Digging through old drafts, I found a half-finished recap of my previous Vermont 100 from 2022. With a little over a week until my next attempt, I thought this was a good time to revisit and expand it:
It was a phrase that was becoming predictable during my periodic visits to the Jeju physical therapist: “You should stop running.”
She had my latest X-ray projected behind her and was showing me how a few of my lower back vertebrae were compressed pushing out a disc that was shooting excruciating pain into my back and down my right leg. I could barely move. Just going from sitting to standing was a process. Putting on socks took a good two minutes. According to her, the vertebrae had been pounded indiscernibly closer with each of my thousands of steps. But a large swath of rest wasn’t an option unless I bailed on my summer goal that I had begun to build to. I hadn’t taken a large break from running in many years. After a considerable pause, I replied, “So, 5 days rest? I have a 100 miler in July.” She shook her head and said, “Give it at least a week.”
A few weeks later I was shuffling along the coast of Jeju on a self-supported 80km run. The organizers of the Vermont 100 had graciously allowed me to run the qualifier as a self-supported solo trot. I set a course that connected some of my most beloved Jeju running routes. It was a farewell tour of sorts. So with some minor nerve pain in my right hamstring and a sore left ankle, I jogged a giant loop from my doorstep. My body wasn’t hurting too bad by the end aside from an inferno of a sunburn. I had started to incorporate more yoga and core into my routine to support that pesky back. A follow-up with the PT revealed that the vertebrae were actually looking better. The Vermont 100 was a go.
From there I eased back into the daily grind of training. Wake up, work, nap, run, eat, sleep, repeat. The last two months on Jeju melted away and the race started to feel real. I got away with some pals for a few mountain runs on the mainland and up Halla. Things were clicking into place.
Midori came to Jeju for my last two weeks there and we started to plan a little bit for a race that we didn’t have much context for. She was going to crew me and it would be a first for both of us–her first crewing experience and my first 100 miler. The organizers don’t publish a map because much of the race is on private land. All that we had was a mean looking course profile and vague descriptions of lots of hills. We tried our best to calm each others nerves, both being planners. I tried to explain that ultras are often a lot of planning that gets discarded when the race starts.
Add to the picture that Midori and I hadn’t spent much time together. This was going to be a pressure test for our relationship.
Midori and I arrived in Vermont two days before to get some rest in before the race to catch up with friends and for packet pick-up. Driving into White River Junction, one gets a sense for what’s in store. Hills in all directions like green ripples. In a few days, starting at 6am, I’d be carving out a path through them.
The run began in a large Vermont field at 4:00am. Compared to the start of my last ultra in Korea where heroic music boomed and cameras flashed, the Vermont start was a humble one. After a countdown, we all trotted through a gate and made our way out into the dark. The course felt easy, a smooth dirt road not unlike the one I had grown up on in Maine. “Maybe this will be a breeze?” I thought to myself and picked up the pace a bit. We wound through a forest trail and then back to a wide dirt road. Slowly up and slowly down, the hills melted away and the sun edged into the day.
Before running ultras, I often envision two things: the finish line of course, but also that middle section of the race. The middle is often the biggest push. The initial surge of the start is done. Adrenaline fades into the realization of the task ahead. After 30 miles the magnitude of the task begins to feel concrete, and that mental realization can also translate into concrete feet. It’s during this part of the race that I have to remember to remind myself of what it took to get here. It isn’t just those first 30 miles that are behind you, it’s all of the preparation and training and experience.
The 30 mile point in the Vermont 100 is called Stage Road. It was one of the livelier aid stations, with crews and supporters camped out in lawn chairs. I cruised in and spotted Midori, plopped down in a lawn chair and was given advice by a guy in an inflatable T-Rex costume. He explained what was in store. The next push was a big one, with one of the most punishing hills of the entire course. The sun beat down. My Garmin wouldn’t charge. The small frustrations began to creep in. At the previous aid station, Pretty House, I had bounded in and enjoyed a hummus wrap. At Stage Road, the enormity of the run began to materialize. As I left I tried to return to my mental reminder of everything it took to get to this point. The back rehab, the training run, the people who supported me.
At the half way point, I almost dropped. The chair was too comfortable, the food too tasty. This would happen a few times. I had had a good run, why not just call it a day? Midori sensed it, got food in me, didn’t entertain the negativity. The role was coming together for her. Behind the scenes she was driving long distances between stations, lugging chairs and food, all for a quick 10-15 minutes with a grumpy sweaty mess who she had to get back out onto the trail. Seeing her at the next crew station started to become the reason for moving forward, and that made it harder to leave when I did get to one.
The race was one of diminishing returns for my body. My plan had been to start quick and get a cushion so that I didn’t have to worry about cutoffs. The inflatable T-Rex man told me at mile 30 that my pace was good, and just to stay focused and get through the miles. I started to notice that the miles were ticking off slower and slower, my efforts diluted by exhaustion and lactic acid. Gels were giving me a boost, but I found myself walking any sort of incline. Time was on my side, but I couldn’t get stagnant. Occasionally runners would emerge from behind and hobble past me. I just tried to keep my mind on my race.
At Spirit of ’76 with under 30 miles to go, it really began to feel insurmountable. Somebody had destroyed the porta potty which I desperately needed at that point and this almost felt like the final straw. I won’t describe in detail what I saw in there. As always, Midori was there with encouragement. She got me patched up and sent me off down the dark path with my bouncing headlamp lighting the way.
With 10 miles left, I picked up my childhood friend Roo as a pacer. She was one of the first real runners that I knew and was the natural choice to help me creep to the finish line. She kept me going with small doable plans like, “OK, Tim–let’s just jog to that tree over there then we can walk for a while.” I was loopy as hell but she kept me on course.
With a mile to go, I tasted the finish line and my pace quickened just a little bit. The cheers from the crowd started to become audible. The banner appeared and I took the last few steps to completion. Midori and I had a giant exhausted hug before creeping to the car.
And now it’s time to do it again! This time Midori will be meeting me at select aid stations with our 5 month old. I’ll have double encouragement there. It’s wild three years later to be revisiting the same course that helped plant the seed that grew into what we have today. And as for the crewing, she’s going to leave that to another crew of childhood friends. The rolling hills of Vermont beckon. Onward!
“I don’t have very many regrets, not because I lived a perfect life but because life is a bunch of rolling hills, not mountains, or speed bumps instead of stop signs, and so you come to a situation and it’s neither good or bad, it just is, and what it means to you is what’s your take on it. But the second part of the equation is what are you going to do about it. A lot of times I’m completely wrong, but all you do is back up and start over.” – Bill Russell
When I Get Home 