My plan for a 50-miler involved 80 training miles and one handheld bottle.
I had not run an ultra since 2005 or 2006, minus a few 50K training runs with Etan. My longest run in the previous six weeks was a 10-miler to cheer at UAE. Across all six weeks, I had run about 80 miles.
So naturally I spent the first 20 miles of Rock The Ridge bouncing between fifth and twelfth place.
I skipped the running vest because its extra five ounces were obviously going to ruin my shot at the podium. Practicality, comfort and hydration were problems for people who did not line up with victory in mind.
The plan lasted until mile 20.
The foot I had broken at the New York City Half seven weeks earlier was getting tense, and I had started to limp. Six weeks of running on the Alter-G had not made me Superman. It had made me an astronaut, which is a different kind of hero altogether.
By mile 30 I had completed the complicated math. If I wanted to crush an ultra, I should probably run at least three times the race distance during the previous month. Eighty miles was not going to do it.
I was disappointed, then properly miserable. I was not coming back to greatness. Nobody was going to be impressed with my time, especially me. The day was turning into the kind that feels ten times longer than it actually is.
Mile 37 fixed it.
The PPTC volunteers gave me a cup of meat chili and fresh Gatorade. I changed all my clothes, shoes and socks. I put on the vest I had been too fast to carry, added recovery socks, ate a last-minute PB&J and accepted that this was no longer a race.
I was going to wander through the mountains, look at the views and eat as many pretzels and chocolate-covered things as possible.
The final 13 miles were glorious.
I ate all the chocolate, drank flat Coke, stayed dry and listened to Motley Crue, Winger, Whitesnake and other sweet hair metal. I talked with volunteers and high-fived runners who looked like they were having a worse day than me.
At mile 40 I discovered another useful thing: my math at mile 24 had been wrong. I was going to finish about two hours earlier than expected.
I crossed in 9:48:42, 54th out of 354 finishers. So, not the podium. Still a finish.
The PPTC cheer crew was enormous. Sara and Eric handed me two beers and a cheeseburger with all the fixings. It was cooked by a guy with a sweet grullet, which is a gray-haired mullet, and it was the best burger-and-beer combination I could remember.
My foot made it. The Vermont qualifier was done. The vest had been useful after all.