Running the Bighorns is Well Worth the Pain

By Michael Pearlman, 6-23-09

Three days after completing the longest running race of my life, my gait still resembles an arthritic Frankenstein. I stagger slightly when I walk, and bending over and entering or exiting my car still sends shooting pains through my calves and quads. My soreness suggests I may have slightly undertrained for Saturday’s 30-kilometer event. I’m not concerned though, because the feeling of satisfaction that comes from acheiving my race goal will last a lot longer than the pain in my legs.

To my office full of non-runners, my spastic walking motion reinforces their belief that distance running is masochistic. I tell them it’s not the distance that causes soreness, but the fact that the course loses over 3,000 feet of elevation, giving your legs, knees and hips a pounding. And really, an 18-mile runner pales next to the endurance addicts who smile through the 50-k, 50-mile and 100-mile events at the Bighorn Wild and Scenic Trail Runs. Those are the runs that turn your feet to Swiss cheese and your muscles into puddles of goo. So why am I considering upping the distance next year?

My training approach for this race was completely unscientific. It basically consisted of running four or five miles around Sheridan with Lindsay and the dog two or three times per week after work. During my training, I realized that I find road running boring without music and learned I develop shin splints 20 minutes into every run. I’m not in love with running, I’m in love with moving quickly through the mountains. I’m also addicted to the idea of testing my physical and mental limits.

The winner of the Bighorn 100-mile race, Karl Meltzer of Sandy, Utah, set a new course record with a time of 19 hours, 15 minutes. Meltzer is well-known in ultra-running circles and attempted (unsuccessfully) to break the record for the fastest thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail last summer. On his way to victory, Meltzer spent five minutes playing cat-and-mouse behind a tree with a moose that charged him on the trail. He got kicked in the hand and the leg and still finishing more than two hours ahead of his closest competitor.

That’s hardcore.

While most of the other 100-mile runners were staggering through their 20th hour on the trail, I was stretching my legs and guzzling water along with 200 others at the starting line of the 30-k event. The rest of the competitors were a diverse bunch– some carried trekking poles, others wore sophisticated GPS watches and a few were clad in cotton T-shirts, nervously clutching water bottles. They all had different goals and different reasons for lining up and I was incredibly impressed by the wide range of ages and fitness levels.

I didn’t wear a watch so I wouldn’t obsess over my time or my progress, and planned to push only as hard as my legs would naturally let me. Thirty minutes into the race I realized I was going to have a good day. My legs felt loose and strong and the undulating trail felt perfect underfoot. My shins and ankles felt sturdy, and for the first six miles I felt stronger with each step.

After avoiding mud bogs and hopping creak crossings in a successful effort to keep my feet dry, I reached the steepest climb on the course. While power-walking, I imagined that I was powering up Mount Glory, a peak above Jackson Hole I’ve climbed hundreds of times during past winters. My imaginary Glory hike helped carry me past several runners on the climb, and I soon began the long descent into the wildflowers of Tongue River Canyon.

I let my legs go faster and flew down the trail. When I found myself beginning to think about how great a day I was having, the top of my right shoe caught a small stump protruding from the side of the trail. I pirouetted onto my left leg and hung in the air in what felt like slow-motion before regaining my balance. A stern reality check that the race was far from over.

The bottoms of my feet began to sting as I pressed forward and I could feel blisters developing as I struggled to slow my downhill momentum. With no other runners to pace me, I plugged on alone through the lower canyon, feeling my face flush with the rising temperatures as I reached the dirt road and aid station six miles from the finish line.

The final stretch felt like an endless treadmill and over the next mile my legs began to scream. My gait shortened and the muscles in my legs began tightening. With less than a mile remaining, I rounded a corner to see Lindsay and our dog Neve cheering me on. I grimaced and pressed on to the finish line, where I staggered to the edge of the nearby river to soak my feet. I finished 20 minutes faster than my personal goal and even earned an award for placing third in my age division.

It’s easy for most of us to avoid challenging ourselves with physical tests that measure our fitness. No one likes to feel out-of-shape or beaten down. But the satisfaction of racing success, no matter how modest, is a powerful force that helps strengthen my resolve and makes me feel good to be alive. I’ve now got my sights set on a half-marathon in late September. It’s a road race that would allow me to qualify for a different trail race next summer. For some reason, endurance athletes find it easy to forget pain and suffering when looking towards the next challenge.

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