Part 1
Previously – just last week in fact – I mentioned through this very blog that I was nearing my first attempt at running 100 miles. An event that I had spent the better part of a year training for – meticulously gearing up for.
Throughout the preparation involved in such an undertaking, a million different outcomes and events circulated within my mind. Every possible way in which my feet, toes and legs could become compromised. Each environmental factor that would, or could, be present on that given day – the most prevalent of which being the extraordinary heat.
Nearly any and every possible outcome – positive and negative alike – crossed my mind leading up to race day.
All of this, except for one.
Race day had come, and it was well underway.
At mile 40, as the heat of the day was progressing rapidly, I felt great. With very minimal physical toll felt on my lower extremities, my spirits were at an all-time high.
I took a seat, assessed what needed to be done – new gear, new hydration, and, of course, food.
Early that morning, I had decided that I wanted to try my luck with some quick, filling calories at the mile 40 aid station. With no real history of gut issues in my training, this seemed like a no-brainer.
Quick, filling calories. That’s what I had in mind.
A horrible decision and outcome. That’s what came of it.
Eight hours into an ultra-marathon, just before the day’s heat reached its peak, I ingested, drumroll please ……… a gas station cheeseburger.
Downhill, Fast
Still feeling great, physically, I left the 40-mile aid station with a pacer by my side for the first time that day. Just a few blocks up the road, the sensation set in. My stomach began to, rapidly, let me know that I had made a mistake. The sun was coming out to punish anything in its path, and I had a stomach full of processed meat, cheese and coca-cola.
Taking it slow – slower than I had already been moving, that is – was my immediate plan of attack to resolve the onset issues within my gut.
To no avail, however.
Soon thereafter, I threw up everything that I had recently consumed. All of the food, the hydration – every bit of it.
Still attempting to salvage some sense of optimism, I picked myself up and continued forward. Now, facing the tall task of refueling what I had just lost.
Yet again, to no avail.
Reset, or, attempt to
Some great deal of time – several hours later – I ploddingly made my way into the 50-mile aid station. Frustrated and looking for an answer to an issue I had not yet to this point experienced.
For what was at least thirty minutes, I attempted to rehydrate, and to keep some sort of calories down and processing into my system.
My crew and I threw the proverbial “kitchen sink” at the situation at hand. Every trick we had up our sleeves, with little to no luck.
In due time, I brought myself back upright, and committed to continue moving forward. Confused and angry at the sudden turn of events, with no solution in sight, I did the only thing I could do – progress onward.
As the sun began to set behind the trees, and the temperatures (finally) initiated their descent, I, along with my good friend, Nic, marched on down the backroads of Madison County, Iowa.
*Part 2 of this story to come
Forged in Fire 
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