The UltraRunning link for the U.S.

Catalina 100K 2001 Report(CA): Mike Bouscaren

On Saturday,  February 24 , 2001  I completed this 62.1+  mile event in 14 
hours, 17 minutes.  Preparation for the run included 2  50 milers, the Bull 
Run Run ( April) and the Garden State 50 ( September).  My last long training 
run was on Jan. 6 - the Ipswich, Ma. 50k fat ass ( "no fees, no aid,  no 
whiners, no wimps") in the snow.  That was a good toughener, and I boosted 
my mental readiness by reading Reinhold Messner's  "To The Top Of The World" 
( solo climb of Mt Everest without oxygen ) and Slavomir Rawich's 
"The Long Walk" ( on foot escape from a Siberian prison camp through the 
Gobi Desert to India ). These men affirmed that people can accomplish more 
than imaginable physical feats if they have absolute determination.

In my mind, the present is a fully sensory, in color experience, while past 
memories and future imaginings are seen in two dimensional, black and white. 
The ultramarathon experience brings out the most vivid, colorful mental 
images I have ever experienced.  It offers a deeper personal awareness of 
the gift of life. At 53, I have for a some time accepted that my remaining 
years will be more gratifying if I mine my capabilities of commitment and 
concentration, to discover those gifts hidden within.  We only need choose 
to look for them, to have that reward.

I thank Stan Jensen, whose website included a fine account of his 1998 
Catalina run. Reading it many times, I developed a mental game plan of how 
I would approach this my first 100k outing.   Rationalizing that if I can 
run 50 miles, which is about 80% of 62 miles, why not then through good 
preparation just add another 20% ?  It goes from  "can I do it?" to "how 
can I do it?" to "I believe I can do it." Stan provided aid station splits 
of his times for three Cat 100k runs, and since I could compare my Bull Run 
2000 time to his time in that event, I had a rough idea of what to expect. 
I set a goal of 13 hours, which I knew was my best case potential. 

Race director Baz Hawley organized a flawless program - great pasta feed 
Friday night, repeated usage of the word "magic" to describe the venue 
( it truly was ), and even a last minute weather report before the 5 a.m. 
start promising ideal conditions for Saturday's contestants. 

There's a reported 9390 foot total elevation gain over the course, which 
includes five sustained uphill challenges, the sharpest being the 1700 foot 
Boushay trail over two miles just after the 31.3 mile halfway point. I broke 
it down as follows: run a 50k to the foot of Boushay's, slog up the hill 
thinking of my Dad and his brother Henri ( both recently deceased ) for 
spiritual strength, run along the ridge and down to the Two Harbors aid 
station at mile 37.6, change shirt and socks, then simply smooth out a 25 
mile run to the finish  ( my usual long training runs on weekends were 
25 miles ). 

As we left the start out of the harbor town of Avalon, the street lights 
ended with the beginning of a 1600' vertical over the next 3 1/2 miles. 
Purposely at the back of the pack, I could see runners' flashlight beams 
ahead switching back and forth on the climb up as the pavement gave way to 
a clay, gravel surface. The pack slowed to a walk, and I did the same, 
turning on my light. It was overcast with the temperature in the 40's, and 
I settled in to a rhythm, putting no push into it, just maintaining my 
relative position. I knew I should follow the example of more experienced 
runners, letting them determine my pace.

Dawn's light came with the end of the steep, about 70 minutes into it. I 
stopped on the first ridge to snap a photo of Avalon down below. I took the 
camera to afford me occasional breaks from the tendency to force too much 
effort into it too early, and for the memories. When I reached the first aid 
station at Haypress  ( 6.2 miles), I left my flashlight for the return down 
later, and checking my time versus Stan's, discovered my 13 hour objective 
needed to be modified higher: I figured  14 1/2 hours now, at the outside, 
possibly better depending on the terrain. 

Over the next five miles along the ridge to the next aid station I marked 
the time at the Middle Ranch turnoff, where we'd be returning about mile 54, 
noting how much time I could expect from there to the finish - figured about 
1 hour 45 minutes. I found myself making all kinds of mental calculations on 
the expected time, to the point of ridiculousness. I forced myself to let go 
of those thoughts, going back to the focus of maintaining good mechanics, 
moving as effortlessly as possible. There was a long way to go still, and 
I knew the run would be a lot easier if I let go of the time issue.

Going downhill towards the Little Harbor aid station ( mile 17 ) I noticed 
that runners were passing me that I had passed on the uphills. This was true 
of the entire course - I'd make up ground on the uphills and lose it going 
down to others more skilled at running downhill.  At 6' 1" and 178 lbs., 
I've got longer legs than most ( fewer strides up ) but also more mass to 
brake ( tougher gliding down ). 

Sipping from my camelback, I noticed I was going through the fluid faster 
than anticipated. I started with about 20oz. of three part Ultra Fuel ( 60%), 
Endurox ( 30%), and Succeed Amino (10%), and had 2 drop bottles at miles 24 
and 37, the first with Endurox (60%), Ultra Fuel (20%), and Succeed Amino 
(20%), the final one with Succeed Amino (50%), Ultra fuel (30%), and Endurox 
(20%). Ultra fuel is my old reliable, Endurox gives even better energy but 
is rougher tasting, and Succeed Amino is smoother going down and purportedly 
keeps one more alert in the later miles. I made these more concentrated than 
advised so I could add water to the mix as needed at the aid stations. 

Little Harbor got a photo on the approach ( such an inspiring view !) and 
I made a good transition out: to save precious time, remove outer shell, 
then camelback before getting to the station, so water and food get taken 
faster - put food in pockets and eat after leaving the station. I told you 
I wasn't going to obsess on the time element, didn't I ?

Then the long 5 mile uphill to the 932' West Summit, where Two Harbors 
( mile 24 ) comes into view - a welcome sight. For me, the first half of a 
long run is in some ways more testing than the second half, because you have 
to make yourself hold back.  In the second half, while the speed may 
hopefully be the same, you have to put increasingly more effort into 
maintaining it, to the point ( if you've managed yourself  well ) that near 
the end you're going at 100% effort and the same pace that took about 40% 
effort in the beginning. From the Little Harbor aid station  ( finally 
potatoes!) it was a flat 6.9 miles along the shoreline to the halfway point 
at Parson's Landing ( elapsed time 6 1/2 hours ).  I prevailed on the 
kindness of the welcoming aid station folks for a photo of me standing 
before the giant Boushay hill - this to cement my resolve that once I 
reached the top, the Catalina 100 would be mine for the taking.

And so it was.  I caught up with Bob Barr near the crest, and our 
conversation was a needed distraction from my constant focus on executing 
the game plan - so far so good. Bob has completed 4 100 milers and told me 
that after this run, I'd be ready for my first 100 miler, too. I've thought 
about that.  I'm intimidated yet curious with the idea of running through 
the night ( nearly all of my nights have included a fair amount of sleep! ), 
as is required for most in a 100 mile effort, and so told Bob "I don't 
think so."  As he drew away from me going down the steep hill back into 
Two Harbors, it began to drizzle.  Approaching the aid station, the road 
became slippery with water on clay underfoot, and I began to plot footfalls 
a few at a time for a drier purchase.

Steady drizzle now at Two Harbors. The last fuel bottle goes into the 
Camelback, there's a photo, fresh socks, the dry Cool Max t-shirt goes on 
under the one already worn                 ( I realized then I was slightly 
underprepared for colder conditions ), a fistful of potatoes and some 
chocolate into the pockets, and I'm away, walking up the grade to the West 
Summit. I take 2 Advil and a 500mg salt tablet while scarfing the spuds 
( I began Advil/salt at hour three and took some combination every 1 1/2 
hours roughly - total 8 x 200 mg Advil and 4000 mg salt)  and sucking the 
tube for liquid.  Checking around, everything is shipshape: no blisters, 
clothing o.k., nourishment o.k., energy level good; now get to the Summit 
and enjoy the cruise back to Little Harbor ( mile 45 ). 

In every good run there's a stretch where you let it out a bit, after you've 
thoroughly shaken down and gotten into the mood to run with some authority. 
This happened now, and as I took in the buffaloes grazing on the vast green 
brown landscape ( part of the Catalina Island Conservancy )  the effort of 
running became no effort, only a lightly conscious supervision of body 
mechanics and the balance of physical needs.  Motoring.

I get to Little Harbor at 3 p.m. and it's now raining. Sinatra croons from 
a boombox in the pickup truck.  Beg a photo with a parka/hood clad volunteer 
to boost morale ( his and mine ). Figure out loud,  "16 miles to go - piece 
of cake," and silently,  "you know, Mike, you could possibly finish in three 
more hours and make the 13 hour mark if all goes easy from here." That idea 
got blown up very soon with several challenging hills ( walk only ), but I 
did pass someone ( cordial exchange ) and knew from that I was doing 
relatively well.  Even caught up to Bob B. ( after 22 miles trailing him ) 
following a long uphill into the Middle Ranch ( mile 49.6 ) aid station.  
About 200 yds short of it, I noticed a black Titleist 3 along the side of 
the road, and with some interest asked the aid station volunteer if he 
happened to be playing a black Titleist 3, because I just saw it, and I 
think it's still in bounds !  Bob wondered if I was hallucinating - we all 
three laughed at this as Bob and I departed in good spirits for the final 
12+ miles.

The next 4 1/2 miles began to show some of that special "magic" Baz had 
promised; only it wasn't as pleasant as one might hope. The cold rain now 
was ponding on the clay road, and it became increasingly difficult to get a 
grip without slippage. Bob pulled away and I slogged on alone for a while, 
soon passing a pissing pantless pair of possibly pulchritudinous 
participants; I didn't care to notice details, as I was getting wrapped in a  
zone of self-absorption, trying to maintain some kind of pace.  Just make it 
up Pump House Hill to the ridge, and the pavement there.  

Reaching the hard surface of Old Stage Road brought relief, as now I could 
move along more easily without the mud underfoot. The ridge brought wind to 
join with the ceaseless rain, adding to the adventure.  Cold creeped in when 
I walked up a rise, than flowed out as I ran downhill or on the flats. As 
dusk approached, I remembered Reinhold Messner describing his singular 
purpose climbing Everest, aware of the cold, the storms, the wind, but never 
distracted by them.  I remembered Slavomir Rawich going 4000 miles on foot in 
flight, with no provisions, no water to carry through the vast Gobi Desert. I 
looked at myself, in between aid stations, with camelback and now orange 
slices in my pockets, and thought, "You have no reason to complain, just 
move on."  I moved on.

Coming down a bend in the road, I remembered it from the way out - I was 
approaching Haypress, just 6 miles from the finish. A moment's doubt at not 
seeing the open table set up from the morning, then relief to recognize the 
aid volunteers had moved into a shelter, and the familiar open boxes of 
snacks and cups of water and gatorade set out for the taking - also a tall 
bottle of Johnny Walker's standing oddly on the left end ( ! ). I invested 
no effort trying to figure THAT out, grabbed a slurp of gatorade and my 
flashlight left in a box, and shuffled away as the 2 men there told me " 
Only 6 miles to go." The time was 5:30 p.m. and I marked that I could 
possibly finish now in less than 14 hours.

But it was more than 6 miles for me, however, because when I came to the 
fork at Wrigley Reservoir, I "took it," not noticing the faint chalk arrows 
in the fading light pointing the other way. I went down the road about 1/2 
mile and stopped to pee, when a pickup approached from down the hill and 
stopped next to me as I was trying to coax out a movement in the cold. 
"You're going the wrong way," said the voice through the rolled down window, 
"Hop in." 

So I hopped in.  Another runner was in the front seat who had gone even 
farther down the wrong way. It was warm in the truck, but we both 
desperately just wanted to resume our run to the finish from "Yogi's" fork. 
We got out there, thanking the driver, and stood for a moment together as 
the cold rain and enveloping darkness gave an unkind reminder that whatever 
plans we had entertained for finishing in x hours just got an add on.

On it went.  The road now was back to clay-gravel with serious water 
underfoot. She slowly pulled away from me in her new garbage bag wrapping 
( provided at the aid stations to colder runners ) and it was now dark. 
I felt oddly like King Lear in his mad scene, but let that thought go in 
favor of resuming the mental checklist: motion o.k. despite a slight back 
cramp and a slower functioning left leg - force down some fluid but don't 
need to eat since I can "smell the barn."

At last the road started the decline towards Avalon, and I figured only 
an hour or so more. It seemed a little warmer now that I was off the 
windier ridge, but it was still blowing pretty good. I saw her flashlight 
moving through the swithbacks below, and found the running easier with 
gravity's help. I knew I would be warmer if I could go faster, but the 
increasing sluggishness of my body's movements kept me from that finding 
that warmth. Streams of water coursed along the trail, and I realized there  
was no longer any point in trying to avoid them. From the steep rocky banks 
on my right, chunks of earth and stones slid noisily down behind me. I 
became more alert. 

I thought of those runners behind me and how for them the conditions were 
now even more of a challenge than for me.  It was hard keeping track of the 
direction of the road, due to the coursing water. My light shined on what 
seemed a firm rock ledge across the road, but as I tracked through it, it 
turned into an ankle deep pond.  I became amused.  From that point, I elected 
to walk until the going cleared up a bit.  Soon I came to the gates of the 
Wrigley Memorial, where I knew the surface would return to pavement. 

Resuming my shuffle, I heard a shout of encouragement from someone in the 
park nearby: "Way to go, kid, only a mile and a quarter from here."  Some 53 
year old kid I was.  I thought, "Well, this is really something: Baz was 
right about the "magic."  For now I had experienced a bit of the mysterious 
night travel of 100 milers, just a taste of what it would be like to push 
into that unknown zone. But this walking night navigation in an exhausted 
state would continue on for hours more, wouldn't it ?  For me, for now, 
completing 100k will do just fine.

Street lights reminded me of sea buoys guiding ocean travelers back into 
port. Should I drop sail and start the motor ? What motor I had left sprang 
to life and I resolved to put my best strides down into the final thousand 
yards. A race official standing under an umbrella in the road asked, "100k ?" 
I said yes. "What's your number ?"  Six.

People at the finish line started shouting, " Come on, Mike, you're almost 
there - you can do it !  "What a great touch - the walkie -talkie message, 
the race volunteers standing there at 7:15 in the cold night sending out 
encouragement - I thought, these folks know what it's all about, don't they ?

So, what is it all about ?  When you reach deeper into yourself, you 
discover you can do more than previously imagined. More things become 
possible. The world becomes larger and the self becomes larger. The fully 
sensory, richly colorful present also creeps into one's memory, like color 
added black and white movies. There's more peace. There's more there.

Joe May, famous Alaskan musher, said: " Dream big. Dare to fail."  
Ultramarathoning is about dreaming big and daring to fail.  In addition to 
pedestrian late comers to the sport like myself, there are truly world 
class athletes who perform at mind bending intensity over very long distances,  
proving that big dreams can become reality.  There's no hype, no evening 
sports report, no false heroics, no high fives, no in your face TV taunting 
rage. The truth is that ultrarunners have the most serene countenance I have 
witnessed in any class of athlete, and I've seen a bunch.  There's a wisdom 
there, but most of us don't talk about it much.  That's what it's all about.

They say in ultrarunning, " The last finisher is the slowest winner."  Such 
was the mood among the happy winners at the awards ceremony Sunday morning.  
Baz Hawley told us this may be the last Catalina 100k, as he had decided to 
return to his native Australia before too long.  Let's hope not and wish 
him well.
In any case, it's been a great run.