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Excerpt from "Running across the Millenium"

by Lynn David Newton

Long, Long, Long

By 1:00 AM things quieted down, as runners settled in for the last eight-hour grind. Suzy and Cyra-Lea headed to my brother's to spend the night.

To my own amazement, I continued a sporadic run-walk routine until I reached 100K, which I passed at 1:27 AM, and then seventy miles, at 4:31 AM. When I reached seventy miles, I had succeeded in achieving my dream goal. Anything more that I could endure was pure gravy, and I was in no way inclined to quit. I calculated that I had enough time left that even if I walked the rest of the way quite slowly, I was still likely to crack eighty miles. All I had to do was keep going. The ecstasy that flooded my heart was indescribable.

As the night grew colder I bundled up. Because I was no longer moving as quickly, there was the danger that I would get cold. I was wearing four layers on top, two with hoods, which I pulled over my hat. The Speedo hood has a tie-string on it. I pulled it tightly enough that it pressed the brim of my hat down low. As I walked, with my gloved hands in the pouch of my pullover, still clenching my lap counter, I could see only a few feet ahead of me, unless I deliberately lifted my head. This I did only to check where on the track I was, and to make contact with the number caller at the start line.

Wearing sunglasses increased my isolation from things around me. Often I forgot I was wearing them. Once I looked into the sky and was amazed to see how remarkably orange the moon was, and how brightly Mars was shining. Then I remembered that I was wearing my Oakleys with orangish-amber tinted blades. Was this a case of having hallucinations I'd read about recently? I don't think so.

In this state I entered a zone of concentration, mentally removed from much of what was taking place around me, pressing slowly, but constantly forward, catching up with and passing by some who were sleeping. I knew I would be walking this way for several hours, and that it would remain dark until nearly 7:00 AM. It seemed that I was moving at a respectable rate. I didn't realize until I worked the numbers later that for the last four and a half hours I averaged a snailish 23:32 a mile. I could have gone faster in a baby's walker.

On two occasions during the night I took short rests. I wanted to sit for just a little while, but not for long. I no longer remember when the first break was, but believe it was after 100K. I walked over to the tent and sat in my chair. I didn't need anything, but wanted only to sit down for ten minutes. I closed my eyes briefly, but didn't sleep. Then I got up and headed off again.

The second time I knew it would be easy to fall asleep. It must have been around 4:00 AM. I told Aaron to watch me, and if I fell asleep, to wake me in ten minutes. I did drift off, but only for a minute or two. When Aaron woke me I said I was ready to go again, but in the space of one breath, I fell back asleep. Aaron must have let me stay that way for no more than fifteen seconds, thinking I was just catching my breath or trying to get started, when he tapped me again. ``I fell asleep again!'' We both laughed that I had floated off so quickly. Once I got on my feet I was ready to go again.

In retrospect, I was surprised to find that sleep deprivation, one of my greatest worries before the race, proved to be one of the least of my problems. As long as I was walking, which I was not at all too physically tired to do, there was no way I would be falling asleep.

One reason I dreaded the rest stops was because I got cold just sitting. I didn't want to go into the tent and do another whole clothing change. Doubtless I would have felt better, and perhaps performed better, but it would have taken another fifteen minutes, and I didn't want to lose the time.
March of the Meanies

It was not until late at night that my biggest problem of the race began to manifest itself. I interrupted my progress at least twice to dump green gravel chips from the track out of my shoes. The slower I walked, the more I dragged my feet, kicking up bits of stuff that found its way into my shoes. I didn't think much of this at first. I just stopped to dump it out whenever it got too annoying.

I ran for a period in my second pair of shoes, then performed the ritual gravelectomy. To my surprise, when I headed back out it still felt like there were more rocks that I missed. When I stopped again I found that some of them had embedded themselves in the insoles and in the fabric of my socks, and I had to scratch them out with my fingernails.

Deep into the night this got to me again, so I stopped once more and finally switched to my third set of shoes, my Montrail Vitesses. These are really trail shoes, not road or track shoes. They're normally quite comfortable, but when I put them on and started running again, I found that they felt tight. And it still felt like there was gravel in them, even though these were fresh shoes.

What I was experiencing was swollen feet, and the beginnings of what would become large blisters on the bottoms of both feet. Ouch!
Don't Bother Me

Back on the track I went. This would be the most critical span of the race. I'd already achieved wonderful things, but it was now time to endure the blackest night, never stopping for anything, even if all I did was walk. By then I paid little attention to what anyone else was doing.

The reason I'm not svelte like most runners is that in everyday life I tend to eat much and often, and even to overeat. But my physical organism is not accustomed to consuming mass quantities like a Conehead. I ate and drank all I could during the first part of the race. Finally, I knew that if I tried to eat any more, I would lose it. Still, I needed calories.

That's when I switched from drinking water to Coca-Cola. Being normally not much much of a cola drinker, I was surprised at how good this tasted. A bowl of soup or stew might have done me much better long term, but drinking the Coke was like mainlining sugar, which my body quickly made use of, and the fluid fulfilled my hydration needs as well. Most importantly, it didn't make me nauseous.

The Coke they were serving had gotten a bit flat, which I considered an advantage. The aid station attendants may have even shaken it up deliberately in order to help defizz it. I would slurp it right down and move on, until one lap I picked up a cup with icy, fully carbonated contents. It hit my stomach like an explosion in a sparkler factory, stopping me in my tracks, and causing me to lose my breath and bend over double. That was the last time I drank Coke. By then it was pushing 6:00 AM, and I didn't drink much more water after that, either.

Excerpts from 'Running Through the  Millennium' by Lynn David Newton