front 100, something that in the early hours of the race seemed as remote a possibility as winning the thing outright. But as I made my way off the final major climb up to near 10,000 feet, descending to the moister and richer air of the lower elevations, I could not only feel a measure of energy and calm returning to my body but also see it in the slow steady breaths that seemed to crystallize in the light. With fewer than ten miles to go to the finish at Homestead, I let myself for the first time truly believe.

Twenty two hours earlier, I had been hunched over and vomiting, a victim of total gastric shutdown, which began just after Grobben's Corner (mile 14) until a couple miles past the Bountiful B aid station (mile 24). It was disappointing. My outside hope for a near 24 hour time was quickly replaced with the hope of just finishing, as one hour of walking and very slow trotting on runnable terrain spilled into two, and then three hours. Nevertheless, I knew I had no choice. I kept coming back to something my friend, training buddy, and eventual pacer that day out of Lamb's Canyon had told me a year earlier after my disastrous (he would say ridiculous) drop at the Teton 50 the previous September: take the time to settle your system when things turn south before they reach past the point of recovery.

So, I walked, and walked, and vomited, and walked, and watched scores of people pass me. And when I got to Bountiful, I sat reclined, two chairs over from a disappointed looking and skinned-up Prudence L'Heureux (whose day turned out to be done). There I stayed for close to ten minutes, drinking a lot of ice water and on the sage advice of the aid station captain, a cup of flat Coke with ice. Then out I went, ambling toward Sessions (mile 28), and things started to turn around.

The knot in my system started to loosen. I could begin to run a bit. A few miles later I was moving at my regular pace and began to baby my stomach with food and fluid. A few ounces of Coke here. A Cliff Blok or two there. The metronome intake of 250 to 300 calories an hour that saw me to the finish at the Bighorn 100 in June, was replaced with what I came to call the "tolerance" nutrition plan. Whenever I felt like I could stomach some calories, I'd take them in, which came to about 150 to 200 calories an hour for the rest of the journey - not horrid but not an amount that left much wiggle room, as would become clear later heading out of Brighton (mile 75), but I get ahead of myself.

Finally feeling better, I was able to start tapping out some strong miles and making up some ground. In 69th place out of Sessions, I was 30th or so into the major Big Mountain aid station (mile 39), where I got to see my fabulous, one-man crew, Brad Mitchell, who I'm pretty sure knew before I even told him that it'd been a rough ride to get there. He met me, took all my stuff, and ushered me to the scale (down 3 pounds). While he filled my bottles and hydration bladder, I quickly grabbed some gels and bloks (most of which I knew I wouldn't be able to eat) and headed out for the overgrown and overexposed 14 miles to Lamb's, enjoying the brief chance to chat with Brad as we walked to the trailhead.

The trip to Lamb's was uneventful, if hot. It had turned out to be the warmest Wasatch in 12 years, and although I typically don't thrive in the heat, I wasn't feeling too bad. I kept drinking and drinking (five plus bottles by the end of the section), had a chance to chat with Tom Remkes and Scott Mason, and came into Lamb's feeling pretty strong and ready for the company of my pacer, AJW.

Yet again, Brad was great: filling bottles, arranging for some soup, and taking a quick assessment of my overall state. Walking out of the aid station, and through the underpass to the checkout, Andy updated me on happenings at Lamb's - a number of people were dropping from the heat and eventual 3rd place woman, Darla Askew, was 5 minutes ahead of us - and we made our way to the climb up Bare Ass Pass (mile 57).

After the heat into Lamb's, the cool and shaded woods out of Lamb's was amazingly refreshing, as was the chance to share some war stories with Andy, who I knew was assessing the damage of the day and figuring out out what he needed to do to get me to the finish. He joked, cajoled, praised, navigated, waxed nostalgic, and always fell silent at the right times. The perfect pacer from beginning to end.

We made good time up and over Bare Ass and then up to Millcreek (mile 61), hitting it at dusk, where with Brad's help we refueled and grabbed our nighttime gear for the trip to the high country of Desolation Lake (mile 67) and Scott's Transmission Tower (mile 71). Though I felt fairly good overall on this section, my low calorie intake really made the steep climbs at over 9,000 feet tough. What little bit of energy I was getting from my fuel, the climbs would eat up instantly. After the seven mile traverse of the ridge that oscillated between 9,400 and 9,900 feet, we took the long-feeling, but not really that long, descent to the Brighton ski lodge aid station (mile 75).

It was here things came a bit unglued. While Andy was seeing to his energy needs (something like 8 of the renowned Brighton hash brown bars!), I got weighed one last time (down 5 on the day) and Brad loaded up my pack and bottles, knowing more than I did at that point what I needed. I grabbed a cup of soup, and we left the chaos of Brighton for the remote trip up Catherine's Pass to Point Supreme (mile 78; elev 10,400 ft). Still in view of the lodge, the queasiness that started to come on as I gathered my things together, crashed over me and all my energy vanished. It wasn't pretty. Clutching my cup of soup, trying to take in whatever I could, AJW took the lead at what had to seem to him like a sub-glacial pace. For the first time since the early going, I was passed by a couple runners. But, we went with it and just kept moving forward and after about 15 minutes, my stomach settled and the few calories I was able to get in primed the energy pump, and once again we were able to move ahead at a pretty steady pace. It was a true relief.

Ant Knolls aid (mile 80) was next, a great station with a great crew who let us know we were currently sitting in 22nd place. After taking a couple shots of Coke, and feeling a world better than I did 5 miles previous, we headed for the "Grunt," a notorious, not very long but very steep late-stage climb. My legs felt good and we made pretty short work of it. Then it was off to the last aid station at Pot Bottom (mile 93).

Barely dodging disaster out of Brighton and having already passed the runner's generally slower than me, I thought we'd settled into our station in the race - 22nd. But on the final descent into Pot Bottom, I was surprised that we caught Darla (and her pacer, Krissy Moehl), who offered very kind words as they let us by, and another group of three (one racer, two pacers).

Trying to keep our momentum, we were in and out of Pot Bottom quickly (passing, I believe, one other racer who hadn't yet left the aid). All that was left: One final bottle of Coke; one final decent climb, and then the final, often gnarly, long descent to home. The way I was feeling, I knew I was going to make it. Though the steep ups and downs were still pretty slow, I had the legs and the energy to tap out a pretty good rhythm on everything else, and when we hit the road to Homestead, just three quarters mile way, I was ecstatic. It wouldn't be 24 hours, but it would be very close to my time at Bighorn (an arguably faster course), something Andy knew. So, just to make sure we capped things off right, he took us home in a good closing clip, and I was able to cross the line just under Bighorn time in 25:34:19.

Nearly 27,000 feet of climbing. 26,000 descending. 19th place overall, and a world away from the dark hours of 69th.

It was just a little over a year earlier that I had closed out my first ultra season with a total meltdown at the Teton 50, my confidence in tatters. But in hindsight it was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. It focused my training, made me experiment with nutrition, and motivated me to sign up for races more difficult than Teton so I'd have the chance to prove to myself I'd moved beyond the early failure.

It was that concatenation of races that lead me to the line at Kaysville four days ago, and I feel privileged to have had the chance to run that amazing course, with an amazing crew and pacer, and to gather the richness of experience a long, long day on the trail offers us all.

Photo by Matt Galland; Desolation Lake in the daylight.

You Think You'll Run Wasatch in What Time?

My Wasatch Front 100 pacers on yesterday's run around Greenhorn Gulch. As reserved as always, we won't be sneaking up on anyone. Anxious to toe the line.

Wasatch Front 100: 10-day Forecast

Related link:  2009 Wasatch Front Race Report

It's been a strange four weeks that have brought me to the 10-day forecast for race day at the Wasatch Front 100. As the 2.9 regular readers of this blog know, the posting of the 10-day forecast holds a special place in my race preparation calendar, marking the beginning of the final run-up to the line where you hone your fitness and plan your drop bags (past post). Unfortunately for Wasatch, it's had the added quality of also being a bit of injury roulette, and I have no idea whether the ball is going to land red, black or double zero.

Largely out of nowhere, a neuroma in my left foot left me hobbled and cross training in early August. A couple doctor's appointments later, and I was back on my feet running but at a reduced schedule. And if I'm honest, I have to say I'm not sure what's lurking over the next 10 days, especially on the ever-unknowable race day.

Overall, though, things have been feeling OK, if far from perfect, and I plan to toe the line and pound out 100 beautifully hard miles of the Wasatch Front under somewhat threatening skies with a high of 81.