Race Report: Superior 100

It's hard to know where to begin reporting on a race that included 103 miles, 42,000' of elevation change, over 27 hours of running, and a 5th place finish. The 2013 edition of the Superior "Sawtooth" 100 was probably the best race of my brief life, and one that nearly ended in a DNF.

(Editor's note: Ahead of toeing the line again Friday morning, I thought I'd go ahead and finish the race report I started last year.)

Pre-Race

The 100 mile distance really is unlike any other ultra.

One of the takeaways for me from my first hundred mile experience was how much finishing a 100 depends on preparation. For 50ks--even 50 milers, most of the preparation can be done the night before. And even if things do go south (barring broken bones, etc.), having to shuffle/walk it in for a few hours isn't too bad. A few hours of pain is an overcome-able obstacle to a finish.

But in a 100, when you're out there, moving, for over 24 hours, things have to go so right, for so long for the possibility of a finish. Even the slightest twinge in the legs or strange sensation in the stomach leaves you feeling fragile on the trail. The mind has a way of rushing rather quickly to dropping out in a 100.

All that to say, planning pays dividends for the 100 mile distance in particular. Knowing what you will need, what you might need, what you could need, and what you won't need--and packing accordingly--can be the difference between fumbling in the dark for miles on the Superior Hiking Trail (SHT) because of dead batteries and cruising up Carlton Peak with a fresh pair of shoes and socks.

It also pays dividends to have an experienced crew on board. Mommy and Daddy came up from Georgia to see me through all the miles and helped with the planning part of things:

My planning philosophy was basically "better safe than sorry." Since I'd never attempted the 100 mile distance, I figured that it would be difficult to predict what I would want/need late in the race. Looking back, I'd probably still pack the same way. The more, the merrier!

While we're on the subject, I can't imagine the logistics involved in planning and directing a 100 mile race. One of the highlights of the weekend was definitely the pre-race briefing. RD John Storkamp is the man, and just knows how to put on a good race:

Enjoying the pre-race meal with the Ehlers!

It's go time.

The Race: "Coast in the light, cruise in the dark."

Last picture before the start!

Final instructions

Standing at the starting line of a 100 mile race is an interesting experience, and one that is entirely mental as you're really just standing there.

In shorter races, I'm normally just rehearsing my race strategy, making sure I've got everything I need, seeing who's here, waving goodbye to the family, etc. And this definitely happened here at the start at Gooseberry Falls. My stated race strategy I kept telling myself was this: Coast in the light, cruise in the dark. Practically, I have no idea what that means. I think it was basically just my way of telling myself to take it easy for the entire race--which seemed to work.

But there's another layer of thoughts humming in the background too: What am I doing? Can my legs even actually carry me 100+ miles? I really might not finish this race. Will I be eaten by a bear in the middle of the night? Is my water bottle even capable of being used as a weapon if it comes to that? Will Sam be that kid who has to grow up without a dad because he was running 100 miles in the woods for no reason?

Those thoughts are always entertaining.

Once the race started and my legs started moving though, my mind seemed to relax. I spent much of the first 30 miles of the race with Aaron Ehlers, which helped with that. We both had never finished a 100, and so planned to take it out ridiculously easy.

The pace felt so easy in fact that I was tempted to jump on ahead of Aaron, but I stayed disciplined by remembering how many miles lay ahead. There was plenty of time to push the pace if I felt good later, and the conversation was a nice way to pass some miles. We went through Beaver Bay (20.1 miles) at 11:56am--my mom noted we were runners #15 and #16 at this point--and Silver Bay (25.0 miles) at 12:59pm.

Beaver Bay (20.1 miles)

Between Silver Bay and Tettegouche (34.9 miles), Aaron started to fall behind a bit on the climbs. He's more naturally a downhill runner, and I'm more of an uphill runner, but we both began to sense that the pace wasn't comfortable for both of us anymore. He told me to go on ahead, so I went on ahead telling him that I'd see him at the next aid station. I wouldn't see Aaron again during the race.

Coming out of Tettegouche (34.9 miles)

I came into Tettegouche at 3:12pm, and then County Road 6 (43.5 miles) at 5:15pm. The slower start seemed to be paying off as I was still feeling great at this point and slowly moving up in the field. It ended up being a hotter race, so my Georgia roots might have helped out a bit. There ended up only being a 49% finisher's rate. At CR 6, I put on one of my headlamps (I planned on running with two through the night), but ended up not needed it as I had daylight all the way through Finland (51.2 miles), which I got to at 7:01pm just over 11 hours into the race.

Coming into CR 6 (43.5 miles)

Calories, a towel, and coaching at CR 6

At Finland, I suited up for the night--putting the additional headlamp around my waist, changing shirts, and also adding a long sleeve option for the night. As I began to head out though, I realized it was still really hot and left the long sleeve. It would be 11.7 miles before I'd see my parents again, though the Sonju Lake Road AS was only 4.2 miles away.

Preparing for the night at Finland (51.2 miles)

The short, 4.2 mile stretch to Sonju Lake was probably the darkest stretch of my race. I felt relatively fine (for having run 50+ miles already) coming out of Finland but a couple miles later my stomach started to fall apart. The windless heat leftover from the day and trying to follow a moving beam of light from the headlamp seemed make things worse. I think I even wandered off trail a few times. I imagined I looked rather wobbly. At one point I remember stopping on top of a rock at a clearing and looking up at the night sky. "It's been a good run," I mumbled to myself. There, on that rock, I decided my race was over and I would drop out at the next aid station (assuming I could find it).

As I walked into Sonju Lake (58.7 miles), I was greeted warmly. I remember there being a fire and some nice people. I found a chair and sat down. One of the nice people, an older guy from Wisconsin, asked me how I was doing. I told him I was planning to drop out, "Stomach is gone, and I'm feeling dizzy. The fire is nice." He seemed unaffected by my threat to quit. After a few minutes around the fire, a runner came in--7th place, I remember someone saying. "Wow, 7th place? Must have been lots of dropouts. Must not be doing too bad," I thought. "Nice work. Stay strong," I said on his way out. After a few more minutes of sitting around the fire, I began to realize a key problem with my dropout plan. Since crew was not allowed at the Sonju Lake AS, I'd have to ride the night out here until someone could drive me to the next AS at Crosby if I wanted to drop here. That would mean a lot more sitting.

Plan B: stay in the race. "If I'm going to be out here anyways, I might as well be running." And so began my resurrection from the dead on the SHT. Some sprite, some boiled potatoes, and a couple Tums later and I was walking out of Sonju Lake back onto the trails. I had the memory of the warm Sonju Lake fire to guide me through the night and a cup of boiled potatoes in hand in case things went south again. Slowly though, my walk became a shuffle and my shuffle became a jog. I was back in the game, feeling like I had just escaped death.

Crosby Manitou (62.9 miles)

Mommy and Daddy @Crosby Manitou Aid Station

I clocked into Crosby-Manitou (62.9 miles) at 10:53pm to some happy parents, inquiring about my delayed arrival. "I had to sit down for a while," I said. My dad, a veteran of many hundreds, understood. I quickly refueled and was off into the night again six minutes later.

The rest of the night I kept the pace steady, hitting Sugarloaf (72.3 miles) at 1:40am, Cramer (77.9 miles) at 3:17am, and down into Temperance (85.0 miles) at 5:28am. The main thing I remember about the night was the quietness of it all. I expected there to be lots of animal noises, but it was just really quiet. Very peaceful. My main focus was just to keep moving and stay on the trail.

At Temperance, with day breaking, I decided to change shoes/socks before the climb up Cartlon Peak (probably the longest climb of the race). My legs/feet were starting to feel all the miles at this point in the race, so I thought any additional help would be welcome. The climb up Carlton was long and felt slow. I had been tied for 4th place heading out of Temperance, but knew that wouldn't last and instead focused again on forward motion.

I strolled into Sawbill (90.7 miles) at 7:15am (23:15 into the race) and grabbed a chair. Such a climb, so late in the race. Took my time to regroup here, staying around 10 minutes, but with only was more aid station until the finish line, managed to push myself out onto the trail again. This late in a 100, it really is about survival. I was hesitant to push the pace (thinking it may lead to injury and dropout), but tried to keep moving.

Still in 5th place, I came into the last aid station at Oberg Mountain (96.2 miles) at 8:58am (24:58 into the race). TC Running was manning this aid station and seemed like they were not expecting runners. In an odd way, that kinda made me feel good. Close to the finish now, I hurried to get some calories and water and back out on the trail. It was here at Oberg that I also ran into Aaron again--though this time he was on the sidelines having just dropped out after a leg strain (at Temperance, I believe). I briefly felt bad for his day, but knew I had to keep moving.

The relentlessness of the Sawtooth course really shows itself in the last 18+ miles of the race, with the climb up Carlton Peak and three smaller, but significant climbs in the last 7 mile stretch to the finish in Lutsen. I managed these last three climbs, but not without difficulty. Towards the end of this section, you come out onto an asphalt road before finishing around the pool at the Caribou Highlands lodge.

I had never been so happy to see the finish line. What a day: 5th place, 27:06:57.

"That was harder than I thought!"

Rugged, Relentless, Remote

Sunrise on Friday morning above Lake Superior

Never has a race so lived up to its billing:

A footrace through the reaches of dark and ethereal northern boreal forests. Not for the faint of heart or the weak willed. Each and every single footfall is greeted earthbound by roots and littered with rocks. A challenge fit only for champions. The ultimate test of man and woman. Thus giving rise to its eternal name . . . Rugged, Relentless, Remote - SUPERIOR

It promised difficulty, it promised beauty, and it delivered. My feet and legs were absolutely trashed after the race, but my heart was happy. There was one point during the race I remember (around Bear and Bean Lakes) thinking, "This has to be the most beautiful place on the earth."

Some Lessons Learned

• Finishing a 100 is a team effort, from the beginning all the way to end.

• If progress must be measured in a 100, it's probably better to do so by time (or aid stations) than miles.
• The 100 mile distance deserves respect. You may still have a bad day after putting in the all the miles and planning, but it seems highly unlikely that you will have a good day without all the miles and planning.
• Boiled potatoes have magical powers to settle an upset stomach.
• Life and its struggles are more like running a hundred miler than running a 5k, more like Superior Sawtooth than Fight the Fire 5k.
• Death and resurrection is possible. Sit down if you need to.