FKT attempt 100 Mile Wilderness, 2020
Monson, ME
I found myself in Monson, Maine at the dreary end of a light winter. The Covid season settled in and I waited. Not being sick, I picked up my running and tried to log as many miles as possible. I made a point to balance my week with a mix of running on different surfaces. Nothing is flat out here. Nothing. Pace became irrelevant and I started to just focus on form and efficiency. I had been slowly building miles since January in preparation for the Old Dominion 100. During these months I took a break from Strava and my watch all together. I wanted to clear the clutter. This break with running tech has helped me to reconnect with the sport and how I want to be with this practice. While in Maine I brought my watch back into my practice and I focused on moving efficiently through tough terrain while maintaining a mindful connection with my physical effort. I started to quantify my effort using the RPE 6–20 scale which I would compare to the heart rate data on my watch, trying to make a conscious shift in my perception based on the data. There are certainly blind spots and limitations to this approach. I mostly just found it interesting and it helped motivate me to get out and run. I became obsessed with efficient movement over varied terrains. My form has grown to include a whole new range of motions- not quite running, not quite hiking- just moving fast. Enter the Hundred Mile Wilderness.
For a long time I have thought that there are two types of people in this world, those who are inspired or repulsed when thinking about running 100 miles. For too many years I have been in the inspired category and it was time for me to attempt the distance. I am also starting to think that there is no way for me to get to the starting line feeling prepared. There will always be something, some tweak nagging at me. So I might as well try. It’s been said that you run 100 miles with your mind, not your legs. Certainly training is required, but at a certain point the success of the event will be determined in the mind. We love to think that our beings are mind and body- in fact we’re just our mind. All of our perception is filtered through that beast. Focusing on the mind must be at least 50% of the success for an ultra.
Old Dominion was canceled and my camper parked in the thawing lot of Shaw’s Hiker Hostel. I started to dream about various routes and projects that I could focus on as I prioritized constant running. I was getting out on the Appalachian trail as much as possible in the early season enduring over the knee river crossings, bloody shins from postholing, and the deep, deep fear of being lost. This will be a memorable training build. After a surprise Mother’s Day snow the weather became unseasonably hot and the snow line quickly pulled back from the lower summits and was soon secluded to the shade of the northern slopes. I was lucky to stay injury free and started to build on the miles, culminating with my biggest 4 weeks of training ever. Things were hot and dry, it was very un-Maine. I started to feel like the weather was a gift from the woods and that running the Hundred Mile Wilderness could be an option. I started to look more seriously at the FKT (fastest known time) somewhere in mid May. Something that stood out to me was that the current and previous records were both set going South bound. To me, North bound felt more logical given the difficulty and location of the Chairback and White Cap ranges, essentially half of the course. I would prefer to take on that terrain at the start of my attempt. When I calculated the elevation numbers it also appears that a North bound attempt has 1k less climbing. Over 100 miles this is somewhat negligible and maybe a psychological boost more than anything. I had a few goals that I needed to reach before I could seriously consider an attempt at the hundred mile. I wanted to log some big miles on trail and summit White Cap mountain. White Cap is 1k feet taller than anything else in the Hundred Mile; its snow pack would be a determining factor.
I’ve come to the understanding that running is a battle of internal will. Our personal conflicts bear out as we train and race. For me, I struggle with training consistently and favor taking weeks off in between bouts of regular running. Some part of me is still ruled by an adolescent notion that links consistency and complacency. I rationally know that all great achievements are through consistent practice yet cling to this oppositional defiance that refuses my own insight. Herein lies the nature of my struggle and why it takes a hundred miles to sort things out. Deliberate practice. In the final days before the journey to Monson Maine the reality of how nasty spring in the north country can be settled on me. I was preparing to make peace with the rain and come to terms with long road miles in the cold. But fortune was in my favor and the forest yote blessings of fine weather and fast drying soils upon me. Or, the Earth is dying, cooking up and blowing away. How can we be grateful for the gifts of the world and not be consumed with dread for its fragility? With unseasonably fine weather I was able to stack big miles on the trail. The hardest section of the Hundred Mile Wilderness is the sixty miles between route 15 and the Jo-Mary road. Shaw’s hostel is about 4 miles away from the route 15 trailhead. I quickly learned the side roads and access points to the trail in the area and was able to string together some fabulous loops that incorporated miles on trail and dirt roads with long climbs and descents. I focused on opening up my forms and letting gravity pull me down the hills, letting my body move at speeds and paces it cannot otherwise achieve. Scary and fun! I think the varied paces and surfaces inside of each run allowed me to stack up big miles with minimal damage to my body. After years of running I have a good sense of how I am adapting to the load and I was able to keep myself right at the edge of too much. Based on how recovered I felt I would run road or speed-hike trials. This kept me injury free and confident to log weekly miles of 73, 73, 86, and 77 before cutting back a two week taper. This last month capped off a winter of miles that will hopefully combine with the cumulative miles over the years and should be enough to carry me though the Hundred Mile.
The weather was warm but snow lingered in the higher elevations until the end of May. From the South I could push up into the snow line at Barren Mountain. Behind it, the rest of the chairback range was filled and just not passable with any efficiency. Beautiful. It was beautiful up there in the snow, so in mid-May I made an attempt at the Chairbacks from the north side beginning at Katahdin Iron Works road- a private logging road with access to amazing wilderness and trails. Swoops and flats characterize the chairback range and it can feel like you’re running the profile of some old-time, winter-built, Maine furniture. Crafty logger stuff. But being early May the thin ice layer on top of the snow rubbed my shins raw. I started to imagine wearing soccer shin guards to protect against this. The snow was too deep and I didn’t have enough food with me, so about ⅓ of the way into the ridge I came to a drainage/side trail and followed it down to an off-shoot of the Kathadin Iron Works road and made my way back to the car. It was a solid day of training and because I started in the northern section I had a better sense of the terrain. I could only imagine the snow pack 1000’ further up on White Cap. After the snowy day in the Chairbacks, I knew that further progress would be impossible until all the snow cleared. By the end of May I was able to submit Barren regularly and once I was able to push onto Could Pond I knew that the snow had finally melted and it was time to check out White Cap. From the KI road the trail climbs 4K feet over 11 miles to the summit of White Cap, covering Gulf Hagas Mountain, West Peak, and Hay Mountain. It is a stunning stretch of trail (Gulf Hagas side trail and epic hike in this area) and by the numbers, the most difficult. Everything begins by a full commitment, 25yd river ford. It’s about knee deep but varies depending on the weather. Once on the other side the trail enters the Hermitage, an area that is home to the oldest trees in this heavily logged region. While not stunning, the Forest has a different feel in this section. Like a mellow, grandparent feel. Piney soils are a welcome change from the rocky Chairbacks and the next four miles are a gentle cruise up a river bed. It’s a lovely part of the trail and when I was running on it I realized that though mathematically the most difficult, the trail and the terrain was actually much easier in this section. 4 hours and I submitted White Cap. From the top you get a view of the back half of the Hundred Mile Wilderness with the real prize, Kathadin, overlooking the whole stage. The lakes reflect the sky and your eyes move in and out of the negative spaces between earth and sky. The trail almost unravels from White Cap, if I could move through this point feeling comfortable then maybe I could run around those lakes and finish out this trail. The Hundred Mile Wilderness came into focus for me on top of White Cap during that training day. Now I just needed to pick my day and start time.
Midsummer is a special time. The Earth leans towards the sun and for a few days time is suspended. That gentle pause before the earth tilts away. The days are the longest they ever will be and those of us living in the northern hemisphere have extra time to stretch our arms, open our chests and breathe in the cosmic dance. This will be the perfect stage to attempt the Hundred Mile Wilderness. To accomplish this feat I will need all the help I can get. Calling on the ancient magic of the solstice seems like the least I can do. I’m considering taking things one step further and listening to Midsummer Night’s Dream as I go through the night.
Running through the night is tough. Doing anything through the night is tough. It requires pushing past the good natured sense of going to bed. Every time that you’ve disregarded that voice it becomes an experience that can help you get through the current challenge. Training for an event like this will always be the sum total of our life experiences. So even that time at the sleepover when we watched all those movies, or that time I had to finish that paper for that class, or that time at that fire with those shots and conversations we didn’t want to end. All of those times help to train the mind and running through the night ultimately depends on your mindset.
Fastest Known Time is a database of routes and records and serves as a landing spot for people to learn about various routes and attempts made. The collection also serves as a guide and a way for the community to tell each other that there are interesting routes here or identify a regional prize. Targeting these regional goals is an especially gratifying experience and something that just isn’t achievable when training for a big city marathon. Now that Covid has canceled the big city marathon format the whole concept of a self organized event around the FKT format is the most exciting path forward. Two months of training on the trail while living at the hostel getting to know the community and the culture of the north woods has been a magical build for this 100 mile attempt. The record is 34 hours.
I like to work backwards from a goal. I imagine a perfect scenario and then make sense of it by breaking it down into more manageable parts. A successful effort would look something like this:
Mile 100ish: Abol bridge in 32–34 hours.
Mile 60ish: Jo-Mary road in 18–20 hours.
Mile 30ish: KI road in 8–10 hours
Running on the solstice will allow me to have the shortest possible time in the dark, which will be a fun component. For me, an ideal finish would be somewhere around sunset. The golden hour, weaving around Rainbow lake racing the night to Abol bridge. That would be an ideal finish, 34 hours necessitates a 11am start. So I can plan to sleep in, eat a big breakfast and get going before 11 am.
That was the plan, it made sense at the time but on the day of the solstice the temperature was slated to be in the 90’s, unusual for Maine, but totally fitting for the apocalypse. This is where my road running pedigree came to haunt me. I decided to go for it, like it was race day, my run-what-you-brung mindset took over. I adjusted my start time to 6 am and planned to head for the hills hoping to find cooler temps midday on the summits. The run was fine, controlled and steady. I could feel the heat on my body and my heart rate was higher than it should be. I made some adjustments to my pace and settled in. At about the 10k mark I heard the distinct cry of the goshawk. The thing about birds is they attack silently. One second you hear it in the distance the next it’s in your ear. The trail and the break in the canopy it provides is an ideal habitat for the nesting goshawk. How are they supposed to know that people would be moving on the trail once the season turns? During the sensitive fledging period the goshawk stands guard by the nest and attacks unknowing passers by. My training on trail gave me insight to the patterns of the goshawk and I was aware of its location, just prior to fledging that hawk squawks and calls out, but nothing more. But now, in late June this hawk ment business. It is about the size of a cat and a beautiful silvery color. But there is nothing beautiful about it when it is swooping down behind you and crying in your ear. It was scary. I had to pick my pace up to a sprint to clear its zone. Even at that pace it still took about 4–5 dives at me, sending me to duck and cover several times. I kept pushing down the trail and soon the goshawk understood I was no threat. In effort to save weight off my pack and in complete ignorance of the weather, I was carrying a litre of water and no filter, drinking straight from each stream I crossed. Luckily I was using my phone and the guthook app to know where to expect water relative to my location. The heat was extreme and before long I knew my planning would be insufficient. When I got to the top of Barren Mountain I was roasted and my pace, while on target, had no margin for error. I took my picture at the summit to have a time stamp of my location and pushed on. The Chairbacks after Barren are…barren…and dry, no water for 10k, which on trail is about 3 hours. I pulled out my phone to check guthook and it was frozen. A glitch in icloud updating photos while out of service sent my phone into recovery mode. It felt like strike 3. I had no map, no emergency contact, and no way to prove my progress on route to the record. It was also so, so painfully hot. Katelyn was waiting at mile 30. I knew that today just wasn’t my day. I pushed on to water aand soaked my dome in the crystal flow. It reghared me to get to KI road, but I was done. I came down into the road cut feeling totally gassed. It was about 9.5 hours. There was no way I could do that much faster. I felt like I was at the appropriate limit the whole time. Katelyn scooped me up and we made our way back home. I felt defeated, but proud that I made the right call in the moment.
My time in the north country was growing short. During my stay I accepted a teaching position in San Francisco. I was starting to relocate my thoughts out west. It would be a huge move and undertaking to get there. It was time to leave the camper and my dirtbag runner life. Would this really be my last go before becoming a west coast boy?
I was tired from the effort but I saved myself from going to the well. My body hadn’t taken a ton of damage, but I would need to rest up if I was going to try it again. I like to train hard and recover even harder. The summer was in full swing. Craft brews, wood fired pizza, the uncertainty if there even would be a hiker season. Early summer in Maine is a wonderful place to be and I was soaking up all that it had to offer. Levar the Fish was having a birthday and wanted to run some big miles to celebrate. It was a great carry over in my second taper. He crushed it, setting a new PDR (personal distance record) as we crossed over Moxie Bald to Monson. Summer was here, did I really want to try the Hundo again? Yes.
My second attempt was all business. I didn’t have the magical powers of the solstice to carry me. But I did have the magical powers of a month long taper, 2 weeks on either side of my first attempt. It was now or never. I made some tweaks to my food, carrying more whole foods and less sugars, brought a back up phone and a 2 litre water bag for the Chairbacks. I left at 6 again, it didn’t seem right to try and time a sunset finish, as perfect as it seemed. No goshawk either and no views- it was an overcast day. Only thing left to do was to get it done. I drank a ton of water and ate my bags of walnuts and sesame sticks as I clicked off the hours. I knew I was moving well. I knew I was on track. I felt great. Moving through the Chairbacks I smiled at the carnivorous plants in the 4th mountain bog riding the wave the whole way. Things were different this time. I felt like a machine. I came into KI road in 8 hours feeling easy. This time Katelyn wasn’t there and I marched to the banks of the pleasant river. This is a special place. If I could summit white cap in 13 hours I would be at the fast end of my best estimates. The Pleasant river in this section is wide and generally calm. Something about a river. Carrying the mana from mountains. The flow almost creates an energetic wall that separates two distinct elements. Hard to explain but after hours in the woods I feel closer to the subtle energy of the space, it’s easy to ignore. Once on the other side I knew what to expect from Whitecap and all of the lesser summits leading to the peak. Pushing to the top the trees get more scrubby and signs of human life fully recede. When people talk about the Hundred Mile Wilderness this is the part they are talking about. Whitecap is majestic. Too far away for a day hike, it doesn’t see a lot of traffic and the solitude is palpable. I’ve already explained the summit, but each aspect offers a distinct view. I made it in 4 hours, I was standing at the peak 13hrs into my run. I was way ahead of schedule and feeling great. I came off the back and headed for Jo-Mary road. Eat, drink, keep moving. It was happening. The trail ahead was blurring grey with green in my periphery as I moved. Keep moving. My hiking poles lashed to my hands kept time on rocks as I sang with my body in motion. It felt like skiing out from Teocali bowl just before you take off your skis to walk out, where every push and glide is intentional to maximise distance. I was pushing and gliding over the terrain, not running, not hiking. It was something new. It felt like a celebration, not just of my training, but of my life. All my scars and the laugh lines down my face, like the rings of a felled tree, tell my age. I am prepared for this moment. Nom, nom, nom, more sesame sticks and walnuts. How can I be unhappy when everything I’ve been through has brought me to this place. 15 hours gleefully happy. No music, No caffeine. I’m still not sure what sorcery allowed for that. This was a magical time.
They say half way of a hundred miler is at mile 70. I knew it was inevitable that I would go to a dark place. Pushing to these distances is super-human, there’s no way around that. It was only a matter of time before I would be in some trouble. My food supply was off too. I had strayed from my nutrition schedule, only eating bars, Stinger waffles, and sesame sticks with walnuts (my secret weapon). All I had left was sugary-chews and caffeine, not good. I took stock of my situation. Why was I here? To beat a record? To get a better sponsorship deal? To make it on a podcast? Sure, I want all of these things, but why was I really out there? I was there to prove to myself that I could do it. That I could prepare my body for such an undertaking and do it faster than anyone else. After 18 hours I had made it 60 miles to Jo-mary road, the rest of the trail is flatish and rooty twisting around the campsites and lakes in the shadow of Katahdin. 40 miles to go. I knew my pack wasn’t prepared for what laid ahead, nutrition wise. I didn’t have the food for the journey. I would probably be puking in a few hours, good thing I know how to suffer.
Suffering. Pain is so relative. You get so accustomed to it. It becomes normal and you don’t know that life isn’t supposed to be like that. As if my personal experience weren’t enough I’ve suffered through plenty of races to know that I can do it. I can throw that switch and hurt myself to achieve a goal. I already know this about myself. I wasn’t out there to suffer. I don’t want to suffer anymore. So, like any proper gambler, I cashed my chips in. I want to snuggle with my love and drink around a campfire with friends. I don’t need to keep doing this. I have it already. I know I had the record, probably by a few hours. So I stopped running. All these months later, I don’t regret it. I don’t need the validation.
The time spent on trail was magical. The run and the training. But mostly the training. I made new friends, connected with nature in a deep way, and reached a new peak in my fitness. That is what I wanted to accomplish, and I did.
Of course there are lessons learned and things to improve on. And sure there is a part of me that wants to get the attention of the FKT world. But at the end of the day it’s about love. Can I cultivate love around me? Can I wrap myself in it and carry it with me? Now, when I run it’s only with love. And sure, I’m not logging the miles I should be. And as the winter solstice nears I’m struggling to keep that fire burning. But I know whenever I go out and move my body it stokes the flame. I think back to the softer ground where the ferns grow, the grandfather quiet of the Hermitage. Forth Mountain bog. The rugged Hagas. You gave me so much. Taught me to love myself
Now, months out, the city busses passing by my window, I keep thinking, could I run 100 miles in love? How could I prepare myself for that?
