Heartland: Big Questions and My Journey Back To 100 Miles

Preamble

A lot has happened since the last time I ran 100 miles, back in 2013. In that 6 year stretch, I've been fast, I've been slow, I've been busy, I've been injured, and I've been injured some more. I remember referring to 2013 as "The Year Of The Ultra" because I did three 50Ks, Brew To Brew solo, a 100K, and my first 100 miler at Ozark Trail. I wanted equally catchy and succinct nicknames for all the years between then and now, so I came up with the following: 2014: "The Year I Was Really Fast", 2015: "The Year I Diagnosed My Depression", 2016: "The Year I Raised a Bunch Of Money And Met My Wife", 2017: "The Year I Was Injured, But Still Did The MR340", and finally 2018: "The Year I Was...Yep...Still Injured".

Ok, they're not all catchy. But two years of being running-injured was more or less a complete bummer, and coming into 2019 I was full of piss and vinegar regarding REALLY wanting to get back to ultrarunning in a big way. Several Big Questions sprang up last year as I settled into my 2nd straight season of nursing a nagging ankle injury: Do I still get to be a runner? Am I done with ultras? Will I ever heal?

These questions and more were posed to Sparkly Fucking Superhero™* Leia Anderson as she agreed to be my running coach. Her solution: Lots of preventative work on my left calf, LOTS of strength training, and a complete ground-up rebuild of my running mileage. We began the work in January, and 39 weeks later, I arrived at the start line of the Heartland 100.

*credit Suzie Stephensen, Facebook thread, October 2019

BUT WAIT...let's back up a bit. Before this year, I had settled on some conclusions about my finish at Ozark Trail 100 and was at peace with them. I had trained decently well, the race was going decently well, then I rolled my ankle really badly and that was that. My decent finish turned into a desperate race against cutoffs as I hobbled my way to the finish line, making it with 25 minutes to spare. What "should have been" a 27-28 hour finish ended after 31 hours, 36 minutes and 12 seconds.

"Should Have Been"...aka "Totally Would Have If I Hadn't Rolled My Ankle"

I have since revisited that conclusion and deemed it complete hogwash nonsense. The entirety of my running mileage in 2013 was 1000 miles. My only long runs that year were the aforementioned ultras. I did no back-to-backs. I did approximately zero hours, zero minutes, and zero seconds of strength training. I remember deciding to taper a few weeks earlier than I had planned because of ankle soreness. And then I had the audacity to be surprised when my ankle exploded around mile 80.

Bringing us to this year. Doing it the right way with a badass, confidence inspiring, no-nonsense, ok-some-nonsense-but-not-much, Sparkly Fucking Superhero™ for a coach. I planned my race season to correspond with my slow mileage build. Trail half-marathon in March, Trail Marathon in April, nothing big for May, 50K in June, and then see where I was at.

I will go ahead and say that the first half of my training season was a struggle. My legs and endurance were great, but shit...my ankles were NOT along for the ride. Every run or race longer than 15 miles turned into Hot Garbage because my ankles were so unstable that even slight fatigue would render them worthless. Even though my legs would still be good to go, having non-functional ankles turned running into a sort-of zombie shamble situation.

I was frustrated and worried, and started asking the Big Questions again, and every time Leia would talk me off the ledge and reassure me that everything would get better. Every long run, every one of my races, I kept experiencing this issue. That's when I arrived at War Eagle 50K, what would be my first ultramarathon in over 2 years. Would the ankles hold?



They would not hold. Aside from a short struggle with sodium levels, my race was going perfectly, and then around mile 13, my ankles once again checked out for the day. I shambled up to the cutoff to start my 2nd loop, where the race official informed me that to continue I'd have to maintain at least a 15 min/mile pace. Knowing I could not do so, I held my chin up, took the DNF, and hiked it in to the finish line. Maybe this was the answer to my Big Question. No more ultras after all?

But wait there's more(obviously, you already know I did the thing). While I was disappointed and still worried about my ultra career being over, I wasn't done fighting. I spent the next several weeks with renewed resolve, now realizing how badly I really needed to focus on ankle strength. 3-4 times a week, I would sit with my resistance bands and work every range of motion in both ankles. I signed up for a redemption 50K at Night Hawk later that month. I decided that I would try my hardest to get the 3 loops done, but I would be at peace with 2 loops if that's what my ankles decided.

Well, it worked. The added ankle strength work not only saw me through 3 loops of hot, humid, slippery, White Trail Nightmare, but it even saw me literally SPRINT the last half mile fueled only by the jubilation of a fully functioning body. I could not remember the last time I had ever been able to sprint at the end of an ultra(foooooreshadowing!!!!). Maybe it had never happened? Maybe ankle strength was The Thing that I've been missing this entire time?

Whatever the case may be, with some Big Questions answered for the time being, 100 miles was now in the conversation. Not definitely, but possibly. Next on the horizon was the Katy Trail 100K, which went really well aside from some late calf issues and being kinda wrecked for 3-4 days afterwards. Read the race report if you're interested in the details.

So there I was...one final mileage push, taper, and then Heartland. Keep in mind, I still hadn't even signed up for the damn race. Between my nemesis ankle/calf and some weird left knee pain/hamstring tightness I was absolutely paranoid that I would drop $200 on race entry only to have something flare up at the last minute and ruin my life. Everything would hinge on Ogg.

I Double Ogg Dare You...just over 2 weeks out from Heartland. A six-hour slog of hill repeats on the meanest hill in town, Ogg Road. If this went well, I would finally bite the bullet and sign up, sealing the deal on a goal I have had for years. Not only running another 100 miler, but running it WELL. I didn't want to limp in with barely minutes left to spare. I didn't want a trainwreck to cross the finish line. I wanted a good race, start to finish. Not just to redeem the skin-of-my-teeth finish at Ozark Trail, but I wanted to bury it deep and leave no doubts that this time, I did it right.

Anyways...Ogg went fantastically. I completed 27.5 miles of hill repeats in 6 hours and even had energy to spare allowing me to run the entire hill on my 2nd to last repeat, and time to spare for an extended soak in the creek on my final repeat. And even more energy to spare after I finished to run back down the hill so I could yell at Katie as she finished her 50K lap with less than 20 seconds to spare.

So I signed up for Heartland. Which brings us to...

<drumroll, I guess?>

The Actual Race Report

I caught a ride down to Cassoday, KS with crew member Brandy, passing the time singing along to old sad country music, the kind they don't write anymore. At some point, when country musicians traded their whiskey for beer, their trains for trucks, and their prison laments for girls in boots and American flags, they lost something sacred that they'll never get back. We'll never have country musicians like Willie, Waylon, Merle, George, Hank, or Johnny ever again.

But I digress...

I arrived in Cassoday, KS with every box checked. 1100 training miles in the bank, plenty of strength work, nutrition tested, retested, and confirmed good-to-go, and a pace chart for a sub-24 finish because Why The Fuck Not? I worked hard, I may as well try for some style points! I also had battle-hardened veteran crew members Janee and Brandy, as well as experienced pacers Matty(mile 57-75) and Ashley(75-100). You may remember that Matty paced me for the last 20 miles of my first 100K back in 2013, and Ashley knew the course really well from her crush-tastic 23 hour, 2nd place female finish last year.

I checked in, picked up my packet, and chatted with some other racers, including my Sparkly Fucking Superhero™ coach who, when I asked what her time goal was, said, "I'd be happy with a sub-24".

This is funny because we know what actually happened. 

Anyways...we head to the hotel in Wichita, get drop bags sorted and packed, clothes and gear ready for the morning and I hit the sack. As is tradition, instead of sleeping I spent the next 8 hours thrashing around in bed, dreaming about waking up and getting ready, waking up, looking at the clock, thrashing around in bed, etc etc...until it was finally actually time to get ready. I get ready, we pack up the car, and head back to Cassoday.

It's COLD at the race start, so I've got plenty of layers and somebody's blanket to hide under until it's time to start running.

Not looking nervous or freaked out at all. 

Final check-in happens, somebody does some counting and then it begins.

I start shuffling forward with the pack. Everything feels good. My pacing chart tells me to keep it in the 12's, so that's what I do. And within a mile, I'm at the very back of the pack, maybe ahead of 1 or 2 runners. Not to worry, that's exactly how Katy Trail 100K started and that worked out JUST FINE, thank you very much. I yo-yo'd a bit with Pat, but he pulled ahead at some point. Or so I thought. I didn't see him again for a long time. The sun still wasn't up as I came to the first aid station, Battle Creek at mile 8. I asked if they had anything warm, they said no, and I moved on without stopping. The next stretch from Battle Creek to Lapland was one of the hilliest on the course, but with fresh legs and so much beauty to behold, I barely noticed. As the horizon began to glow a fiery orange, you could see for miles. On a distant ridge, silhouetted by the impending sunrise, I saw a small group of horses. And then suddenly they were sprinting across the ridge as I hummed the theme to "The Man From Snowy River" in my head and imagined them to be The Brumbys. If you haven't seen it, I'll save you the Google search and just tell you that The Brumbys were a group of wild horses in the film.

Anyways, the sun rises, it's amazing and beautiful, and then we crest This Hill from which we can see Damn Near Everything. 

Mile 90 Photography

Yes, I even got to run with Libbie for a short spell, as she was on her way to mercilessly crushing her first 50 miler! I've only run with her a handful of times previously and must say she is delightful company. On this morning, however, I was not feeling particularly talkative. I was in a strange head-space for a good chunk of the first half of this race. Not necessarily a bad mood, just...I don't know. I was really focused on the task at hand and my thoughts were uncharacteristically present in the moment and in the landscape. There was nothing to look at, but that nothing was everywhere. I spent a lot of time trying to think of good words to describe it and never really was able to latch onto the right ones.

At mile 16, I came into the first crewed aid station, Lapland, and I was right on the money timewise! My crew had a table set up and had laid out all of the food options that I had decided upon during my race planning. I had sweet stuff, salty stuff, savory stuff, fresh fruit, candy, and some ginger beer to settle the stomach. I had been running with a bag of Cheese-Its for the first stretch, and unlike Real Life where I can inhale Cheese-Its with reckless abandon, for some reason munching on them during the first 16 miles had given me a case of the yucks. So I ditched the Cheese-Its and exchanged them for some fresh fruit. And oddly enough, for the first 12 or so hours, fresh fruit was the ONLY thing that sounded good, so that's more or less what I stuck with.

Candid shot of me nomming on my way out of Lapland.

I spent a few minutes at the aid station and ditched a layer, but was out and back on the road before too long, and I would be able to make up that time over the next stretch to the Mile 25 aid station, Teterville. I don't remember a ton from this stretch aside from vague impressions of the landscape, a guy I chatted with for a mile or so who was struggling a bit early on, and passing 50 milers on their return journey to the finish line. Katie and Libbie both got big hugs and were both looking rock solid and happy.

Teterville aid station had some friendly faces volunteering, as well as my amazing crew once again setting up shop for my own personal food table.

THAT'S service!

I got filled up, fooded up, and booted out, though I will admit that I spent 9 minutes at that aid station. I was still feeling pretty solid, but I knew I would not be able to make up that time in the coming miles. Although 24 hours was something I really wanted to shoot for, it wasn't a huge priority, and it was at this point in the race when I started to sense that it probably wasn't likely. It was a small disappointment, but also quite liberating as I could now relax a little bit and just let my body decide how it wanted to run the rest of the race rather than obsessing over splits.

Not that I wasn't already enjoying the course, but the next few stretches were by far some of the most enjoyable of the entire course. It was hilly and difficult running, but THE VIEWS...seriously the views. Rolling green hills that stretched into infinity, in every direction, with random herds of cattle, the occasional pond, and no other evidence of humanity to be seen aside from the simple gravel road I was traversing. 

I took some lousy pictures of the landscape. 

I got back into the mindset of trying to find a good word that would appropriately convey this place. This expanse of nothing and everything. Barren...kind of, but not really. It was a place actually full of life, just not human life. Inhospitable...sure, but not quite the right feel. Desolate...getting closer. Stark...pretty good. Severe...good under the right connotation. Austere...ooh I like that one, but it didn't occur to me until just now when I had the luxury of the internet to make sure it meant what I thought it meant in this context. So I think the best way I can describe the landscape is austere and severe.

Rick took some non-lousy pictures of the landscape. And I'm in some of them. 

Yes, the stretch between Teterville, through Texaco Hill (mile 31) and finishing at Ridgeline (mile 36) was simply beautiful. Surrounded by this vast expanse of haunting, harsh(OOH more good words) but utterly breathtaking scenery, I continue ticking off the miles and marveling at this place. At one point, I saw a herd of 20-30 cattle running towards the road, and maybe 20 yards ahead of me, they rumble across. I had quickly grabbed my phone and "recorded" the event. After they had crossed the road and were sufficiently far away, I looked down to hit the Stop button on the video, at which point it *actually* began recording, leaving me with a 2 second video of the ground and me saying, "Aw crap".

I haven't mentioned this before, but my plan was to listen to music between mile 25 and mile 57 when I picked up my first pacer. I had a really solid playlist compiled and was looking forward to that intangible X-Factor music boost that I have often relied upon in tough ultras. I only stuck with the tunes for about 15 miles, just a little ways past Ridgeline, because at a certain point, I got tired of it. I was still moving really well, my mood wasn't suffering, and I kinda just wanted to be present and aware, so I ditched the headphones and didn't take them back out again.

Ridgeline aid station was staffed by some more friendly faces, Gary, Sherrie, Wes, Shonda, and others. Their food was amazing and my crew was still kicking ass. I stopped paying attention to my stop times and just got what I needed. I headed back out onto the road towards Matfield Green at mile 42, the last crewed aid station before the turnaround, which I would SUPPOSEDLY hit again at mile 57. WHY SUPPOSEDLY!!?!?? Well, I'll tell you allll about that shit soon enough, don't you worry.

Ben Holmes of the Trail Nerds was captaining Matfield Green, which was just across the highway. We crossed one bridge to get to it, then crossed another bridge to continue towards the turnaround. The 2nd bridge was somewhat under construction, but it was really just a matter of dodging some equipment and watching your step on the more-or-less-intact-and-fully-functional bridge. I got good food at Matfield Green, picked up my headlamp just in case, and after getting everything filled and I was good-to-go...the exact moment I paused and realized I was indeed good-to-go, Coleen(another Sparkly Fucking Superhero™ who was crewing and pacing for Leia) looked at me and said, "OK BYE!" at which point I got the hell out of there. You do NOT argue with that mouthy half-pint. Not once, not never. 

The next 7 mile stretch had some long slow climbs, the delightful experience of passing Leia coming the other way (she was in 3rd place and would eventually win, obviously), and after passing some impressive looking radio/cell towers, crested a hill and turned onto the road which would lead us to the Turnaround aid station, Lone Tree. The next few miles, I felt like new life had been breathed into me. I was FLYING. Splits were back to matching my original race plan, I was making up time, I was passing folks, and I was feeling amazing. I started to revisit the idea of a sub-24 finish. Maybe if this kept up I could claw back enough time to make a heroic push at the end and make it happen!

I followed a long spiraling downhill, eyes constantly on the lookout for the namesake Lone Tree that would indicate I had indeed arrived at Lone Tree aid station. I didn't see one. Apparently that's the joke. There is no tree. I arrived at the aid station, not a tree in sight, and noticed that they did have a 2 foot tall fake christmas tree(which had blown over in the wind), but apparently they didn't even have that in previous years. Whatever, funny joke, I get it. I switched out my base layer, did some "chafe prevention" which is a more genteel way of saying "put vaseline in my butt crack" and asked about food options. They had potato soup and hot ham and cheese sandwiches. The soup was absolutely Live-Giving and the sandwich was also fantastic, which I ate as I hiked back up the hill and past the halfway point of this journey.

Back to running...remember how I thought sub-24 was still possible? Turns out I had this amazing tailwind and I was running downhill that whole time. Which I realized right aboooout NOW as I was struggling my way uphill face-first into this ridiculous unrelenting headwind. The kind you have to leeaaan into just to stay upright. So just forget about that stuff I said before.

All told, I was still moving really well and still occasionally passing people. From the radio/cell towers, it was mostly downhill all the way back to Matfield Green, which I was especially looking forward to because I remembered the food Ben had there, I would be picking up Matty to pace, and with the sun dipping low in the sky, I would very soon be in need of an extra layer, beanie, and gloves.

Truckin' back towards Matfield Green

A little while later, when I was a couple miles out from the aid station, I passed a guy going the wrong way. He was most certainly ahead of me, as he had passed me earlier after he hit the turnaround. But here he was, going in the direction of Lone Tree once more. As he approached, not really knowing what else to think, I asked him, "Getting in some bonus miles?", to which he replied, "Nah, they closed the bridge. You gotta run all the way down there and give them your number and then come back."

I've gotta WHAT? Over the course of about 2 seconds, my brain panicked, was confused, raged in blinding anger, and then calmed itself. Like....TURN IN my number, like...as in....I'm done? I hadn't considered a situation where they would just close part of the course mid-race. That made NO sense. Surely I had misunderstood. But the next person to pass me gave the same story...Kansas Turnpike Authority, apparently after hemming and hawing all day, decided to close the damned bridge right then and there. We apparently were to run all the way back to the bridge, tell our number to a volunteer manning an impromptu aid station featuring only water and gatorade, and then turn right back around and head back towards the turnaround, then follow an emergency reroute which they came up with on the fly.

I almost got mad. But then I thought to myself, "You do ultras. You do hard things. You do things that are unpleasant. Just fucking deal with it." So I continued towards the NOT aid station to NOT get delicious soup, to NOT pick up my pacer, and to NOT have an extra layer, beanie and gloves for the next ¿whothefuckknows? miles.

But then fortune smiled upon me. My crew, being the awesome badasses that they are, were on top of the situation and had already planned ahead, sneaking Matty across the bridge with the exact articles of clothing that I required for the next stretch. They even sent some extra food with him. So now, having warm clothes, a full hydration pack, and an awesome pacer, we set off on the course reroute just as the sun was setting, howling at the rising moon as we went.

The bridge debacle wasn't a huge disaster, but it definitely put a bit of a hiccup in my day and for a few miles, it was hard to get a rhythm going. We found the correct turn for the reroute(there was only one turn, so it was pretty straightforward) and the temperature quickly dropped. My legs couldn't sustain long running efforts at this point, but hiking would cause me to get cold pretty quickly, so we focused on keeping me moving and warm to the best of our ability.

Sidebar: For some reason, when I ask people to pace for me, or when I agree to pace others, I am always SO paranoid that I won't be able to think of anything to talk about. But it's always fine. Matty is a great guy, an interesting dude, and we had plenty to talk about to fill the hours we spent together.

Matty brought me back through Ridgeline, my first real aid station in 14 miles, and first time seeing my crew in over 20 miles. They got me taken care of, warmed up, fed(I absolutely devoured some bacon and quesadillas) and got me back on my feet and out the door. The next stretch back through Texaco Hill and ending at Teterville was not particularly fast, as the bottoms of my feet were really starting to hurt and I was in between my every-6-hour Tylenol doses. I ran what I could in the hilly terrain, but did a lot of power-hiking in between. Highlights include the exceptionally bright and nearly full moon, hearing packs of coyotes hunting poor little furry things far away, and then again not so far away. Matty informed me that he had learned firsthand that mountain lions sound exactly like a screaming woman. Which gives me the heebie-jeebies in a big way. Luckily, no screaming women, but we did start to hear the telltale squeak of the oil derrick that gave Texaco Hill aid station its namesake.

At this point, it was Not-Fucking-Around cold, and I didn't want to stop long. I didn't even want to sit down for fear that my legs and everything attached to them(namely, my all-of-me) would lock up. But we stepped inside the warmth of the cramped aid station tent and I decided that I did need to get off of my feet, at least for a little while. The dude I had passed earlier who was the first to inform me of the bridge situation was sitting in there as well and had just made the decision to quit and take a DNF. He was much older, had numerous 100 mile finishes to his name, and his back was just done for. He kinda sounded like maybe he was done with 100s forever, but who knows.

I felt grateful for the strength I had left and begrudgingly got back on my feet after eating some hot ramen. We ventured back out into the cold, and got straight to work getting the blood and warmth flowing again with some good stretches of running. I don't remember much else from that stretch aside from loudly discussing the gun debate and several other hot button political topics, always taking the side of the argument that the folks living 'round these parts would most definitely take issue with. Luckily, they were all miles away and asleep and we could rant and rave to our hearts content. A long downhill led to the last turn towards Teterville, and our time together was at an end.

At the Teterville aid station, there was no "in the tent" option and no "sitting" option. I was relieved to not have to make such difficult choices as my crew got me fed and refilled, and before I knew it, Ashley and I were running off into the darkness. I confided in her that my "run" was really only a "shuffle" at this point, and I'm pretty sure she more or less refrained from using the word "run" for a good chunk of the rest of the race.

Once more, great conversation was to be had with my pacer, though I will admit she was a bit more of a whip-cracker than Matty had been, and for good reason. The real meat of the race was at hand. The last 25 miles...no planning left, no conserving, no decision making...whatever you've got left, you just put it on the table and see where it gets you. Ashley would let me hike stretches, but she would make sure I was either eating or drinking when I did it. And before long, she'd be right back on the whip, "Hey, you wanna try some shuffling for a bit?", I'd say yes, and off we'd go. She never had to convince me to run, all I needed was a reminder to move. There were stretches where hiking was actually the faster option, and in those cases, we'd hike.

At this point, my appetite for water and food of any variety was basically gone. I wanted nothing, but she kept my race from falling apart by making me eat and regularly reminding me to drink. As we approached Lapland, I remembered what the next stretch of the course was going to be like. Hilly, steep, and relentless. I remembered that hill from early in the race where you could literally see the road continue on for miles. Knowing that I'd have that and many other hills to contend with was a daunting thought. But once again, in and out of the aid station, final water refill, some hot food, and a few bags of food for the road, and we were off for the last 16 miles.

Lapland to Battle Creek...it was worse than I remembered. Stretches of shuffling were short. We hiked a LOT. But Ashley kept me on task. Hike break, eat, drink, recover a bit, time to shuffle again. Over and over, we'd run this cycle. And slowly the worst miles of the course ticked away. Knowing that it was flat and slightly downhill after Battle Creek was all the incentive I needed to put this section in the rearview mirror. Every time we hit a long uphill, I became certain that THIS was the hill that went on forever. Then it wasn't. It was the NEXT hill. Nope. And so on and so forth.

We finally did hit That Hill, and shortly after that I knew we'd be at Battle Creek. I once again didn't want to stop because despite all the hiking, I was moving steadily and had a rhythm going. I hiked past the aid station as Ashley grabbed a cup of ramen, which I slurped down over the course of the final big hill leaving Battle Creek. 8 miles left. I could feel the magnetic allure of the finish line pulling me forward with every step. My feet were hurting so bad, but there was no tylenol left, no more tricks up my sleeve. It will never not hurt at this point in a 100 miler, so with the hills done with, I put my head down and began shuffling. Some time passed. Some more time passed. A lot of time passed. At some point, I stopped for a hike break and Ashley commended me on a great stretch of running. It had hurt, but I didn't quite remember it hurting.

Normally I would run until it hurt badly enough to need to stop. But this time was different. It had hurt badly enough to stop the entire time, but I had somehow just done it anyways, for several minutes. I told Ashley that I was pretty sure I had just had an out-of-body experience. And then I did it again. Somehow I was able to Jedi Mind Trick myself out of fully experiencing the pain just by shutting down what I am sure is a very important part of my brain, but there I was, head down, brain off, and numbly running for what felt like indefinite stretches. The moon, which I had watched rise earlier that night, was beginning to set as dawn approached. The road we were running on went through a small grove of trees, and the moon set directly down the middle of that gap in the trees. It felt magical.

This entire time, I've been counting down the miles one by one, relishing in each small milestone closer to the end of my journey. We arrived at 97 miles, and with some quick and easy math, I realized that if I could keep my splits faster than 20 min/mile, I could finish sub-26. Since abandoning hope of a sub-24, I hadn't given a single thought to any particular time goal. Now that 26 hours was within the realm of possibility with a bit of fight needed make it happen, it was the only thing I cared about. I turned on the shuffle gears and didn't look back.

Mile 98 came in just over 17 minutes. I didn't stop running. Mile 99 was 16:30ish. I didn't stop running. Mile 100 was moving around a 16:20 pace, but I began to worry...I still couldn't see the final road we would turn on to lead us to the finish line, and I knew it was at least half a mile once we hit that turn. We finished that mile and we still weren't on the road, but we could at least see it. The sun was rising at our backs as we finally made the turn onto asphalt and looking at my watch, we had right around 8 minutes to cover whatever that final distance was. I still had not stopped running except briefly to pee a few miles back, but I also knew that my shuffle was not going to cut it.

So I began actually running. 7 minutes left. A little faster. 6 minutes. Damn shit, why aren't we there yet? 5 minutes. I CAN LITERALLY SEE THE FINISH LINE BUT WE'RE NOT GETTING ANY CLOSER. 4 minutes. Huffing, puffing, arms pumping, legs screaming, brain screaming, MOVE YOUR ASS! Random dogs with really mean sounding barks come streaking towards us from a yard to our right. Ok, now they're in the road. Ashley is yelling at them. I'm yelling at them. She fends one off, the other comes right at me...sniffs my butt...stops chasing me. 3 MINUTES! I have left Ashley to fend for herself. Or maybe she's still right there with me? I have no idea, as I've got finish line tunnel-vision. 2 MINUTES! HOLY HELL IT'S RIGHT THERE! Cross the train tracks, I'm hauling ass. ONE MINUTE! GO GO GO! Slight right turn, cross a road, 30 SECONDS, that's it...

...I am now in a dead fucking sprint in a race against the clock. At the end of a 100 miler. Something I never thought I'd be capable of doing. It ended up being an additional 0.86 miles.

I make my final left turn into the community center parking lot and power across the line, gasping for breath, hands on my knees, vision swimming, delirious brain wondering what the fuuuuck just happened.

I just finished the Heartland 100 in 25:59:45, THAT's what the fuck just happened. I start to laugh. Then I start to laugh-cry at the ridiculousness of it all. Then I am engulfed in hugs from my crew as I transition into a full-blown ugly cry at the weight and enormity of it all. Not just the relief of being done. Not just the elation of an amazing race. Not just the exhilaration of an amazing experience. Not just having some Big Questions answered once and for all. Not just the bottomless well of gratitude towards my crew, my pacers, my Sparkly Fucking Superhero™ coach, the volunteers, my amazing running community, and just to the world in general. All of that...every single thing flooded and overflowed me in that moment, and I broke.

Overwhelmed is the word.

And then Coleen held up her phone and I was face-timing with Leia. She was crying, having just watched me finish, then I was crying even harder.

As I began to gather myself back into one piece, I was just god-damn glowing. The next few hours passed by in a haze of sublime satisfaction. My crew helped me out of my shoes and socks, into some dry warm clothes. Somebody went for donuts, somebody else went for some breakfast food. I laid down in a cot for a little bit, but I'm pretty sure I didn't actually sleep. It was just nice to lay down.

I basked in the glow of a fantastic race finish for a few more hours and watched a few more finishers, including Pat who it turns out was actually behind me that entire time, and who gained revenge on his Hawk 100 DNF with a solid finish, earning his first belt buckle and a big shit eating grin! We then loaded up the car, said our goodbyes, and I slept most of the ride home. I arrived home in the afternoon to a proud wife, lots of hugs and kisses, a small bite to eat, and then I happily slept until the next morning.

Fin

Epilogue

Since finishing this race 10 days ago, I've talked with a handful of people, including my coach(who just happened to finish 1st female and 5th overall with a BLAZING sub-21 finish) about the phenomenon of "imposter syndrome", where we essentially devalue our own accomplishments and rob ourselves of some or all of the satisfaction we might otherwise have from achieving great things. Throughout my life, especially my athletic career, I have been absolutely notorious for doing this to myself. Even before I realized it was a thing I shouldn't be doing, it was such an ingrained habit that I assumed it was normal. First half marathon? (Meh, lots of people can do that. You're not special.) Marathon? (Yawn, wasn't that hard I guess. I should try for a REAL challenge.) Ironman? (Geez, I thought it was hard, but as it turns out, apparently any old schmuck like myself can muster their way through one of these things.) This was the pattern for so long. I actually was able to shake the tendency for my first 100 mile finish, simply because I couldn't think of a single thing to do that was longer or harder, but it turns out I just wasn't being imaginative enough.

As I've negotiated my 30's I've learned a lot about myself. A lot about my mental health especially. Being depressed and suffering is one thing, but once you identify and name that depression for what it is, that's when you can do something about it. A decade ago, I didn't know what "imposter syndrome" was, and as a result, I had no avenue to address the problem.

Then I read a short anecdote by author Neil Gaiman in which he describes being at "a gathering of great and good people: artists and scientists, writers and discoverers of things" and feeling like he was unworthy to be in the presence of such esteemed and accomplished individuals. He then describes running into another gentleman named Neil, who also shared his feeling of unworthiness. That Neil, however, happened to be the first man to ever walk on the moon.

"And I felt a bit better. Because if Neil Armstrong felt like an imposter, maybe everyone did. Maybe there weren’t any grown-ups, only people who had worked hard and also got lucky and were slightly out of their depth, all of us doing the best job we could, which is all we can really hope for."

When I realized that, aside from certain presidents, maybe this is one of those universal experiences, that we all feel inadequate and unworthy of esteem and admiration, no matter what great and mighty things we have accomplished.

So now that it has a name, I can fight it.

When I think about my finish at Heartland 100, on paper it looks like I shaved nearly 6 hours off of my previous PR. (Yeah, but it was a much easier course. That's to be expected.) I finished in a dead sprint, upright, with a smile on my face. (Well, duh. You had a coach this time around, you're gonna have better results with a coach.) Instead of being absolutely wrecked for a full week, I was up on my feet THE VERY NEXT DAY and went for a short hike out at Shawnee Mission Park. I was out running again two days after that. (Well, yeah...but...it's only because...you....um...worked really...hard and...like...dedicated yourself to achieving this goal for like...almost 40 weeks...running through knee deep snowdrifts in the winter, through 6 hour long runs and back-to-backs in the brutal heat of the summer...and endless hill repeats...and SO much time in the gym working on your core and stability and AH FUCK IT YOU'RE AWESOME ARE YOU HAPPY?) Yes...I am happy. Thank you! 

At a certain point, if you push it to these inescapable truths, your inner monologue will have to come to the conclusion that you're a fucking rock-star and that you deserve every god-damned thing you earned with your blood, sweat, and tears.

The Sparkly Fucking Superhero™ coaches at Team Sparkle Productions spell it out perfectly in their slogan. "It's Not Luck, We Train For This"

I trained hard for this race, planned it well, executed it to near perfection, and finished better than I could have hoped for.

I earned this and I deserve to feel satisfaction for all of my hard work. So shall it be written, so shall it be done, Imperius Rex!

Thanks for reading and I'll see you at the next race!
Danny Loental

Katy Trail 100K

This race was something I stumbled upon looking for a long race to prepare for Heartland 100. It was the same day as The Hawk, which made me sad, but it was much more geared towards my goals. I did NOT need 50 miles of White Trail Nightmare. I DID need 50-60 miles of gravel grinding. My distance options were 50K, 50M, or 100K. The 100K had a cool belt buckle, so the decision was made.

Coming into this weekend, I had a bit of left knee pain, which I rested and had worked on by good ol' Dr. Wisner. I was pretty confident in my training and in my plan to cut my race short and take the DNF if the knee caused any sharp, persistent pain or caused me to alter my stride in any way. Limping for 62 miles would cause more trouble than it's worth.

The Plan

The race plan was simple, I intended to start out at an easy 12 min/mile pace and expected to gradually slow down, eventually finishing between 13 and 14 hours with a 13-14 min/mile average pace. Nutrition plan was to alternate Huma gels and orange wedges every 30 mins, 2 S-caps every half hour, and grab fruit and salty stuff at aid stations as needed. I also had some ginger beer in my drop bags which I could get to at mile 17, 33, and 47. I brought a fresh shirt and pair of socks for the halfway mark. My ice bandana and sun sleeves were packed in my hydration vest pockets for use when the sun came out and it started to warm up.

Obligatory pre-race gear layout because duh

I mentally divided the race up into 4 stretches. The first 10-15 miles would be run conservatively with forced walk breaks to keep me from going out too fast. After the first turnaround in Bernheimer, I expected the toughest stretch to be mile 17-33 as the day warmed up and I had to settle in and start grinding. I planned to get out the headphones to carry me through 33-47, and then my pacer, Delaware, would meet me at mile 47 for the last 15 miles of my day.

What Actually Happened

Effectively, my result was exactly as I planned, though I accomplished it in a way I did not expect. As planned, my first 10 miles were pinned exactly at 12  min/mile. This did put me at the very back of the pack of 17 runners, which bothered me some, but I also knew I was going to run MY race regardless of what anyone else did. I cruised alongside the 2nd to last place runner for a while, but even she eventually dropped me, putting me ahead of only one other runner. My only complaint with this stretch was that my stomach felt mildly upset the entire time. The oranges went down really well, but the Huma gels did not. I have been noticing this more and more, sadly. I really love the idea of Huma gels, but they are becoming less and less palatable, and I'm noticing that more often than not, they are gut bombs that leave me painfully gassy and make eating in general unpleasant.  Two hours and two gels into my day, I abandoned them completely, switching to oranges every 30 minutes and supplementing with aid station fruit(grapes mostly). The ginger beers and Tums in my drop bags resolved my tummy issues and I was fine the rest of the day.

At the turnaround, I wasn't particularly efficient with my time, and the aid station workers fumbled and struggled opening, filling, and closing my hydration pack, so I basically ended up doing a lot of that work myself, losing a decent chunk of time. BUT, they were super friendly and were doing their best. I need to look into new hydration bladders that aren't a pain in the ass to open and close. Any recommendations?

The thumbs are lies.

 As expected, the 2nd stretch back to where we started was mentally the most challenging. The sun was up, and all the exposed sections of the Katy Trail made themselves known, having been cool and dark my first time through them. I busted out the ice bandana and sun sleeves, keeping them both full of ice for the remainder of the day. My target pace for this stretch was 12:30-13:00 min/mile, and I did a decent job of maintaining that, but my legs were starting to feel the miles. The left knee maintained a dull ache pretty consistently up to this point, but nothing worth stopping over. I was looking forward to the Spotify playlist I had downloaded to my phone for the next stretch, hoping to average 13:00-13:30 for the next 15 miles.

My stop at the start/finish area was once again, fairly inefficient. I refilled everything that needed refilling, drank my ginger beer, and changed my shirt(a new Lululemon tee that the Leawood store manager gave me for free after my 6 hour fatass at #fakeseawheeze2019). I got out my phone, texted an update to Delaware, hit play on the tunes, and headed back out.

The music was an immediate relief from the drudgery of the past 15 miles. I felt mentally light and was distracted enough that I was moving well. At some point during my first mile, I glanced at my watch for a pace check and HOLY SHIT I was dropping an effortless 10:30 min/mile.

Um...ok. I can work with this. I was past 50K and conservation wasn't really a priority. Besides, isn't this why we Don't Go Out Like An Asshole? It's so we can Come Back In Like An Asshole...or something? So yeah...I decided to go with it. Not wanting to be a complete asshole, I decided to shoot for 11:00-11:30 min/mile and just see where that got me, for as long as it lasted.

It lasted for the majority of the next 15 miles, and I started PASSING FOLKS! All that self-doubt and worry of the first 17 miles spent at the back of the pack drifted away in the most satisfying way. Checking on the people I was passing, I'd ask how they were doing and if they needed anything. Mostly they just said they had gone out too fast and were suffering.  A few words of encouragement and a fist bump, and I was on my way, leaving them in the dust. It felt absolutely bonkers amazing to be settling into my best running of the day AFTER THE 50K mark...well past my longest run of the year. And to be fair, the Katy Trail is flatter than pancake flat. But it still felt nice.

Delaware just barely missed me at the last aid station before the turnaround, so he met me at one of the many places where the Katy crosses the highway, joining me less than a mile before the Bernheimer turnaround. I was still cruising pretty well as I put away the music and prepared to be entertained and slave-driven by one of my best friends.

The final turnaround was once again a little funky and inefficient. They struggled with the hydration bladder again, and I forgot to refill my salt caps for the last 15 miles(it was ok, I was able to get some from an aid station to carry me to the end). The rest of the aid station stops went pretty well. Overall, the volunteers were all fantastic...enthusiastic, good-spirited, and extremely helpful. Meghan, the race director was super as well, bouncing around the various aid stations, helping out, and encouraging the runners.

My pace stayed rock solid with Delaware up until the last 6 or 7 miles, when my left calf began to really tighten up and start to hurt. This is the same calf that has been my Problem Area for the past 3 years, requiring constant maintenance ART by Dr. Wisner, so it's really no surprise that it was the first thing to go as I approached the end of my day. I'm just glad it lasted this long.

As the calf got worse, I alternated stretches where power-hiking was legitimately faster than running. Delaware kept me on task, limiting my hiking stretches to 5 minutes apiece before making me try running again. Sometimes, things would feel loose enough that running was economical, and we'd stick with it for a mile or so. Sometimes, the calf was bad enough and running was painful enough to alter my stride and we'd settle back into hiking. He also kept an eye on the horizon for runners to pass. He'd spot somebody up ahead and we'd agree they needed to be behind us, so that provided some good motivation for several unlikely stretches of good running.

Millie waits to greet us at an aid station

Pinkies up for ...buckles?

The last few miles were pretty ugly, involving very little running, and even my power-hike was beginning to suffer. With less than a mile to go, we spotted a group of 3 guys ahead of us on the trail, walking pretty slowly. Delaware convinced me we could pass them, and thinking that if even a couple of them were 100K runners, I might have a chance at a podium. Starting from 2nd to last at the 50K mark, I had passed 10 people...more than half of the field...and since I hadn't really paid attention to the front runners, it seemed a stretch, but not impossible. So the last mile, I sucked it up and ran the rest of the way. We passed them with maybe a quarter mile to go, but they turned out to be 50 milers and a pacer. Oh well...might as well bring it in strong.

But don't bother LOOKING strong. Look like a jackass instead.

One of these things is not like the other.

I finished in 13:42:11, with an average pace of 13:09 min/mile, just about exactly what I planned. And I am so pleased with this effort. My calf felt utterly destroyed though. Walking that evening, and especially the following few days, was a serious challenge and I had real concerns that maybe I was injured and that Heartland 100 was gonna be a bust. Additionally, my left shinbone was swollen in a way that I've never experienced before, so my brain immediately self-diagnosed it as The Dreaded Shin Splints and my racing season was over. That got me into some pretty dark places in my head, but some words of encouragement from Leia and an official "Everything Is Fine" from Dr. Wisner on Tuesday really put my mind at ease. The calf is still tight, but I can walk normally and I'm told everything should feel back to normal by the weekend. I'm enjoying an easy, worry-free week and looking forward to spending the weekend in Colorado with my lovely wife for our anniversary!

Laughing like a damned idiot

First buckle in over 4 years!

Thanks for reading!

MR340: A Very Hard Thing

Thursday April 16th, 2015...the last time I published a race report. Almost 870 days ago. In that time I've done lots of races. Small races. Big races. Ultramarathons, triathlons, and some randos like a run/kayak biathlon in Arkansas. I even started writing race reports for Ironman Canada and the biathlon, as well as an attempted write up of the amazing experience of pacing Brandy Holey through her first 100 miler.

Needless to say, none of these reports were completed. I have always insisted that if I didn't have a compelling story to tell, I would not write. For all of my race reports, I tried as much as possible to include as much rich detail, personal reflection, and even sometimes an explanation of how an event had changed me. But what I found when I was attempting to write about some of these things was that I had more or less seen and done them already(well...I really should have finished the one about pacing Brandy...it was incredible).

For example: Ironman Canada could honestly be summed up like this: "I did an Ironman with bronchitis and it went about as poorly as you would expect. My brother did well though. And I almost saw a bear."

That's kinda it. There's a lot more detail to what happened that day, but it just didn't seem worth telling.

So, now that I've temporarily switched gears from running to ultra-distance kayaking, I feel somewhat confident that I might have a good story to tell, and I am now going to attempt to write it. If you are reading this, then I have succeeded. Yay me.

Preconception

I suppose this story begins two summers ago. I saw a link to a story about a paddling race across the entire state of Missouri. It was called the MR340 and I immediately knew it was going on my bucket list. I had a running friend, Dee, who also kayaks. I asked her if she had heard of it, and it turns out she had done the race before and had been involved with it as a volunteer for many years. Seeing as how I was in the middle of training not training for the aforementioned Ironman due to illness, I knew it wasn't going to happen any time soon.

Fast forward to the following summer, at my brother's bachelor party at a small alpine lake near Tahoe. The lake house we rented had a handful of boats available for us to use. One afternoon, during a break from the drunken revelry, I decided to take their canoe out for a spin on the lake. It was peaceful and relaxing, and I decided that I absolutely had to own a kayak as soon as possible.

Within a week of returning home, I had purchased a Sun Dolphin Aruba, a 10 foot plastic recreational kayak, and taken it out for its maiden voyage at Shawnee Mission Park. This reinforced the knowledge that I loved being on the water. I brought my new acquisition to the Wednesday night Hump Day 5K paddling race, and then learned exactly what my boat could and couldn't do. It could turn on a dime. It could not move through the water at any significant speed, nor could it glide through the water. If I stopped paddling, the boat stopped almost immediately. I finished my first 5K in around 52 minutes. My next attempt I was able to get a sub-50 minute finish. I started to learn about a thing called "theoretic hull speed" which basically a function of a boat's length and width and describes how fast your boat can go before it starts to climb it's own bow wake and become less and less economical to go faster. To save you some math, I'll just say that my 10 foot boat's "theoretical hull speed" was not impressive.

A boat longer than my car.

Less than 2 months after buying my Sun Dolphin, I found myself driving to Denver to buy a used Wilderness Systems Tempest 170 that I had found on Craigslist for $600. I had begun researching boats almost immediately after getting the Sun Dolphin, with the MR340 being the primary focus. I hadn't even specifically decided I was doing it...but deep down, I knew I wanted a boat that was capable of completing it.

I immediately fell in love with my "new" 17 ft sea kayak and took every opportunity to get it out on the lake. Dee was kind enough to take me out on the Muddy Mo' for the first time for a 15 mile paddle from Parkville to Riverfront Park, KC. She taught me how to read the river, how to interpret channel markers, how to see and hear wing dikes, and about eddies, buoys, and boils(AKA "river farts").

Buffalo River Biathlon - Oct. 2016

As the temperature dropped, I put the kayak in the garage for the winter and began focusing my training on some upcoming ultras that I had high hopes for...a few 50Ks and a heap of mileage building towards 3 Days of Syllamo in March, a 3 day race that had been on my To-Do list for several years. Unfortunately, an insidious bit of scar tissue likely from an old injury slowly reared its head three weeks before Syllamo, and I was out of commission. No amount of ART, massage, or home rehab was able to get my ankle pain free, and now a 100 mile weekend on rugged Arkansas trails was completely out of the question. And as of my last run a month or so ago, my ankle still isn't right.
(Update: it's starting to feel better) (Update to the update: A lot better)

This would have normally resulted in unimaginable amounts of despair and frustration, save for the fact that early on the morning of January 1st, I had gone ahead and registered myself for the MR340. I was planning on focusing on running up until Syllamo and then switching gears to kayaking, so this is exactly what I did. I began putting in longer days in the boat, bought more gear, experimented with outfitting my boat, bought more gear, contemplated some shorter ultra-distance paddling races, and bought more gear. I signed up for a 50K paddle in May, which ended up being rescheduled to a weekend I couldn't participate(Gritty Fitty), a 71 mile race(South Dakota Kayak Challenge), and a 62 mile night race(Osage Howler). I continued attending the Hump Day 5Ks as I was able, and slowly shaved my PR down to 36 minutes flat.

And I bought more gear.

Both of my ultra distance events went very well, and by the time August rolled around, I more or less had my setup nailed down. Lights were tested. Nutrition was solid. Everything I needed(and nothing I didn't) was within reach, and hydration was readily accessible and hands-free. I had participated in endless discussions on the MR340 facebook group regarding all manner of topics and had even lusted after boats I will likely never be able to afford. But luckily I still liked my boat. I was ready.

The Plan

Over the months leading up to the race, I had done a lot of planning and guesswork regarding how my race might pan out. Based on a rough estimation of my abilities, I set out a loose goal of finishing in 70 hours. That would allow a lot of wiggle room for beating the 88 hour time limit, and in a 4 day race...a lot can go wrong, or simply not go as expected. Perhaps that is a laughable understatement.

But I had a plan.

Day One starting at Kaw Point (mile 0) in Kansas City would see me stopping in Napoleon (mile 33) for a quick refuel and refill, skipping the first checkpoint in Lexington, stopping in Waverly(mile 75) for a refill, refuel, and stretch, pushing on to Miami(mile 106) for 30-60 minutes, then on to Glasgow(mile 142) for a 2-3 hour stop early in the morning on Day Two for some good food, a shower, and a power nap.

I would wake up feeling refreshed and recharged and would then push to Franklin Island(mile 172) for a solo stop to allow my amazing ground crew to grab some rest at a hotel in Columbia. I would then continue on to Cooper's Landing(mile 198) for some delicious Thai food at a restaurant by the boat ramp, and then a quick shuttle to the aforementioned hotel for a solid sleep through the afternoon heat. I would come back late that night to push off into the dark for Jeff City(mile 224) for about an hour's stay at the amazing Wilson Serenity Point early in the morning on Day Three. I would then push on to Chamois(mile 250) and meet up with a friend who lives there and had agreed to let me and my ground crew sleep and shower at her house.

That afternoon, I would leave for Hermann(mile 270) for some delicious bratwurst in the evening and then embark upon my longest single stretch of the race. 41 night miles from Hermann to Klondike(mile 311) the last stop before the finish. The final stretch would see one more sunrise on Day 4 and despite any fatigue or pain I was feeling, I would be fueled by the euphoria of my imminent finish, and the final 27 miles would breeze by as I cruised into St. Charles(mile 340) for my glorious 70 hour finish.

Now let us all take a moment of quiet contemplation to consider this impeccable and ironclad plan. And now let us all take several more moments to attempt to stifle snickers, giggles, snorts, and the curling up of the corners of our mouths before we break into outright uncontrollable laughter.

For this was The Plan.

Now I will tell you what actually happened.

The 2017 MR340 - August 8-11

Boat staged and ready to go

The night before, I brought my boat down to Kaw Point and staged it near the boat ramp. I then walked around and looked at all the other boats. Some shiny, fancy, and fast looking...others rugged, tough, and home-made. Some looked like they had no business in a 340 mile kayak race, but evidence after the fact shows that some of the people badasses in these boats finished before me. I then headed over to the hotel to check in for the race and meet up with Ron Ladzinksi, with whom I had arranged to purchase a single blade oar as my backup paddle in the event my shoulders decided to implode mid-race(a strong possibility) and to have an option to switch things up if when I began to fatigue. It was a Thetis paddle...hand-made, bamboo, lightweight, and simply beautiful.

Later that evening, my ground crew consisting of Janee and her boyfriend Brian met me at the hotel for the mandatory safety meeting. After the meeting, we went over The Plan one more time, they asked some last minute questions, and we all headed home to sleep. We planned to meet around 5:30 am to do final boat prep and launch around 6:30 for the 7 am solo racer start.

Kaw Point - Day One

Surprisingly enough, I slept decently that night, though a few nights earlier that week had been consumed with thrashing around in bed while my brain over-analyzed every possible worry and detail of taking on this challenge. Melatonin is not the hero Gotham deserves, but it is the one it needs.

I arrived a little late to Kaw Point, but still had plenty of time to go over the boat one more time to make sure I had everything I needed, say my goodbyes, carry the boat down to the ramp, and shove off to sit in the water for 20 minutes until the gun went off. During that time, I paddled over to where my friends Dee and Gina were floating and had a little nervous small talk. I tried not to think about the enormity of a challenge that lay ahead of me, and just tried to drink it all in. Several hundred boats of all solo paddlers all spread out along a 50 yard section of the Kansas River, just upstream of the confluence with the Missouri River. Some paddling back and forth to warm up, but most just idly paddling enough to stay in place against the relatively weak current of the Kaw.

Solo paddlers coming through Kansas City. Photo by Mike Perkins

Time ticked away until the announcer started counting down. 7:00 came with loud cheers from the crowd as the fast people started churning up the water paddling into the confluence of the Missouri River, and the rest of us just kinda floated that direction to avoid the expected washing machine cluster-cuss that often results in at least a few boats dumping their occupants. Luckily, I ran into no issues and I was soon into the faster current of the MO sorting out my nerves and trying to get into some sort of groove. This was hampered by the fact that I had downloaded the MR340 Pro Paddler race app but hadn't actually used it yet, so I spent a good 10-15 minutes at the start of the race fiddling with it and trying to figure out how to make it work right.

I spent the early miles paddling with Dee and Gina, but realizing they are simply faster than me I decided to let them pull away so I could move at my own easy pace. I had been told roughly half a billion times not to go out too hard or I would jeopardize my race, or at the very least, regret it heartily towards the end. As if I wouldn't otherwise be full of regret after 50 hours of paddling.

FYI: The guy in the 10 ft plastic boat beat me. Photo by Mike Perkins

The first stretch passed by rather uneventfully. My planned stop at Napoleon represented the halfway point between the start and my second stop in Waverly. And before I knew it, I was pulling into the boat ramp more or less on schedule to top off my water and briefly stretch the legs. Janee was there waiting for me and got me in and out quickly and efficiently. The initial shoulder soreness had come and gone as my body warmed up and I was cruising pretty well at this point. I had decided to skip the first official checkpoint in Lexington because it is known to be very crowded and being on the opposite side of the river from the channel(aka on the slow side of the river) it would be a time consuming stop. As I passed Lexington, I fiddled with the race app on my phone to make sure it was automatically texting race officials to check me in and out of the checkpoint. I had configured it to give audio alerts when sending these texts as well as hourly status texts to my ground crew and loved ones(girlfriend and mother) and was pleased to hear it say "Lexington In" followed shortly by "Lexington Out".

At this point, I had decided ahead of time that I would switch out my double blade paddle to my new single blade, mostly to give the ol' shoulders a rest for a bit, but also to...um... learn how to single blade in a kayak for the first time ever. What's that Golden Rule about trying or not trying new things during a race? Who can remember such nonsense? The first few miles involved a good amount of splashing water around, into my boat, and onto myself. I had received some very limited instruction from Ron about the recovery portion of the stroke, but other than that I was kinda figuring it out for myself. I basically paddling on one side until that side got tired, then I'd switch to the other side. It wasn't a very good strategy, and I never really got into a great rhythm, but it passed the miles and worked a different set of muscles. There was really nothing of interest in the 25 or so miles between Lexington and Waverly.

I pulled into Waverly around 7 pm, around an hour behind schedule, but nothing to worry about yet. I spent about 15-20 minutes there and shoved off towards Miami. This next stretch was one of my favorites of the entire race. The sun dipped low in the sky and resulted in a very spectacular sunset. As dusk grew to darkness, the mosquitos and other small insects started to come out. Luckily, I had invested in some mosquito netting for my face. I felt ridiculous wearing it until I overheard another paddler say how much he wished he had one. I brought my phone out and plugged it into a portable charger so I could keep the display on overnight and use its navigational feature which helps you stay in the channel. I couldn't do this during the day because it would overheat the phone and cause it to shut down. This feature proved to be a huge benefit as I would otherwise have been helpless to stay in the fast water in the near pitch black. Once the full moon came up, however, it got a lot easier to keep my bearings. And it was a welcome and beautiful distraction from the drudgery of endless paddling. My spirits were high, my energy was high, and I was moving really well. I was looking forward to a good stop in Miami and then pushing on through the night with a shower and a nap in the morning as my reward.

I pulled into Miami close to midnight and around 60-90 minutes behind schedule, but still not worried. I got some good food from the concessions tent and hit the bathroom. I was there for about an hour, but I was antsy to get back on the river. A lot of people were settling down to camp there for the night, but I was confident in my decision to push on to Glasgow through the night.

I was confident in that decision up until I pushed on to Glasgow. Within the first mile I realized a handful of things. There were VERY few other boats near me. It seemed REALLY dark. And I was suddenly SO tired. My thoughts were overtaken by the notion that I had just made a terrible mistake. I felt incredibly alone and borderline unsafe, but the darkness probably amplified that notion, because there was no real danger with such a calm river and great visibility. But my mind was suddenly in the gutter and the 35 mile stretch seemed daunting. I began to get bleary eyed and sleepy, and at one point I felt like nodding off until a massive Asian carp churned up the water by my boat creating a very loud and startling sound. I was wiiiiide awake after that, as I spent the next hour waiting for another monster fish to jump out of the water and knock me out of my boat.

This was the first of several moments in my race where I contemplated quitting. And it was still only Day One. How could I push through 3-4 days of this? I eventually ended up in a small group of paddlers, some I caught up to, some that caught up to me, and none seemed interested in leaving the group. The company provided a sense of security, just in case something were to happen, I was not alone. Despite the small comfort, I was still not in a very happy place mentally. The air cooled and as we approached dawn, I began to see patches of fog on the river. Visibility was still great, but I knew that if the fog grew thicker, I'd have to pull off the river. If I could just make it to Glasgow before that happened. The foggy patches grew larger and more frequent. I began scanning the banks for good spots to sleep if it came to that. Nothing looked very inviting. I'd be wrapping myself in an emergency blanket on wet grass, best case scenario, but more than likely wet stinky mud. I did not relish the idea, so I kept moving and my worries grew.

Around 4 am, still two hours from Glasgow, I saw some lights on the left side of the river. It looked like some boats had pulled off, and then I realized it was a boat ramp! I had completely forgotten about Dalton Bottoms, one of the public river access points between Miami and Glasgow. I paddled across and pulled up to the ramp. It was not a staffed ramp, but it did have primitive campsites and was ground crew accessible. I asked a guy who was standing at the ramp if he thought the fog was going to get thicker. He may have just been some random dude, but as far as I knew, he was an Expert Fog Predictor. He said it was pretty likely that the fog would get worse. That was all the convincing I needed. I got out of my boat and he helped me carry it up the ramp. I texted Janee that I was at Dalton Bottoms, sent her my location, and told her to come get me so I could sleep in the back of the car until morning. She replied that she would be there in an hour.

I found a spot on the wet grass of the campsite, laid down my seat pad and PFD for padding, wrapped my crappy emergency blanket around me, then kinda sorta fell asleep in the most uncomfortable position possible, and woke up 30 minutes later shivering. Luckily, somebody at a nearby campsite had built a fire, so I walked over to them and pitifully asked if I could stand near their fire. Not only did she welcome me into her circle of warmth, she gave me HER camp chair AND a blanket. Normally I might have hemmed and hawed, "Oh no, I couldn't possibly blah blah blah" but I was freezing and sleep deprived and immediately slumped into her chair and let this angel bundle up a smelly soggy stranger in her warm fuzzy blanket. Compared to sleeping on wet grass, it was heaven. Janee arrived about 10 minutes later and I climbed into the back of her SUV where she had an air mattress and a sleeping bag, and I zonked hard for the next 3-4 hours.

 Day Two

Debbie, me, Janee, and Jim

I woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed and though I was still pretty cold, I felt good enough to get back in the boat and paddle the 13 miles to Glasgow. I had planned to nap and shower there anyway, it just seems I needed the nap a little earlier than I planned. Pushing off from Dalton Bottoms I was chilly, sore, and stiff, but a couple hours down the river and I finally reached Glasgow around 10:45 on Day Two. I got some good food in my belly and was pleasantly surprised to see Jim and Debbie Megerson at this stop! They were there to cheer for a different paddler and just happened to notice my boat sitting at the ramp. Debbie came and gave me one of her signature hugs. Seriously, they're amazing. They warm the body and soul and soothe the nerves. The first time I received one was at mile 97 of the Ozark Trail 100 ultramarathon. (I didn't even know her then, but she was working the aid station and had promised a friend that she would take care of me. It was amazing.) I got my shower and felt human again for the first time in about 20 hours.

Post-shower Jesus pose

Pushing off from Glasgow

I was feeling good as I left Glasgow shortly before noon. I was more than 5 hours behind schedule as far as The Plan dictated, but I had more or less lost interest in adhering to it. I had already gone to the deep dark place where paddlers quit and had made it out intact. I just wanted to finish. If that meant going slow, sleeping more, and taking all 88 hours, so be it. Not too long into the 30 mile stretch to Franklin Island, it started heating up. And I took stock of myself. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. This leg was one of the toughest of my entire race. I couldn't maintain any sort of rhythm and I felt constantly out of breath and was likely low on sodium. The funny thing about being low on sodium is that you aren't always able to think as logically as you would normally. So while the intelligent astute Danny would have quickly pegged the problem, slammed a few S-caps and tore into my salty snacks, the fatigued and hyponatremic Danny just kinda slogged onward wondering what was wrong. At one point the 12 person dragon boat which had passed me on Day One and camped with me at Dalton Bottoms passed me again. We exchanged pleasantries as they powered past me. I decided at that moment that I wasn't too proud to draft, so I pulled directly onto their stern and hung on for the next few miles while I chatted with their rudder man. Eventually I was too gassed to even stay in their slipstream and I wished them well as they pulled away. It was a nice break to the grind and lifted my spirits ever so slightly.

I arrived at Franklin Island exhausted and starving. I planned to eat fast and use the bathroom so I could get moving again. I was happy to see Dee there, and I initially thought maybe I wasn't doing so bad if I had caught up to her, but then she told me she had dropped. She had a recent death in the family and told me that she simply didn't have the emotional reserves to finish the race. I'm not sure I would have understood that before doing this race, but only a day and a half in, it made perfect sense. This race was hard enough when you didn't have something weighing you down, I couldn't imagine spending 6+ hours at a time alone in a boat with something so heartbreaking constantly on my mind. She was instead going to spend the rest of the week helping out other paddlers.

I stiffly wandered over to the food tent and got a ham sandwich and some chips and...some...other stuff. Again, some strangers offered me their camp chair so I could sit and relax while I ate. I chatted with them about...stuff? I know for sure at one point we were lightheartedly ribbing each other about KU vs MU loyalties, after which one lady jokingly demanded her chair back. I finished my food and went to use the bathroom before getting back on the water. After doing my business, I left the portajohn and overheard a fellow paddler tell his friend, "I fell asleep in my boat once. I woke up in the water. It was one of the scariest moments of my life." I immediately realized how badly I needed a nap. I walked back over to the group that had let me use their chair. I asked if I could borrow their blanket to take a nap. Again, without hesitation they gladly offered it. I spread it out on the ground, set an alarm for 30 minutes and immediately fell asleep curled up on my side.

I woke up feeling way more refreshed than a 30 minute nap should possibly allow. It was around 6 pm and in the past 38 or so hours, I had slept MAYBE 4 hours. But that nap did the trick. Dee helped me carry my boat back down the ramp and pushed me off for the next 26 mile stretch to Cooper's Landing, just outside of Columbia, MO. I once again decided to switch to my single blade paddle, except this time I opted for a more balanced approach of switching sides every 20 strokes. This strategy, as it turns out, was absolute gold. I immediately settled into possibly the best rhythm of my entire race thus far. Counting in my head gave me something mindless to focus on(that makes sense...right?) and switching BEFORE the muscles on one side became fatigued helped me keep the cadence high and strokes powerful. I was motoring! This leg absolutely flew by and before I knew it, I spotted the riverside bluffs which let me know I was approaching Columbia! Here the river turned south and crossed under the I-70 bridge. Before I passed the bridge, I noticed that there was some sort of park and pavilion at the top of the bluffs. There was a group of people a few hundred feet above the river who were cheering for paddlers...or possibly heckling us. One person yelled, "WAY TO GO LEWIS AND CLARK!" to which I replied "LEWIS AND CLARK WERE GOING THE OTHER WAY!". I dunno...it seemed clever at the time. Shortly after crossing under I-70, I glanced behind me to see an absolutely jaw-dropping sunset. I was reluctant to disturb my groove, but this was worth turning my boat around to get a good picture.

There is apparently a Facebook group called "Look At The Front Of My Kayak"

Stopping to take in the sunset allowed a tandem kayak I had passed earlier to catch back up to me. I paddled with them for a few miles, chatting about the race, and a bit about life in general. They were two guys who had bought their boat with the express purpose of doing this race once, selling it, and never kayaking ever again. I mentioned I might be interested in buying their boat after they were done, though had I been at all in touch with Real Life at that moment, I would have realized I didn't have any money for such a thing.

I paddled on into the night and as dusk faded, the bats came out. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. All skimming the surface of the water in a barely visible frenzy as they devoured the same mosquitoes that had tormented us the prior night. I still put on my netting, but I could tell their presence was diminished. I have always considered myself an appreciator of bats, but this night especially so.

The last few miles into Cooper's Landing, the visibility got crappy as the sun was down, the moon hadn't risen yet, and the trees cast shadows over a good portion of the river. I once again powered up the navigational display on the race app to stay in the friendly waters and avoid wing dikes. I was very much looking forward to my first full night's sleep at a hotel in Columbia, which Janee had decided to book, and I was happy to finally spot the blue light marking Cooper's Landing. I had been warned that the approach to this boat ramp was tricky and that I should swing way wide to avoid hitting a wing dike. Well, I swung wide...too wide...and very nearly couldn't make it back to the ramp fighting against the current. I finally crossed the fast water, but ended up getting my boat stuck on some rocks that were just past the ramp. After a few panicked moments, I was able to scoot my boat off of the rocks and paddle up to the ramp.

My arrival shortly after 10 pm was originally when I planned to be leaving this checkpoint, putting me a good 7 hours behind The Plan..which I again didn't give a shit about. We carried the boat up the ramp, stowed it for the night, and bought some delicious Thai food from a food truck that lived at the ramp, and I bought a local beer from the general store. It was a satisfying end to Day Two as Janee drove me to the hotel in Columbia for some good sleep. Her boyfriend Brian had come to join the ground crew and had brought his son along as well. We arrived, I showered, and I passed out almost instantaneously when my head hit the pillow.

Day Three

Brian gives me a hearty farewell from Cooper's Landing

After a full night's sleep, we arrived back at Cooper's Landing and I geared up to get on the water again. I departed around 8:30 am with Jefferson City my next stop, a mere 26 miles away. This stretch was mostly uneventful, but I did get to see a bald eagle fly low across the water right in front of my boat and swoop up to land on a tree branch. I even got some crappy pictures of it!

The least crappy photo of the bald eagle. 

I was looking forward to Wilson Serenity Point very much, so obviously this leg felt like it took an eternity. Nonetheless, I finally rounded the bend and had Jefferson City and the capitol building in my sights! I pulled up to the river access around 12:30, got food, used the facilities, and took in the sights of this beautiful park. I was back on the water at 1:30, heading another 26 miles downriver to Chamois.

Signing the stump at Wilson Serenity Point

Onward to Chamois!

A few miles after leaving Jefferson City, I began to hear the rumblings and grumblings of an approaching thunderstorm. I wasn't sure where it was coming from or if it was headed towards me, but I kept a wary eye on the sky. I soon realized it was going to pass directly over me as the skies began to darken behind me and the thunder followed the lightning closer and closer. I scanned the side of the river for a suitable place to become Not The Tallest Thing in my vicinity and was pleased to see a nice sheltered section on river right with some tall trees to boot. I pulled out of the current, wedged my boat in between a few rocks, and pulled out my trusty $1 Royals rain poncho. It actually worked perfectly as a make-do spray skirt, keeping the water mostly off of me and mostly out of my boat. There were a few hiccups, as the wind picked up and kept blowing the hood off of my head, forcing me to eventually turn my boat around so it was hitting from behind me. I initially felt silly for pulling off, until I saw the whitecaps on the river that were churned up by the wind and the Too Close For Comfort lightning strikes. Then I was confident in my decision to play it safe.

Makeshift shelter from the storm.

The storm passed in about 10 minutes and I was back on my way to Chamois. The next highlight of this leg was passing the confluence of the Osage and Missouri River. Not only did it provide a noticeable bump in speed, it also was pretty neat to paddle along the threshold where the relatively clear waters of the Osage mixed and mingled with the nasty, brown, soupy Missouri water.

Shortly after 6:00, I arrived in Chamois with my faithful ground crew greeting me and feeding me as per usual. The original plan had me sleeping and showering here, but since I wasn't even remotely tired, I passed on the opportunity with the goal of pushing through the night and hopefully finishing in the early afternoon the following day. I stayed in Chamois about an hour before embarking on the next short leg of 20 miles to Hermann. 

The next leg of my journey was completely serene. I once again was treated to a wonderful sunset and some amazing pitch black sky occasionally lit by far away lightning and some magnificent meteors streaking across the sky. I had been warned that the bridge in Hermann would relentlessly tease me, and those warnings were accurate. The last 5 miles of river leading into Hermann were a straight shot, and over the course of an hour, I slowly watched the lights of the bridge grow from a tiny dot of light into a recognizable shape. At least the navigation was simple...point front of boat towards light...paddle. The other aspect of this leg was the absolute unnerving solitude. I did not encounter a SINGLE other boat between Chamois and Hermann. No other paddlers. No safety boats. Just me and the river. And while I objectively knew there was no real danger, my imagination was once again MORE than happy to envision a number of terrible and unfortunate outcomes for the hero of our story. When I finally pulled into Hermann at around 10:00, I was both relieved to be off of the water, but full of dread regarding the next leg...41 miles straight through the dark and lonely night to Klondike, the final checkpoint of the race.

In Hermann, I was delighted and surprised to discover that my wonderful girlfriend Danielle had made it out this way to join my ground crew for the remainder of the race! She originally had only planned to see me at the finish, but decided to come out the night before instead! I once again got some food in my belly, the highlight of which was one of Hermann's highly-recommended bratwurst and some other snacks. As I sat and ate, my apprehension for the upcoming leg continued to grow. I tossed out the idea of possibly stopping for a nap 30 miles downriver in Washington if I needed it, but the idea of pushing out again into the dark and lonely night was simply terrifying. Then I received a text from race officials announcing that large and strong thunderstorms were expected around 1-2 am. So not only was I contemplating paddling all night, but I'd also have to find shelter in the dark from a thunderstorm that could last hours. With this new bit of information, I was not at all reluctant to call it off for the night. I had booked a hotel in St. Charles for Thursday and Friday night to cover my bases in case I finished super early or super late...or at the very least to give my ground crew a place to rest and sleep while I paddled from Hermann to Klondike. Instead, my ground crew drove me to St. Charles late Thursday night and 4 of us shared a king size bed for about 4 hours of sleep before driving me back to Hermann to continue my journey.

Day Four

This was to save time...not because I'm pathetic. Really.

We arrived back in Hermann and Janee hand-fed me pancakes while I prepped myself and my boat for the final day of paddling. I was still not loving the idea of a 41 mile single push, but I knew once that was over, the final leg from Klondike to the finish would be cake. More on that later.

I hit the water around 6:45 am and the air still had a decent chill. Everything felt wet and miserable, but I got moving. I was on the lookout for Berger Bend, which had been described as a tricky section coming out of Hermann. I navigated it without difficulty and at some point shortly after, I passed another paddler. He hollered a greeting to me and identified himself as Dan, a fellow Hump Day 5K attendee. I remembered chatting with him briefly on Day One when he had told me he was hurting bad because he had pulled a muscle in his side. Here he was on Day Four, still gutting it out, but I could tell he was not in good shape. He had chosen to race this year in a faster, yet slightly less stable boat, and with a poorly functioning set of core muscles, it was all he could do to keep his boat upright and moving forward. 

We chatted for a few miles and as I began to pull ahead of him, he mentioned that he'd like to stick with me for awhile. On one hand, he was moving slower than me, but on the other hand, I hadn't fully recovered from the apprehension of this long stretch of kayaking, so I decided that it would benefit us both greatly to stick it out together for awhile. And I'm sure glad I did! The miles began to tick off as we chatted about life, love, and our favorite Youtube videos. We had gotten a text from race officials warning of a barge coming upriver and he was able to spot it well before I would have. I appreciated having a race veteran for this. Up to this point in my Missouri River paddling experience, I had yet to negotiate a barge wake, and he recommended we quickly find a good spot to pull off and wait for it to pass. I found a perfect spot on river left that was sheltered enough that the wake was completely dissipated before it got to us.

While waiting for the barge to pass, I watched in amazement as Josh Sexton(another HD5K racer) fearlessly charged headlong into the fierce barge wake. Well...after the fact, it didn't look terribly bad and now after having seen one, I am confident I could have stayed on the river and been fine. Dan would not have fared so well in his current condition, so I didn't mind waiting this one out. 

After the wake subsided, we got back on the river and soon passed New Haven, where Dan signaled to his ground crew that he was going to push on to Washington, at which point we agreed to part ways since I would be going all the way to Klondike. Before he stopped, however, he gave me a bit of soul-crushing bad news...the 11 miles I thought I had left to go before hitting Klondike was actually 13 miles. Apparently I had screwed up my race planning math, and even though it was only a measly few miles extra, mentally it may as well have been another 100. I felt sorry for him as he pulled away to negotiate the incredibly tricky approach to the Washington boat ramp which is completely unsheltered from the strong current. If you miss the ramp, you immediately get slammed into a wing dike. He made a good approach but came in really really fast and his ground crew barely caught him and kept him upright(I later found out he did end up finishing!)

Once I saw that he was safely on the ramp, I set my sights to Klondike. I had once again planned to switch over to my single blade paddle to give the shoulders a rest, and hopefully establish a really good groove like I had coming into Cooper's Landing. It didn't really happen, unfortunately. Even with the single blade, I struggled greatly in the final stretch from Washington to Klondike. The day was starting to heat up and I was starting to hit the wall again. 

I finally pulled into Klondike around 1:30 pm, after almost 7 straight hours of paddling, and my girlfriend informed me after the fact that I was NOT in a particularly good mood when I came off the water. Some food and good cheer from my ground crew and other good-natured folk in Klondike went a long way in lifting my spirits before embarking on the final 29 miles to the finish in St. Charles. 

Miraculously, my ground crew was able to do all of this within the space of half an hour and they had me whipped into shape and back on the water at 2 pm. At this point, lacking the "euphoria of my imminent finish" that was originally to fuel me as outlined in The Plan, I decided upon a different tactic to get me through these final miles. I cued up the upbeat Spotify playlist which I had synced to my phone. The same playlist which had carried me through difficult stretches of my 100 miler, as well as the 2nd half of a hard 100K in Texas, and numerous long grind-it-out training runs in my ultramarathon career. The tunes came on and my spirits lifted. I was almost done. I bopped my head and sang loudly. And that's when the neverending headwind began. 

It seemed odd, but I can not remember a single moment in the race when I had a tailwind or a crosswind. For some reason, the wind always seemed to be blowing upriver. And on this final stretch it was unrelenting. The final 29 miles of this race seemed to have cruelty after cruelty piled on, almost as if the race was giving me one last kick in the teeth before it would let me claim victory.

The winds were insane, and only got worse the closer I got to St. Charles. I had been warned by several people about the so-called "Bridge of False Hope", but I counted at least 3 false hope-y bridges, all teasing that I might be almost done, but none actually granting that status. And then there were the local yokels. In their damned fishing boat. They went buzzing by, creating a wake just big enough that I steered my boat into them to be safe. They buzzed upriver...looked at some spot on the side of the river, and then buzzed back. The same boat did this 3 or 4 times between Klondike and St. Charles, and I cursed the sky each and every time. Were they a built in feature of the race...did they do this to every paddler?

And then that fun moment when The Reaper passed me. The Reaper is basically the course sweep which you have to stay in front of...if it beats you to a checkpoint, you are cut from the race. The Damned Reaper sneaks up on me while I'm jamming out to my tunes and just motors on by when I've got 10 miles left. After quite nearly shitting myself, I cut off my tunes to yell out to them, asking if I had somehow lost track of the 5 hours of buffer I thought I had, and if I was about to DNF. They assured me they were not currently in Reaping mode and that I was doing just fine. 

Whew!!

I continued passing Bridges of False Hope and the river pointed me north into another brutal headwind. Gritting my teeth, I fought the tempest to cross over to river left and the shelter of the trees lining that side. Then I made the final right turn into the home straightaway, and saw like 3 more Bridges of False Hope off in the distance. I knew I only had a few miles left, but what I thought I knew about the course conflicted with what I saw, and from where I sat, it looked like much farther. It turns out I didn't have to go all the way past the farthest bridge in the distance, and I might have completely missed the finish line on river left if I hadn't seen the boat in front of me cross over to get there.

FINALLY! I saw the finish line!

I crossed under the Bridge of Actual, For-Real, No Bullshit Hope and began crossing over towards the finish line, of course battling the absolute worst headwind anybody has ever faced...ever. I saw my ground crew...actually, I heard my ground crew before I could make out any faces...and I saw their pom poms(courtesy of Janee). I exulted not so much in my glorious finish, but in the simple fact that I would very shortly stop paddling, get out of my boat, and not get back in again for a long time.

I fought the headwind and current that tried to push me downriver past the boat ramp and into oblivion. And I finally came close enough that my momentum carried me to the volunteers waiting to catch my boat and help me out of the water. 

Then...83 hours and 15 minutes after the starting gun at Kaw Point...I stopped paddling. And it was exactly as amazing as I imagined it would be. 

On stiff legs, I staggered up onto dry land for the last time. I gave smelly hugs to my girlfriend, ground crew, and a few other paddling friends who cheered me in to the finish. I took shit-eating-grin finish line photos. I ate some mexican food and drank a beer. I vowed to never ever do this again...a vow which lasted roughly 12 hours before I started contemplating how I would make next year's race better and faster. New strategy? New boat? More training? Who knows!?!?

Best. Damn. Ground. Crew. 

I attended the post-race awards ceremony during which I received my finisher medal and cheered for others who had done much MUCH better than me. After saying my goodbyes and thank yous, showering and changing, we loaded my boat back onto my car and Danielle drove us home.

Happy Danny with his new hardware

The hardware

Epilogue

In the days following, many of my friends who are familiar with my more insane athletic exploits were keen to know how this challenge ranked in difficulty. This race definitely lands squarely in the Top Five hardest things I've ever done. Not for severity of pain, or physical difficulty, but simply for the sheer mental fortitude required to push through 4 days of nonstop paddling, physical and emotional exhaustion, isolation, paranoid fear, and countless other "little" things which all add up to profound extended misery. The fact that I already wanted to quit less than 24 hours in speaks volumes. I have never *wanted* to quit a race before in my life. I've had races that went poorly, and I've had races where I wished they would be over sooner, but never once did I consider simply giving up. 

This race tested me in ways I had not been tested through thousands of miles of running, 4 full Ironmans, and countless ultramarathons up to 100 miles. As many have said, this race is all about guts, grit, and stubborn persistence. This race is also about finding ways to manage the inevitable discomfort and misery, and my race preparations, boat setup, and even a last minute Golden Rule breaking purchase certainly helped me to that end. Additionally, one thing I absolutely love about this race is that literally anybody, with any boat, can finish this race. Out of shape paddlers in crappy boats finished ahead of me. Well-trained and fit paddlers in really expensive boats finished behind me. As it turns out, the river doesn't care how long you trained or how much you spent on your rig. Your heart and determination are all that really matter. 

In summary, it was an absolutely incredible experience. I am about 99% certain that I'm not smart enough to learn my lesson, and shortly after midnight on January 1st 2018, I will be registering for this madness once again.

Thanks for reading!

See you on the river,
Danny Loental

My Missouri River skid mark

The Journey: Definitely something wrong with the race app in the middle there.