December 28 was forecast to be an unusually nice day, especially for late December in Indiana, so I couldn't use the weather as an excuse not to do the HUFF. The HUFF used to take place in Huntington, IN, hence the name: Huntington Ultra Frigid Fifty. It has since moved to a beautiful park in Albion, IN, but the name has stayed the same. It's a two-loop trail run in unpredictable conditions. Some years the course is flooded with icy cold water, other years it's a muddy slog, a bone-chilling cold run in the snow, or a perfect day to hang out in the woods. 2013 was a perfect day to hang out in the woods.
Temperatures were a warmer than usual (THIS year) low-30's, with a beautiful clear blue sky. For once it wasn't blustery, and there was enough snow on the ground to make it a classic winter-in-the-woods scene. The race started just as the sun was breaking the horizon, and the crisp winter light added to the positive energy. Everyone was looking forward to enjoying the day, our last warm one before the colder-than-usual temperatures predicted to return on Sunday.
This is a larger trail ultra, with a combined 900 runners between the full 50K, the 10-mile loop, and the 50K relay. Like most trail runs, and most ultras, the atmosphere is far more laid-back than at a typical road race. All experience levels were there, from seasoned pros to newbies like myself. Before the race, people compared opinions on running shoes, racing strategies, and previous HUFF race experiences. The start was a guy saying (not yelling), "Go!"
The first loop went well, with a spectacular sunrise over the frozen lakes covered in snow. There was no mud, as the ground was still frozen hard. I was surprised it was so hard, and while it was nice not to slog through mud, the hard uneven surface was tough on the feet. There were several times when I really wished I had dragged along a camera. I felt great at the ten-mile point, and still felt pretty darned good after completing loop 1 of 2. I was a little tired, but not horribly so, and the bottoms of my feet were starting to complain a little from the hard irregular surface, but nothing I couldn't manage. My goal was to finish the 50K under 7 hours, so I was happy with my time of 3:19 for the first loop...
...until about one mile into loop 2, when the foot annoyance became full-blown hotspots that felt like the entire pads of both feet were large blisters. I've had hotspots before, but never this bad. I knew they would hurt whether I walked or ran, so I settled into a walk/trot combo that worked out well. I was still passing people, and they weren't catching and passing me at aid stations, so I was happy with my pace. The day had warmed up into the 40's, thawing things out. There were several impressively deep mud pits the second time around.
At mile 24, the previous eight miles of compensating for aching feet finally caught up with me. One ankle had been slowly developing a sharp pain with each foot-plant, and I could no longer even try to trot with it. The pain was such that it felt like I was in real danger of seriously injuring myself if I insisted on anything faster than a walk. Up to this point I had been maintaining a decent pace, and was still passing people. My ankle made it clear that my pace was going to have to slow way down: I was going to have to walk the last six miles. Urg.
So, I trudged/staggered/limped the last six miles, and tried to focus on enjoying the day. "This is just a looooong walk in the woods on a beautiful day." "I'm still catching a few people, how is that happening?" "Oh crap, here comes that guy who had a real attitude when people were taking their time crossing a creek earlier. I really wanted to beat him." "I only have to hurt for another (fill in the number) miles. Don't think about how many minutes that will take."
It was a pleasant surprise to find that the guy with an attitude really was an ok person. I don't know why he was so impatient earlier, but he had since mellowed and was slogging along just like the rest of us. And since misery loves company, I felt a little better as I saw how slowly most people were tackling loop 2. I wasn't the only one who was forced to slow down to a death march: the suffering was widespread. Yet no one was considering quitting. It was getting more and more difficult to navigate the mud pits with aching feet, but overall was not nearly as muddy as I had expected.
The last mile I watched runner after runner pass me and pull out of sight. By this point, my frustration was blunted by the searing pain of each step. How is it possible for your feet to hurt this badly and not be blistered? At the last aid station less than a mile from the finish, the wonderful volunteers saw my hat ("will run for beer") and offered up a Sam Adams. I seriously considered it, but just wanted to finish and get off my feet. I asked for an oxy instead, but they were all out. Time to suck it up and get that last half-mile out of the way.
I crossed the finish at 7:32, surprised at my time since I had to walk so far. It had been a pitiful walk, with tiny steps getting smaller with each mile, until I had slowed to a 20-minute pace. I happily collected my very cool belt buckle/medal combo, and staggered to the food tent. Found a chair, and a fabulous runner/volunteer brought me some wonderful home-made corn chowder. He was wearing a ten-mile loop medal, so he had obviously run earlier and then stuck around to help the rest of us. A special person indeed.
After warming up and sitting for a while, it was time to attempt to get to the car, which was parked about a quarter-mile away. After an excruciating 10-minute shuffle that must have epitomized "pitiful", and much grunting and groaning, I finally threw myself into the car with a huge sigh of relief.
On the way out of the park, I forced myself out of the car (and yes, back on the screaming feet), to take a photo of a glorious sunset over one of the frozen lakes. No, it wasn't beautiful enough to make me forget about the pain, but it made me even happier that I had spent the day outside enjoying the gift of a perfect December day in Indiana.
PS: Now I know which socks NOT to wear in a trail ultra. Duh.
