“If Keith doesn't think I'm near death, I am not allowed to quit.”
That was the last rule on my crew sheet for the Vermont 100.
The next line was more useful: “Don't be a jerk, but don't let me do it. Just give me food.”
The rest of the page was a checklist for every stop. Have cold drinks ready. Refill the ice and water. Check for sunburn. Swap the neck bandanna. Write down my exit time, recalculate the pace, and make a plan for the next stop. Update Facebook or text my mom.
One hundred miles had somehow turned into handwritten operations.
The week around it looked normal right until it didn't. I was still at Aaptiv, getting a founder through the lobby and up to the 49th floor for a meeting. I was answering construction emails for the loft. I was also helping coach Prospect Park Track Club's marathon training group. One runner wanted more volume, so I told him to add easy miles and longer warmups as long as he still hit the couple of quality workouts each week.
I was giving normal running advice while preparing to do something very abnormal.
A few days before the race, I forwarded the final route information to Amanda and the rest of the crew. The directions into the start were unusually specific because of road closures. I called the whole thing “VT country road party time.”
The 2019 Vermont 100 started at 4 a.m. Saturday. The course ran over Vermont dirt roads and horse trails, with enough climbing that the aid-station math mattered. The crew needed to know where I was, when I had left, and whether I was still making sense.
Amanda came with me. By Friday afternoon we were standing under a banner that said “WELCOME! 100 MILERS!” I was smiling because the race had not started yet.
The handwritten sheet was ready. The food was ready. Everybody understood the rule.
I could quit if I was near death. Otherwise, I was getting something to eat.