Wild Florida 120 - January 31, 2020

I haven’t written a true race report in over three years. This past weekend’s Wild Florida 120 presented a worthy opportunity to get back at it.

Twenty-one. Distance running is filled with numbers, maybe one of the reasons I enjoy it so much. What is the distance? What is the elevation change? What is the pace? How many runners were there? Where did you place? How many miles did you do in training? What was your long run? The list is nearly endless. There are two numbers I am particularly proud of. Coming into the Wild Florida 120, I had 131 ultramarathons completed and 31 times I have successfully completed 100 miles or longer. But the number that dances in my head regularly is 21.

Twenty-One times I have DNF’d a race. Did Not Finish. The dreaded DNF, the worst word in running. It is spoken of by many runners as a true failure, an unacceptable conclusion to be avoided at all costs. Some runners wear it like a yoke; even consider it a mortal sin. Not me. I still believe the experience of running these epic races is a great metaphor for life. I learn as much or more about myself from the failures as I do the successes.

I have DNF’d races due to injury. I have DNF’d due to being afraid of re-injury, especially post-Achilles rupture, I will never fully trust it again. I have DNF’d due to extenuating non-running circumstances over which I (felt like I) had little or no control. I have quit multiple races due to sheer lack of personal commitment and willpower. I DNF’d a race to drive a grieving friend home after receiving terrible news.

I don’t regret a single one of them. Not because I don’t wish I could have done something differently.  On most of them I wish I had made some different choices. But every one of them has reminded me of my (various and many, depending on who you are talking to) shortcomings as a person, the things I need to work to improve on, or the not-so-positive limitations I need to learn to accept about myself.   

“If you always put limit on everything you do, physical or anything else. It will spread into your work and into your life. There are no limits. There are only plateaus, and you must not stay there, you must go beyond them.” – Bruce Lee

I know with a permanently weakened Achilles; I am likely to find those limits much quicker and far more often than in the past.  However, I far prefer to be pushing past those limits than accepting the bland plateaus that are so seductive as I get older.  None of that means I am looking to embrace number 22 any time soon.

Having said that, I came into Wild Florida knowing it was a strong possibility. This would be my fourth 100+ mile attempt in 6 weeks. The first two ended the same, with me dropping at the 62-72 mile mark with sharp Achilles pain. I am gun shy about rupturing it again, I don’t know that I have the intestinal fortitude to go through surgery and a year-plus of rehab again. I definitely don’t want to spend that much time off the trails again. But the Long Haul 100 two weeks ago went really well and I came away feeling healthy; so here I was for Sean Blanton’s inaugural WF120.

Wild Florida is primarily run on the Florida Trail, between Okeechobee and Orlando. I have run numerous other stretches of the FT, especially the nearby Ocean To Lake extension of the FT, but never here. The start was quite nostalgic. After a 90-minute bus ride from where we parked at the finish to the start at Micco Landing, runners and their crews gathered on the grass under a canopy of live oaks. No tents, no booths, no music, no hoopla; just a great old-school trail vibe as everyone prepared for the seriousness of what they were about to take on.  I was thrilled to be starting the race in a custom-made tank from Brie Los.

Sean did a short talk beforehand, going over the history of the FT, how it got here, and thanking the numerous Florida Trail Association volunteers present for their support. He clearly has embraced them, as they have him, and is using some of the race proceeds to help fund additional trail improvements. Without much more ado, Sean gathered us up at a fence, called out the countdown and 75 of us were off at 3:00 pm. It was an odd start time for a 100, but I better understood why later.

I almost blew my race before it ever began. After seeing reports of copious water on the course, I had started the race in Salomon Amphipods, a great water shoe. They have served me well in the past in wet conditions and I planned to wear them here until the first drop bag at mile 35. But other than a wet slog the first mile, the trail had largely dried up. On the hard, choppy ground, these shoes were far more of a hindrance than help. I felt like I was getting no energy return on each step and working far too hard to keep the pace I wanted. Less than 10 miles into the race and I could feel the self-doubt of #22 creeping in.

Thank goodness, Andy Mathews was there to volunteer at an aid station. He mistakenly went to the first aid station at mile 12 and had an extra pair of Hoka Torrents I had dropped off to him earlier that day. The shoe change made all the difference. I came through that aid station in roughly 40th place and a not on the early pace I had planned. But from there I began to feel good and pick it up.

The course alternated between forest and open field. A number of early stretches were along fence lines, so we ran past herds of cattle as often as not. The ground was quite choppy in places from hog damage or otherwise. It wasn’t quite unrunnable, but you had to make a choice between walking over the uneven ground and losing time or trying to run and burning the energy candle down way too fast. I tried to be patient and just take what the course would give me.

As darkness descended, I entered the Kissimmee Prairie Park Preserve. The next 20 miles was open grassland with few trees in sight. I instantly understood why Sean put the race start in the mid-afternoon. With a traditional dawn start, we would have been running this stretch mid-afternoon. We had cool, wet, and almost ideal running conditions all weekend. But on a more typical Florida day, the afternoon heat and sun would have destroyed most runners on the winding trek across the prairie.

By Aid Station 3, at mile 35, I had moved up to roughly 26th place. Coming out of the Aid Station, a woman helped me with my pack as I changed from my tank top to a short sleeve as temperatures cooled. She encouraged me to catch her son Manny who had left minutes ahead of me and keep him company. Sure enough, I caught him within half a mile. We fed off each other’s energy and kept a solid pace for the next 9 miles across the prairie. I thought he would come out of AS 4 at mile just behind me, but I never saw him again.

From there I ran solo until the next afternoon. My headphones weren’t working properly so I took them off and kept my own company in my head. I soon entered that special running zone, the Runner’s High. It doesn’t happen every race, but when it does, it is magical. I get a sort of mental tunnel vision for the race; all other distractions disappear. There is no job to worry about in the zone, no personal finances to stress over, interpersonal strifes disappear. It is just me and the trail. And the next person in front of me I want to catch.  Every moment, every thought is geared towards success in the race.  These are among the precious times when I am truly living completely in the moment.  It is hard to describe as well as I would like, but I know no better feeling.

Through the night, we ran through spectacular scenery, I can only imagine what it looked like in daylight. There were amazing stretches of live oak hammocks, most covered in ferns or draped in Spanish moss. I ran across fields, I ran alongside streams or canals, I ran through cypress swamps on barely elevated trails. I saw dozens of deer, birds galore (even at night), and one lonely armadillo. I even thought I saw, but cannot verify, a Florida panther. It was dark, but the eyes looked right and it moved like a cat. And cattle, forever the cattle. It rained through much of the night, and I missed the orange trail blazes on several occasions, logging some bonus distance, but none too bad.

All through the night, I seemed to be making mostly good decisions. I was keeping my hydration up, I was forcing solid food, even when I wasn’t hungry. I went through cups and cups of ramen noodles at aid stations and enjoyed some delicious quesadillas. Everything tasted like one of Eddie Murphy’s Ritz crackers. Melissa came through with a much-needed sugar injection via Twizzlers on my first shuttle ride, and a complete stranger did the same for me later on.  Throughout all of this, I tried to balance my desire to catch the next runner in front of me against my fear bonking my way into number Twenty-Two.

At mile 59, I arrived at AS 5 at Packingham Trailhead and the first of the two shuttles. In this stretch of the Florida Trail, there are two places where the trail is essentially the shoulder of a country highway. Rather than risk safety later in a tough race where runners might not be making the greatest choices, Sean had arranged for us to be shuttled 5-8 miles by car to where the trail re-entered the wilderness. This was a first for me in a race but caused no disruption to my progress and a complete non-issue. The race time stopped for me when I entered the aid station and restarted as I was dropped off to commence running again. I took in nearly 1,000 calories of food while waiting for the shuttle to return and was pleasantly regrouped as I started to run again.

By morning, the long stretch of solid and consistent running had not wavered, and I had moved up to about 19^th place. I was pleased to have moved that far up the standings and was satisfied with holding on to a top 20 finish. That is, until I entered AS 7 at mile 77 where there were 6-7 runners recuperating in chairs. They all left ahead of me, but I knew I was feeling good enough to catch them. My friends Renee and Kurt were working the aid station and helped me gear up for the next big push.  A top-10 finish was now not out of the realm if I could stay strong over the final 33 miles.

With that remaining distance, I was confident I would finish unless I did something incredibly stupid. So, I allowed myself to push even harder. This meant I wavered frequently between strong running and feeling like I might drop on the spot. I caught Jim from Mississippi somewhere in here and we ran together and back and forth for a few miles until I pulled away from him as well. Just before the final aid station I saw a beautiful bald eagle swooping above and landing on a tree nearby. The wonderful scenery never ceased.

Coming out of the last aid station, with 6 miles to go a steady rain commenced.   The course veered out onto wet forest road and I was able to push even harder, splashing through the standing water on the road. I was really pleased to see afterwards, mile 110 was my fastest mile split of the entire race. The last mile crossed several streams on rickety bridges in the dark. I took my first and only fall of the race with less than a half mile remaining, as I tripped on a vine and went down hard. But by now, the specter of Twenty-Two had been vanquished and I shook that off and pounded into the finish where Sean and Jenn awaited.

27:22:00 for 111.5 miles, good enough for 6th place overall. My Achilles feels great, surprisingly great for how rough the footing had been. I loved being part of an inaugural race, especially one with the future promise this one holds. Sean has a great eye for challenging and beautiful courses, and this did not disappoint.  I will be back. I did not get number 22. Instead I checked off numbers 132 and 32 respectively. I go back to real life with the renewed confidence that if I can push through THAT, I can handle anything else thrown at me.  Screw the plateaus.