"It's funny. I don't know splits at Western States. I just run on feel. I had looked at my watch at Rucky Chucky [mile 78], but other than that, I did not look at times. As I got into that later section, coming into Highway 49, it was like, 'Well, last year I put my headlamp on at Brown's Bar and I still haven't put my headlamp on and I'm still seeing trail." ... "I came up to Robie Point [98.9 miles] and I looked at my watch," she said, - the memory still sweetly confounds her, like a typo in a term paper that still receives an "A," or a notice from the bank that an error has actually broken your way - "and it said 16:34. I had not expected to see a 16 on that watch"I was surprised and intrigued. I thought that elite runners who win races mark their times carefully and record their splits and always use their watch. I obsesses so much looking at my watch during runs that the idea that she ran one fifth of the race without even looking at her watch was flabbergasting. How could she not look??? She had an inkling that she was breaking the course record. I couldn't believe she didn't sneak peak.
I found myself spending a lot of time in training runs and ultras staring at my watch. Agonizing over calculating splits between aid stations or my pace or how this split compares to my last split and so on. During particularly tough times, I could stare at my watch every few minutes. And I would stare at it to figure out whether I should eat (every 20 minutes) or take salt (every 45). I resisted the urge to get a GPS watch because, seeing how I was already glued to my regular watch, I would now also obsess over distance and do even more mental calculations in my head instead of just running.
So the idea that Ellie Greenwood, the best ultrarunner of my time, runs by feel was astonishing, alluring. One of the reasons that I run is to get out of my head, and staring at my watch and doing all the incoherent agonizing computations is just another way to stay in my head even even while in beautiful wilderness.
Slowly I started relegating the watch to the back seat. On short training runs, I would only look at my watch at key points. On long runs with Sarah I would try not to look at all, letting her keep track. Doing the Woodside 50K race, I only looked at my watch 4-5 times and ate by feel instead of every 20 minutes. I didn't completely give up the watch. Could I?
I lost my usual running watch in Iceland. It was a hunting watch that my dad gave me. I normally attach it to my CamelBak so I never forget it on long runs and races. And I have a backup watch in the car.
Going through my stuff in LA as I prepared for the Avalon 50 on Catalina Island, I realized that my watch was not attached to my CamelBak as usual. Of course - it's somewhere in Iceland. And I didn't bring the backup. What am I going to do?! See if my dad has another to spare (he has quite a collection)? Buy a full-on running watch? Or a cheap one at Target?
Or... do completely without. Can I? For a 50 miler?
I don't know how to describe the feeling of running without time. I experienced it once on a run along the beach in Chile. It was night. No lights around. Overcast. Almost pitch black. I closed my eyes and ran barefoot. Feeling with my feet where I needed to be. I felt suspended. There. Moving. Not going anywhere.
So it was. After passing the first aid station and spreading out a bit, I found myself in solitude. I had no idea how far I was from the next aid station. Or how long I have been going. I saw pinkish on the horizon and decided I've been going for over an hour (race started at 5 a.m.). And when the sun came up I figured it had to be about 7.
It was quite a shock when the second aid station came up. So soon? It felt like I've only been going for a little bit. I broke my reverie between 2nd and 3rd aid station by needing to find a bathroom. And it's not like I wasn't concerned with time. I trained hard and really wanted to have a fast race and do a sub-10 vs. my previous and only 50M time of 12:45 (on a harder course, as my second ultra). I even dreamed of getting a 9:30. Without a watch handy - and I decided not to ask other people for time - I found other ways to think about time. Like looking at the runners around me and trying to determine whether they looked like mid-packers or back-packers. A futile exercise.
On yet another view of the weaving, jagged, sunlit Catalina coastline I feel elated and proclaim that no matter how today ends, my day is complete.
I ran into my buddy Howard, who invited me to do the race, on the out-and-back section. It was his first 50. He was smiling and doing great. I couldn't help but ask him what time it was. 5:07 and I'm something like 28 miles in. Pleasant surprise - I sure didn't feel like I was going that fast.
Followed more solitary running on a long rolling dirt road. I was running strong and pleased with how well I was doing. Then I felt the inklings of a cramp in my left hamstring. Noooo not again! Cramps plagued me at the recent 50K race too and a couple other races. I slowed down to a walk before it grounded me, drank lots of water and took salt, but kept moving forward.
Sure dampened my spirits, but there was no choice but to keep going. Upset that it was happening to me again, I kept moving, albeit at a slower pace. This is the time when I would be especially obsessive over time. I wanted to know what time it was so badly. So I can estimate how soon until the next aid station. And whether I'm on pace to meet my goal. And just to give me something to do while I was upset. But I didn't have a watch. It was like my mind was in a cage, crashing against the bars trying to find an outlet, a problem to solve. But there was no problem to solve. I already did all I could do for myself - slow down - then keep moving.
Over the next 10 miles I also had cramps in my hip, bicep, and inner thigh. The solution was to walk for a bit, then resume running. Upset at how slow I was moving, I wanted to do something. So instead of looking at my watch, it became tempting to agonize over the elevation map. But I already knew what the upcoming sections looked like. There was nothing to be gained by taking it out, unfolding it, and staring at it some more. It would just slow me down.
So I let it go and kept moving enveloped in my own pain and struggle. Occasionally exchanging words with a fellow traveler (or sufferer). "Hey Dmitriy!" someone calls over. "Who is this?" I reply recognizing but not connecting the dots at the same time. "It's Ken Farley. You don't recognize me? Are you delirious?" He shakes my head in a friendly way. I smile. And keep moving forward.
Time blends again. I'm moving slow and feel like I'm not getting anywhere at all. Yet the next two aid stations each come faster than expected.
One more uphill walk and I see Avalon from far above! What a beautiful sight. The beacon of home. The chair! I've been dreaming of being on this downhill for a long time. Still have to get it done though. The hamstring and hip cramps on my left side combined with the inner thigh cramp on the right turn my gait to an asymmetrical shuffle not allowing any deviation from that "form." I make the most of it and slowly eat away at the windy downhill road with gorgeous ocean views.
Some friends of Angela, a girl I've been leapfrogging for a while, come up dressed in funky zebra costumes and pace her in. That puts a big smile on my face. Then someone tells me I'm 400m away! I'm usually skeptical of these things, but lo and behold the town and the finish line unfolds after a few curves! Wow, almost done! I'm really here! I'm beaming. I get a little bit ahead of Angela as we run into town and hear the clock tower ring. It must be 3 p.m.
"Well, looks like I'm going to be just about 10 hours," I tell myself, slightly disappointed at not being faster, but just ecstatic to be finished and satisfied at knowing I did my best and reached my goal.
Finish line in sight, I hear rapid footsteps behind me. Angela is sprinting in from behind. "I can't believe you're making me sprint!" I glare smiling. "Come on, Dmitriy!" she yells back. My legs start moving faster. "OOO hello calf cramp!" I stumble... but regain my footing and sprint in for the finish at the same time.
"What time is it?!?"
"2:16"
Like Ellie Greenwood, I had not expected to see a 16 on that watch.
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