Ultrarunning: Life on The Far Side of The Marathon

by Will Brown

Ultrarunning. I had never even heard the word until a couple of years ago. Okay, let's start with some numbers. An ultramarathon (an "ultra") is any race beyond the standard marathon distance of 26.2 miles (42K). In 1980 there were 100 documented ultra races in North America with 2,890 finishers. By 1996, that had exploded to 317 races and 13,140 finishers. The actual number of people who run ultras is probably about half of that total. We're a small group. We're an older group, also. If you look around at the start of an ultra, you'll see a lot of gray hair and no hair. 40 races in 1996 were won by men and women over 50. We're a coeducational group. 7 races were won outright by women, and they were contenders in many more.

Who in the name of Phidippides would ever want to run farther than a marathon? Marathons hurt. The first one hurt Mr. P big time, and they continue to inflict pain on the unsuspecting novice and the veteran marathoner alike. People throw themselves across the line and refuse to run one step further. They curl up in their space blankets looking like baked potatoes scattered across a field. The position they assume is very much like an unborn in the womb. The finish line has the look and feel of a battlefield strewn with casualties. When people are finally able to move away from the kill zone, they lean on friends and loved ones, grimace with every step, and scream in agony descending 3 inch stairs. If marathons cause such misery, what manner of person can run 50 kilometers, 50 miles, or 100 miles, and live to tell about it?

The answer may surprise you. Average people. Few of us look like elite runners. For many of us, the only meaning of the word "situp" is the thing you do first after falling on the trail. That's called a face plant, by the way. Ultrarunners don't do well in ab contests. When I showed up for my first ultra, the people I saw at the evening trail briefing spooked me because they were so ordinary looking. There were a few lean and fast looking folks, but the rest of them were a cross-section of America. Until you looked at their T-shirts. Ultrarunners really like race T-shirts. We have casual ones that we might wear to the grocery store, and dress ones that we save as finery to wear to race briefs. As I looked around that night, these average looking people were wearing shirts with names like Mountain Masochist 50, JFK 50, Bull Run Run 50, Umstead 100, Leadville Trail 100, Western States 100, Angeles Crest 100. I tried hard not to stare in envy. Now, I've got my own. Wearing them isn't showing off. It's telling stories about places we've been.

These people are one of the most congenial groups in running, mainly because of the way that ultra distances are run. People can't talk to each other in 5K's or 10K's, and after 20 miles at marathon pace, no one feels much like talking. Ultras are different. The start of a 10K or a marathon looks like a bunch of jackrabbits bolting from the brush. The start of an ultra is more like a pack of sleepy, slightly cranky bears being awakened early from hibernation. Most ultras start at a terribly early hour in the morning, so that's understandable. The race pace invites conversation, and the common goal of finishing the race provides an instant bond. That bond stays intact from the early effortless hours into the late stages of a race, where sharing hardship makes it easier to bear.

Ultrarunners help each other. With the exception of the contenders in the front, no one is really racing against other people. We're fighting the distance and our own minds. Sure, we care about our times, but just finishing is always the first goal for most of us. I was once leaning against a tree late in a race, emptying rocks from one of my shoes. A runner noticed I was having a little trouble keeping my balance on the slope. He stopped and put a hand on my shoulder to steady me as I took care of my one-legged task. In another race, I saw someone misjudge a dead tree leaning across the trail, and run into it with his head. The race stopped for everyone who saw it happen, and didn't start again until we knew he was OK. Sometimes in small races, the director has to gently encourage the pack to start, since no one wants to be impolite and enter the trailhead first.

We occasionally experience a little difficulty acting our age. Maybe it's because we have been freed from our 3 piece suits and our worldly obligations to go play in the woods. It's OK to get dirty and muddy - no one minds. Many ultras are run on trails, so it's no problem if you go to the bathroom in the woods like the bears. It's all biodegradable. Practical jokes and bathroom humor are part of the sport. One grand ultra lady from the West Coast was once audibly using a "porta-tree" just off the trail at night during a hundred miler. All of a sudden, a deep male voice boomed out, "That sounds like a good idea." He proceeded to begin his business a few feet away, assuming he was in the men's room. She waited a few seconds, then let out the loudest female cackle that she could muster. The unfortunate victim jumped several feet in the air, performed a Double Lutz, and hot footed it for safer ground.

Ultrarunners have the same injuries and illnesses that plague other runners, but we have some unique ones of our own. We're allergic to color coordinated running outfits. Wearing one puts you at great risk of hoots and howls from friends. We were baggy before baggy was cool. We're very allergic to blisters and other foot ailments. Feet are deadly serious pieces of equipment for the ultrarunner. Most of us have found that we can keep going with damaged feet, but we'd rather not have to do that, thank you.

We pay a lot of attention to our stomachs, also. Ultra distances require food as well as fluid, and it has to stay down to do any good. Nausea is a signal that something is going wrong with your refueling plan. Sometimes it's necessary to get rid of all the offending material and start from scratch. No big deal, but it's better to keep it down. Good aid stations take on the appearance of a nice cocktail party and buffet. The only difference is that the guests are sporting waist packs and water bottles, and they eat as if they hadn't been fed for a week. Ultrarunners will eat atrocious things during a race, but we don't care because Mother is usually not watching.

Finally, ultrarunners are very patient. We don't have any choice in the matter. All of us depend on something called RFM, Relentless Forward Motion, to get us to the finish line. We walk uphill to save our running muscles and we run the flats and the downhills as long as we can. If we can't run anymore, we walk. But, we keep moving. Aid stations are necessary pauses for refueling and repair, but our minds are still in motion. When your mind stops moving, you will quit. That is where the real battle is fought, and it's not over until you cross the finish line. Average people can do extraordinary things. It's simple....