Running for hours in silence
Pacing at the Vermont 100 Mile Endurance Race
The Vermont 100 Endurance Race is a one-hundred mile race run by people and horses. It’s one of the oldest one-hundred mile ultramarathons in the U.S., and in the summer of 2013, I got to experience the race first hand—not as a competitor, but as a pacer.
What is a pacer? Well, certainly a uniqueness to the misunderstood sport of ultramarathon running. The term pacer is a bit of a misnomer actually. Unless you are an elite ultrarunner, your pacer is probably not setting a pace for you. Being a pacer is all about offering some level of safety and support for the last leg of an insane distance to run. Typically only non-road races of 100K (61 miles) or more allow pacers, but I’ve seen 100K races that didn’t allow them at all. Months before the 2013 Vermont 100 race, I signed up online to volunteer as a pacer.
Apparently, there are lots of runners who would like some company and support for the last 30 miles of the VT 100, but are from out of town and can’t bring their own pacers with them. (The race only allows pacers to join the runners at mile 70 or later.) So, the race organizers put out a call for volunteers to sign up online. As race day approaches, they do the best they can to match runners with volunteer to pace them, using a few answers to some questions on the sign-up form.
The summer before I paced at the VT 100, I went to a talk at the Howe Library in Hanover, NH about how endurance sports can change your life. It was fascinating. At that talk, Chad Denning explained that the best way to get into ultrarunning was to volunteer at an event and learn what it is all about firsthand. Later that summer, my friend, and fellow trail-runner Tyler, volunteered to pace at Vermont. I was bummed because I couldn’t do it that year, (I was moving at the time). Tyler called me the day after the race and I was fascinated to hear about his experience. I decided then and there that I would make sure I could pace at the next race.
Fast-forward to mid-summer 2013. I was deep into the season, running all sorts of trail races while training for my first ultra, when I got an email from the pacing coordinator matching me up with a runner. I’d almost forgotten that I’d signed up! In the email, he gave instructions to me and the runner to communicate with one another and let him know if the match was a good fit. The runner I was paired with, Jay, wrote to me and said “I am pretty low maintenance — just help getting things in the aid stations usually.”
I had signed up early for pacing—and for the maximum distance you can pace; 30 miles. When I got the runner match email, I had been training hard, but I had not yet run 30 miles in one go. I started getting nervous that I may not be able to run the distance, (which in hindsight was ridiculous given the amount of training I was doing at the time). I wrote a long, rambling reply to my runner about how I’d been training for a 50K and how many miles I ran each week, and other details of my short trail running history. I was thinking he’d get the subtext—I haven’t actually run that far yet. Here is what I typically run each week; should I really be the one pacing you?
An email from Jay came back quickly, with a short reply—I would be fine. And at the end of the email he casually mentioned that he had run the Western States 100 a couple weeks before! Western. States. The granddaddy. The most competitive ultra in the U.S.!
What have I gotten into? My mind teater-tottered for a while from thinking—there was no way I was going to be able to pace this big-time ultra-runner, to—it’ll be fine; we’re talking about the last 30 miles of a 100 mile race here. He’ll be tired and moving slowly by that point. I looked up his splits for the Western States race online and saw that for the last 30 miles he was pulling a 15-16 min/mile pace. I calmed down. A couple of days later, I knocked out 21 mile run and all concerns faded away. I was ready!
As race day grew closer, I started getting a slew of emails from the pacing coordinator about the logistics of the race. It turns out that pacers need to follow a certain etiquette and 100 mile races involve all sorts of logistics that were new to me—like drop-bags, and trying to figure out when your runner will arrive at the aid-station where you’ll begin running with them.
From these emails, and taking with running friends, I learned that drop-bags are key to runners and pacers alike for enduring the race. The concept is simple: load stuff you think you’ll need into a bag, label it with the required information, and the bag will be dropped off at the aid-station you’ve specified. What do you put in a drop bag? Shoes, socks, clothes, lube, gels, batteries, headlamp, bug spray—anything you think you’ll need, within reason and size constraints.
Race Eve
My runner Jay, sent me a spreadsheet an hour or so before the pre-race meeting where the pacers were to meet the runners and drop off any drop bags. This spreadsheet detailed the 100-mile course, broken down by aid station, complete with estimates on the time he would reach each one for an estimated 24 hour overall completion time, and a 22 hour completion time. In most 100-mile races, if you finish in under 24 hours, a belt buckle is bestowed upon you. It’s the target that most are trying to hit, if not to simply finish. Jay said he was hoping for a sub-24 hour finish, but put in a 22 hour estimate in case he was having a good race.
Not knowing what to do with this spreadsheet yet, I printed it out, grabbed my drop-bag, and headed out to the pacer’s meeting to meet Jay.
The start/finish area for the race is in a gorgeous field in the hills of Vermont. Nothing but scenic calendar material here. Runners and crews setup tents next to the area in what has been dubbed “tent city”. When I arrived, the pacer’s meeting had already begun. I caught the gist of it, which was to make sure we dropped off our drop-bags after the meeting, and be at the aid station where we were planning to pick up or runner at least two hours before we expected them to get there. I guess some pacers in the past had missed picking up their runners!
I found Jay and it turned out that he was a really nice, laid-back kind of guy—which was a relief because his emails were short and I could not determine much about his personality from them. I discovered that Jay was running the Grand Slam of Ultrarunning, which explained why he had run Western States a few week before. (The Grand Slam is recognition for completing the four oldest 100 mile races in the U.S. in one year.)
Jay pointed out his drop-bag so I’d be able to locate it quickly for him as he rolled into the Camp 10 Bear aid station where I was going to begin running with him. We talked logistics: he did not want to spend much time in the aid stations. He wanted me to bring bug spray. He wanted to make sure he got his headlamp and batteries at Camp 10 Bear. He said he’d probably tell me he wanted to quit, but I should keep pushing him on. He asked that I not yell at him, which I thought was funny.
As a pacer, I was invited to attend the race-eve’s dinner, but decided not to as Jay said he would ultimately regret eating a huge plate of pasta before the race. I agreed. So I said farewell, and we both headed out to get some sleep. Jay would begin running at 4am the next morning, and I would pick him up sometime around 6-7PM in the evening.
Race Day
The spreadsheet Jay sent me turned out to be very helpful, because a pacer’s first challenge is making sure they are at the aid station at the correct time to pick up their runner. I was going to start pacing Jay at mile 70—and a lot can happen over those first 70 miles—so the first thing I did was check that he had not dropped the race. (If he had dropped, I planned to proceed to Camp 10 Bear anyway and pick up another runner as a spare pacer.) I confirmed that he had indeed not dropped, and following the instructions from the pacing coordinator, I made my way to Camp 10 Bear, arriving two hours ahead of the time I expected to pick up Jay.
One of the emails from the pacing coordinator reminded us that “Camp 10 Bear is NOT a party”. When we pulled in, I immediately knew why he wrote this: the place was a buzz of activity and energy. There were grills cooking up food; pacers, crews, and family members everywhere; music, and of course, runners and horses rolling in periodically, announced by the clang of a cow bell and shouts of “Runner!”, or “Horse!”. It was a bit of a party, but there was a race going on, and I had a job to do.
Off to the side there was a HUGE pile of drop bags. I located Jay’s and then looked around to figure out what I was going to do for the next couple of hours while I waited for him to arrive. I figured I should try to better calculate when he would get there, and get some food into me before the long haul.
There are 29 aid stations over the 100 mile course. Camp 10 Bear is one that the runners go through twice. Once at mile 46 and again at mile 70. There was a large television on a stand setup at the camp. It showed the times for the first and second time through the aid station by runner name and bib number. With the help of another pacer, we devised a way to better predict when our runners would come through Camp 10 Bear the second time. When we heard the cow bell clang, we’d note the bib number of the runner arriving. Then, we’d check the board and find the time for that runner’s first time through. From there we could calculate the time difference and try to apply it to our own runner’s time based on their first time through the aid station. Using this method, it looked like Jay was right on track for a 7PM arrival time.
I brought a few pieces of fruit and a sandwich wrap with me to eat before I began running. I killed the next couple of hours anxiously waiting for Jay by talking with other pacers and crews, eating food, and cheering on the racers. Before I knew it, I heard a cowbell and saw Jay running into camp. It was go time.
I jumped over to the drop-bag pile and located his bag as he was getting weighed in. (In races of this distance, runners get weighed in by medical staff periodically and are forced to drop the race if they’ve lost too much weight.) I ran over to Jay when he was done with the medical staff and handed him his bag.
Jay decided to ditch the large hydration pack he was wearing and change his shirt. I handed him his headlamp and held onto a stick of Body Glide lube he handed to me. He was busy looking after details, so I pocketed the Body Glide into my own pack. I was still waiting for my GPS watch to lock in a signal when he said he was ready to leave, so off we went. I got a signal just as we left Camp 10 Bear, so I pressed start to record the run. It was 12 minutes after 7PM.
Let’s run!
The first part of the run was lot like any social trail run I’ve gone on with my local trail running group, although at a pretty slow pace. We ran alongside people on horses for a while, and over some nice downhill singletrack. If the climbs were steep, we’d power-hike up. Jay and I talked for quite a few miles—mostly about how the race had gone thus far for him. I had wanted to learn what ultrarunning was all about first-hand, and this was it. I was getting some great intel.
Jay was very focused on the race and it was fascinating to hear how he managed the race up until this point. Races of distance are about managing the race logistics almost as much as they are about the actual running.
At this point, Jay was managing his nutrition by drinking a mix of Gatorade and water (50/50 with ice), eating some food, like chips and crackers, at aid-stations, and eating gels on an interval signaled by an alarm set on his GPS watch. It’s what was working for him, so he went with it.
It was easy to get the hang of helping him out with this aspect: I’d grab his bottle as we ran into an aid-station, and ask to have it filled, freeing him to eat what he wanted. We’d always roll out quickly. He did not want to linger at aid-stations at all—he was always focused on finishing.
We locked into this routine quickly, and all was going smoothly as the sun set and we switched on our headlamps. Soon we were running through the dark, with the smell of manure in the air, and the surreal scene of the dark trail ahead, dimly dotted with green glow sticks hanging from the trees. “This is what I’ll remember of the Vermont 100", I thought, “—cow shit and glow sticks.”
Jay and I were chatting on and off up until this point, when suddenly, in the middle of a conversation, he fell silent. He wouldn’t speak to me again for a another three hours. He just shut off. That’s when my job became tough.
Running for hours in silence
What do you say to someone who’s been running for 80+ miles to get them to start talking again? I decided, nothing. I’d wait for him to speak when he was ready to. Whatever he was experiencing, I could only vaguely imagine or guess at. I’d trust him to figure out what he needed—including when he needed to speak again. My job was to be there for him, to help him finish the race. I’d make sure he ate and kept running—whether he talked or not.
This left me with some time to think.
Although we’d been running for hours by this point, it was at a slow pace, and I was not anywhere near the point of not being able to think. The hard-packed dirt roads and power-hiking, which I was not used to, was taking a toll on me physically. I was starting to hurt, and after a while, it was all I could think about. The same idea kept popping up in my head, in slightly different permutations:
“My feet hurt because I’m used to running uphill, not walking.”
“I normally run on trails, so hours on the hard-packed dirt roads is making my feet sore.”
“I should have incorporated power-hiking into my training.”
As each of these thoughts popped into my head, I wanted to converse with Jay about them. I wanted to ask how he trained to deal with the inevitable walking/power-hiking that we had fallen into on the uphills. I wanted to ask him how he would handle heat on a 100 mile run. I wanted to ask him anything! I’d think of another question, and then I would remember that he was trying to focus, and I didn’t want to distract him. And so it went—a thought would pop into my head, and I’d catch myself starting to speak, “Oh, —”, and then fall silent.
Eventually, after I did this countless numbers of times, I realized that there was a lot to learn right here in front of me. I could learn from Jay and I could learn from myself within this experience, and without speaking.
Learning lessons
There was a lesson in how Jay was handling the race—he broke it down. Since I began running with him, we’d been concentrating on just getting to the next aid station. And when we got there, we’d work to get out quickly. The 100 mile distance was just too much of a burden to handle in its totality, so, he broke it down into the 4-5 mile stretches between aid stations. Get to the next aid station, then get out quickly.
This sounds so simple, but it has been a powerful lesson for me ever since—in running long distance races myself, and in other parts of my life. When I’m faced with a problem that seems too big for me to handle, I break it down. I ask myself, “What is the next smallest thing I need to do to work on this?”, and then, I do it. The little things add up, and after a while, I begin to see progress. The problem no longer seems intractable.
I taught myself a lesson as well: how to quiet my mind and reflect on my present experience. Every time we rolled into an aid station and there was a buzz of people and activity, I would feel a strong desire to join them—to stop this crazy running and hang out with the amazing volunteers. They were having so much fun! There were lights, and food, and talking! But, I had a job to do, so I got Jay what he needed, and accepted that I had to let those desires go. I was able to practice this over and over again at each aid station. I’d let it go and take in the experience.
And after many cycles of ideas and wanting someone to talk to, it became easier to dismiss those thoughts and simply take in the experience.
And when I did that, I began to really see what we were doing. It was a gorgeous summer night. We ran past fields that were alive with the buzzing of insects and the gentle breeze. Everywhere, it smelled like summer, horses, and Vermont. In the woods, we’d run through sections of trail lined with ferns that seemed alive when illuminated by our bobbing headlamp beams. In the distance, I would catch the massive dark presence of mountains and hills and I would long to explore them—even though I was tired of running. I felt again that feeling I first experienced as a child exploring the woods—that I was part of it all. It made me smile. This was it: I was not competing in this race, but I had already won, because I was here, feeling this, being a part of this. This is what I love about running on trails; a connection to nature and somehow, the past.
Bringing it home
After 6 hours, my GPS watch died. It ran out of battery power, but did automatically save the run before its demise. It didn’t matter much because I knew we’d be running for about two more hours. When Jay finally did start talking again, he apologized for keeping quiet for so long. He explained that he just need to focus. This assured me that I had made the right choice by not distracting him. I wanted to thank him for helping me learn something.
We rolled into Bill’s aid station, which was like another party in a guy named Bill’s barn. It was located at mile 89 of the race and, more importantly, it was where my drop bag was. I located Jay’s first, and got him a chair as he started lubing his feet and changing socks. I changed my shoes and socks as well. The new shoes felt glorious. Jay needed to weigh in at this aid station, so I had a little time to grab some food. I had only been drinking soda and water along the way so far, and had only eaten a couple of gels.
Since we’d been moving at such a slow pace, I did not think about my nutrition as I would in a typical 19 mile trail run. When I smelled the hot food cooking at Bill’s barn, I realized I was really hungry.
There was a stove going with soup, so I grabbed a dixie cup of hot ramen. It tasted like the best thing I had ever eaten. I was enjoying it so much, I almost didn’t notice Jay taking off back down the road. I ran with the ramen in hand, gulping down hot mouthfuls, and threw the cup to the ground like I was at a 5K water stop. It was time to bring this home.
The change of shoes and socks, and warm food energized us both. We began talking about the end of the race and what we’d do after. We pounded out the remaining miles as we had all along—by breaking it down, aid station by aid station. Finally, the trail lit up with glowing containers on either side, marking the end of the course. We crossed the finish line a little after 3AM. Jay had achieved his sub 24 hour goal by finishing the race in 23 hours and 7 minutes.
All around the finish line were groups of people bundled up in coats and sleeping bags, sitting in chairs, waiting for loved ones or friends to cross the finish line. An old timey band was playing softly. People were drinking beers and eating food. It was cool in the early morning hours. I sat for a bit with Jay and after a while, realized how tired I was.
We walked away from the finish line together and made out way toward the big tent. There was a super nice lady acting as a short order cook for the runners that were trickling in. Extra food from aid stations was delivered here and she would whip up whatever you wanted. Jay was ready for some real food and asked for some hot dogs. I thanked Jay for the run and told him I was off to sleep in my car. I would catch up with him later at the big barbecue the race put on before awards in the afternoon. I continued on toward the field where I parked my car. I was glad he completed the race and was feeling human again. I felt like my job was done and I could take care of me now. I was so tired and sore.
I had a fold-out cot and sleeping bag in my car. When I packed them I thought I may setup the cot outside my car and sleep there. It was cool outside and at that point I could not stop shivering, so I climbed into the sleeping bag in the back seat of my car instead with all of my clothes still on. I put on a winter hat, tucked in, and tried to sleep.
The bottoms of my feet felt like someone had been hitting them with a hammer for hours. I was not used to running on hard packed dirt roads. (It was surprising how much of the course was like this.) My feet were so bruised and painful, and I was having so much trouble getting warm, I could not sleep for a long time. I took some ibuprofen and that seemed to help. I awoke about two hours later to the first light of day.
I got out of my car and wandered to the big tent with the hope that I would find coffee there and it would wake me up enough to drive home and get some sleep in my actual bed. There was no coffee to be found in the big tent, so I kept wandering until I got to the finish line again. I don’t know why I went there, but I found there were still small groups of people there, talking quietly, some drinking beers, waiting for runners to finish. The band was gone. I grabbed a seat.
One woman crossed the finish line and her people ran up and took photos of her at the finish. One guy crossed the finish line, went straight to his group of friends, opened a small cooler, pulled out beer, and sat down with them to drink it and celebrate. Then I saw an older runner coming in with his pacer just behind him.
He stopped just short of crossing the finish line. I noticed his pacer backing off behind him and circumventing the threshold of the finish line, moving out of the way. A woman on crutches made her way to the runner and when she got up to him, she embraced him and dropped the crutches to the ground. He scooped her up into his arms and only then did I notice she only had one leg. He took the final steps across the finish line carrying her and crying. She was crying and I was crying too. He said he ran the race for the both of them because she could not run. It was so intense and personal that I felt like I was intruding sitting there witnessing it. It was beautiful.
I drove home and took more ibuprofen. I tried to sleep but couldn’t. I ended up drinking coffee and hanging out in my living room. I was thinking about all that I’d seen and done and it was a lot to process. I tried to explain it to my girlfriend, but I could not express it well, so I thought I should share it with her instead. I asked her to come with me, and we went back to the finish line. We sat there for a while watching the final runners come in; sharing a small part of their amazing, life-changing experience. She took it all in and nodded to me with a knowing smile.
Thanks to Ben Kimball for providing editing and feedback with this story.
