Heartland 100 2007

By Ron Bateman

Editor’s note: Ron’s report with pictures can be found at

http://www.touchthehorizon.org/touching_the_horizon

I.

“Plans are worthless, but planning is everything” – Dwight D. Eisenhower

The alarm clock rousted me at 3:30. I felt terrific. I started the coffee, and Rosanna applied sunscreen and Band-Aids. I got dressed and headed down to the lobby. I had asked the Hotel Manager the night before if I could get a couple slices of wheat toast, and he said it wouldn’t be a problem. In fact, he was still there at the front desk at 4 in the morning. He took care of me, and I ate alone. Back upstairs, my father and my wife were finishing packing the tub and cooler that held all the food, clothing and other supplies.

We met up with our friend, Dave Sears and headed for the car. Brian Krebbs was downstairs in the hotel lobby smiling, waiting for us. He planned to drive the 30 miles to Cassoday just to see me run into the night. As he pulled around the building we discovered that the right rear tire was flat and the rental car didn’t have a jack. But, as is so typical with Brian, he remained undyingly upbeat, promising to see me later in the day when we would log several miles together. We paused to pray together in the parking lot before leaving.

I don’t remember any nervousness on the drive up, nothing like before my first 26.2. Several events in the weeks before the race made me realize that I was a single piece in a much larger puzzle. Perhaps a corner piece, one that you might like to build upon, but a single piece nonetheless. My little idea, that had been so lonely in the beginning, had through faith and the efforts of so many people gained momentum and become so much more. Many, many people were playing integral parts. Now it was my turn.

I was clumsy at the start. Sometimes the way the headlamp dances around in the dark makes me dizzy, off- balance. I am not the best night runner. After about fifteen minutes of weaving this way and that, I shut my headlamp off and ran in the darkness. The stars to the south and east were beautiful in the pre-dawn sky and an incredible display of lighting could be seen far off to the north. The race course would eventually take us that way, but the stars above were beautiful at that moment. The first eight miles were perfectly flat and the ground was soft from the previous day’s rain. I found my groove in the darkness and was happy that the race had finally begun after months of anticipation. I could hear (more than see) people moving around me in that darkness. I thought about turning on my Ipod and I thought about striking up a conversation with another runner, but I didn’t want to change those moments—they were truly perfect. I wasn’t afraid of what was ahead…

As the sun played up over the southeastern horizon, we finally moved into the rolling hills. It’s truly an amazing site and my only lament over the next several hours was the concentration needed to find secure footing took away from an unencumbered ability to enjoy the majestic landscape. Speaking of footing, we also encountered the first of dozens of cattle guards that we would need to navigate during the race—they come in all shapes in sizes and I now knew why the race director had asked us to stop and walk over them. Rounded pipes separated by 5 or 6 inches that prevent the open range cattle from moving from one area to another are treacherous if they are wet, it’s dark, or you are tired. It would be terribly easy to sprain or break something if you slipped on one.

I motored through the first manned aid station, Battle Creek. Rosanna, Dave, and my father were waiting 7 miles up the road at Lapland. I had everything I needed—water, Heed, and gel packs—for the time being. I spent a good deal of these first few hours “leap-frogging” with other racers whose run/walk routine was slightly different from mine. My plan was to run for 22 minutes and walk for 8. It worked fabulously on my long training runs and landed me in Lapland about 10 minutes before I had planned to be there. The plan was playing out to perfection.

II.

"Things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember" – Seneca

I headed east from the Lapland aid station and felt great. I had a couple of hard-boiled russet potatoes and a hard-boiled egg and walked as I ate. I finally turned on my Ipod and listened to Dave Matthews, I think. I resumed my routine of walking and running. The 8 miles to Teterville is relatively uneventful–a four-mile straightaway with a left turn, followed by another fairly benign four-mile march to the north. It was after making this left turn that I saw what had been sneaking up on us (as if anything can truly sneak up on you when you can see for 20 miles). Soon I could hear the thunder building in the distance, the ever-darkening sky stretched from the southwest to the northeast, roughly parallel to the Kansas turnpike. It was about this time that I saw the first 50-mile runner returning from the turnaround. I wondered to myself if he would make it back to Cassoday before the rain came. I also began to question if I would make it to Teterville without getting soaked. The sun had come out right before Lapland and I had forgotten completely about the lightning from this morning or the bleak forecast for the weekend. For that reason, I wasn’t really concerned—I really felt like, given the amount of terrain we would be covering and the length of time we would be out in the elements, I would be getting wet sometime during the race and it might as well be now. Perhaps, subconsciously, I picked up the pace a bit because of the looming rain or I just felt good. Either way, I rolled into the 25-mile checkpoint 16 minutes ahead of my plan.

After the twenty-five mile checkpoint, the course changed character. I remember hearing another runner remark, as we headed out in a slight rain, that this was the highest and most exposed 11.5 miles of the course. The course turned north off of the main county road and the gravel became larger in size as it gradually climbed. Gaining the heights, rain could be seen in pockets across the horizon—from north to south. It came in fast and I put on my coat and hood. It made those seldom traveled roads muddy and my running shoes became caked with an inch of mud on them.

This was when my plan went out the window. I was no longer adhering to the run 22 / walk 8 mantra, but I didn’t beat myself up too much. I kept telling myself that I was moving forward and that was all that mattered. One critical thing I learned during this race was the need to walk the hills from the beginning. Any gains (a few minutes here or there) are more than lost when it comes to their toll on your body.

Another critical thing I learned on that desolate stretch of road was how to urinate while moving. The 50-mile runners had turned around and were heading back and the remaining 77 100-mile runners were spread out like ants across the countryside. This afforded me a bit of privacy and made me feel better about not running as much as I had planned. After all, I was so hydrated that I was stopping every 10 minutes to relieve myself. I know this discussion (of this ilk) may seem a little crass. But I learned long ago that these subjects are not taboo when it comes to distance running and are bridges that must be crossed. There is nothing natural about running 100 miles and your body can do some rather absurd things when it’s put under such duress.

In any event, I felt better about my ability to keep moving and the rain and lightning finally gave way. The wind, however, did not. It blew relentlessly across the ridge at about 25 mph. The road improved and I got back to running. I stormed into the Ridge Line aid station still 5 minutes ahead of my plan. All things considered, I couldn’t have been happier with the way things were going.

III.

“I’m a firm believer that the Lord sometimes has to short-circuit even our best plans for our benefit.” -- Tony Dungy

I seldom mentioned the slight pain in my right knee and shin over the past few weeks. I didn’t want it to be a crutch. I didn’t want it to be an excuse. I didn’t want it to be an open door, allowing me to sneak out. But, more than any of that, I didn’t want it to creep into my subconscious where it could grow and manifest itself more profoundly. I told Rosanna about it and my massage therapist friend, Tamera. They both helped me stretch and help mitigate the pain. Of course I was tapering so the decreased number of miles allowed it to get no worse. I often considered myself fortunate to have avoided any serious injury during those high-mileage summer months. With only 5 months to dedicate to training for this run, a sprain or a bout with tendonitis would’ve derailed my race plans before setting a foot in Kansas.

Leaving Ridge Line, the course heads downhill pretty sharply for a mile or two. It was during these two miles that the nagging pain left any subconscious residence and parked itself squarely on my front lawn. Every time my right leg hit the ground a jolt of pain would radiate from either my right ankle or my right knee. It was time to make an adjustment to the plan—I was able to walk briskly without the pain, but when I shuffled or jogged, it really hurt. That made the solution pretty simple: For the time being, I would walk.

I didn’t panic. I never thought how am I going to finish this thing with this pain? I never grumbled why is this happening to me? Perhaps Rosanna is the only person who can fully appreciate the personal growth that this calmness signifies. She has seen countless times over the past dozen years where I found myself in fourth and long and having to punt. It was seldom done with grace and aplomb. I simply turned my Ipod back on and began listening to Tony Dungy’s recent book, “Quiet Strength”. I read this book early in September and it served as an amazing source of inspiration during some recent personal trials. Coach Dungy’s mellow voice acted like an anchor, not allowing me to drift into any panic. I listened to about 5 chapters and decided that I was tired of having those things in my ears. It was about this time that I saw the leader of the 100-mile run coming back my way. He was probably 20 miles ahead of me. Phenomenal.

I met Brent just before getting to Matfield Green. He was from Oklahoma City and more than happy to talk. He had a pacer joining him in the next few minutes and I was a bit jealous. I still had to motor another 15 miles before Brian would be hitting the trail with me. I got to Matfield Green about 6 minutes early—tremendous given the pain in my right knee and ankle.

A couple of other things merit mentioning: First, the Krebbs family hadn’t arrived yet and that concerned me (given the flat tire) and, second, I had mistakenly underestimated the time it would take me to get to the 50-mile turnaround and back. I mentioned it to Rosanna, but I feel it played a key role in the race later on. I had some soup, a couple more potatoes and another hard-boiled egg before heading for the halfway point.

The late afternoon sun made this section of the race a little hot. Not far out of Matfield Green I wished I had poured some cold water over my head to cool my body temperature. I tried shuffling again during this phase of the race. I would pick out a telephone pole a few hundred feet ahead and go for it. All the while, saying my kids’ names with every step. “Miranda, Garrick, Miranda, Garrick, Miranda, Garrick…”

I hit the 50-mile turnaround at 11 hours and 2 minutes. I didn’t linger for very long. I grabbed a few jellybeans and they almost made me sick. As I made the steep climb back up from the checkpoint, I thought about how I probably wouldn’t make it to my goal of 100 miles in 24 hours. 13 hours would be tough given the toll the race had already taken on my knee. But I wasn’t discouraged. I was actually very excited that I only had about 2 hours left until I would have company for the rest of the race.

An interesting thing happened on the way back to Matfield Green. Another runner passed and stopped a few hundred feet ahead of me. He was stretching and set his water bottle on a 3-foot tall parapet wall on the edge of the road over a culvert. The wind had blown it off and it landed in a quagmire of stagnant water below. I stopped to make sure he was all right. He had a long reed in his hand and was trying to lasso his bottle. I told him I had plenty of water to share for the next three miles, but he persisted. We walked for a while together and he told me that this was his second attempt at 100 miles. He had dropped out of the Arkansas Traveler at 84 miles. He said his legs quit working. I wondered to myself how you could give up so close to the finish.

It was a reunion of sorts when I got back to Matfield Green. Brian was ready to go and Jacob and Silas cheered me on. I lay down in the back of the Subaru and Rosanna put ice on my knee and ankle. I tried to force down a sandwich, but couldn’t stomach the last few bites.

IV.

“Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase.” –Martin Luther King

Brian had been running 10 miles a day for the past several weeks. He’s always loved running and when I asked him if he would pace me for 17 miles, he took to the idea like a duck to water. I often think about how lucky I am to have found the Krebbs Family. I think about how much more I have gotten from them than what I have given in return. There are so many people out there who need help in some way or another. I almost felt guilty when I first gave Brandy a call because if she was to ask me why I chose them and not someone else, I didn’t have an answer. As if I needed it, Brian’s passion for running is just further confirmation that I was on the right path.

We left our headlamps off in the twilight. The sky grew increasingly dark, but our vision adapted to the darkness. It was amazingly peaceful until I almost stepped on a snake. I jumped and scared Brian. I think he thought I hurt myself. It didn’t frighten us enough to turn on our headlamps, though. Pretty soon, I had the feeling that we weren’t alone. I told Brian that I thought a herd of cattle were surrounding us. He said he didn’t see them. I remember thinking to myself that it’s way to earlier for me to be hallucinating. He turned on his hand-held light and sure enough we were adrift in a sea of cattle. He shut his light off as not to scare them. For the next 20 minutes or so, it was cool to hear them rustle around us, occasionally picking up their pace to move from our path.

A short while later a couple from Cedarburg, WI (Rosanna’s home town) caught up with us. We got to talking with Brent (#2) and his wife. Like me, he had an amazing group of supporters with him, including his parents, children and brothers. He had a prayer list of forty-some people that he carried with him. Brian began the story about how the two of us found ourselves on this remote stretch of road. He shared with them the whole story, referring to me periodically as “Ronnie”, which I thought was funny. It’s such a humbling experience to hear Brian talk about me. Brent added us to his prayer list and they bid us farewell.

Sometime in the next mile or so, I took my first gel pack with caffeine. I really hoped it would give me a bigger kick, but no such luck. We arrived at the Ridge Line aid station not much later, just before 9 p.m. I lay down in the car again for a few minutes while Rosanna iced my ankle and knee some more. I remember sitting up and being cold. The wind was still pretty ferocious and I knew it would only be worse on this next section so I asked for a warmer shirt, my hat, and my gloves. Brian and I headed back out into the night.

I thought about my friend Dave Tanner during this stretch. I had read somewhere that miles 60-70 were the hardest and it kind of surprised me. Dave, however, confirmed that this actually was the case. You have so many miles down, your body is beaten down, but the end isn’t yet in site. I was comforted by the fact that Brian was with me and getting to Texaco Hill would put me on the downhill side of 70 miles.

The Texaco Hill aid station that I had walked right by earlier in the race looked like a lunar outpost. The tent glowed white and we could see it from a long distance off. We stopped this time. They told us that the winds had blown so hard that it broke two of the support poles. I told Brian that I didn’t want to linger very long—3 or 4 minutes was all, just a chance to rest my eyes. I think I had some saltines and a little more soup before heading back down the road. I put my hat and gloves on and clipped my visor to the Camelbak.

Brian and I didn’t talk a lot, with the exception of me apologizing for my clumsiness that resulted in me careening headlong into him every hundred feet or so. Maybe we talked more than I remember, but we couldn’t hear each other very well over the wind. There wasn’t anything uncomfortable about the silence. He patiently held the light, showing the way.

I knew I was tired. I knew I had slowed down considerably. I knew my knee and ankle were hurting…a lot. But I never thought about stopping. I just kept calculating (as best I could) whether or not I could finish before the time limit. And even though I am no mathematician, there seemed to be no problem in finishing before the 30-hour limit. We arrived back at Teterville well after my plan said we would be there. It was one in the morning. My dad was worried, Rosanna would later tell me.

V.

“Glory lies in the attempt to reach one's goal and not in reaching it.” – Mohandas Gandhi

Lying in the back of the Subaru, Rosanna iced my knee and ankle once again. I never realized (until later) that she had pulled Brian aside and asked him how I was doing, if he thought I could finish. He reassured her that I was doing great and didn’t doubt I had enough to make it to the end.

After another cup of soup and some warmer clothes, my dad and I took off. I don’t remember us talking too much either during those hours. Perhaps I expected the fire and brimstone of a Baptist preacher. Perhaps I expected a Vince Lombardi speech extolling the virtue of leaving it all on the field of play. Perhaps my father, the accountant, had seen the numbers on Rosanna’s clipboard and knew something I didn’t – that I had already left it all out there on that Kansas plain.

Whatever the case, sometime as we walked together in the hours after heading out from the 75-mile checkpoint, my dad said, matter of factly, “You don’t have to finish this thing. You’ve done so much for the Krebbs. You have nothing left to prove.” It wasn’t the speech I thought I was going to hear, but perhaps it was the one I needed to hear. I’ve learned a lot about the difference between what one needs and what one wants in the past few months. He merely opened a door that needed to be opened. As I’ve mentioned, I NEVER considered calling it quits before that point. Not for a single moment did it enter my mind. I had given up the idea of 24 hours, but still believed I could finish under the time limit. We walked for a while in silence and I said, “Maybe I will call it quits when we get back to Lapland.”

I picked up speed. My dad recognized it and asked, “Feeling good again?” Looking back, these were my agonal breaths, my last gasps. I crashed soon after. I would take two steps and then I would have to stop. I repeated this process for a few hundred feet maybe. Eventually, I just sat down.

Sitting on the ground, I thought about Viktor Frankl and his book “Man’s Search for Meaning” in which he describes the horror of the holocaust—the absolute suffering that he and six million other Jewish people experienced. It made me embarrassed to have suffered a mere 22 hours. I thought about Dean Karnazes suggesting that if you were too tired to run, then you should walk, and if you were too tired to walk, then you should crawl. It hurt when I rolled over on my knees. Mostly I thought about just going to sleep. My dad asked if I wanted him to leave me his fleece coat so that he could run ahead and get Rosanna to bring back the car. I told him that I would be hypothermic before he got back.

Moments later, the lights of a vehicle could be seen in the distance. I had not seen a vehicle on the roads since the sun went down 8 hours earlier. As it got closer, my dad waved them down in the darkness. As he poked his head in the driver’s window, I could see the license plate on the back. The guy was a firefighter. “Care to help a brother firefighter from Indiana?” I interrupted. He pointed us to the bed of the truck and within minutes we were in Lapland.

That vehicle was placed on that road for a reason—for those that care about and depend upon me. The fact that he was an off duty firefighter, in the middle of nowhere, 80 miles from his hometown was God’s way of telling me that my dad was right—I had done everything I set out to do. I had given it everything and there was nothing left to prove.

I almost broke down when I saw Rosanna. She wanted her time with me. She deserved those last 17 miles. I could see the sadness in her eyes. I hollered to the worker in the checkpoint that #2 was dropping out and went and sat in the front seat of the Subaru. I lay the seat back and fell into a fitful sleep on the drive back the hotel. I couldn’t walk so they put me on the luggage carrier and rolled me into the hotel. Dave opened the door to his room and graciously allowed me to lie on the bed. Rosanna iced my ankle and knee and sat and watched me convulse intermittently for the next 2 hours.

Epilogue

“Unless a life is lived for others, it is not worthwhile” -- Mother Teresa

I knocked on Brandy’s hotel door around 10 a.m. on Sunday morning. She gave me a hug before I could say a word. I leaned there in the doorway and told her and Susan about how everything had come to an end, the firefighters, the convulsions, everything. She just told me how proud of me they were. You don’t hear that very often as an adult. That’s kind of a shame. I tell my kids that I am proud of them every chance I get. I can see the effect it has on them. Somewhere along the line it became gauche to say that to anyone with a driver’s license, though. The world would be a little bit nicer if this weren’t the case.

Jacob wanted to help me with breakfast, so I hobbled into the elevator and headed downstairs with him. He got me toast and coffee and jelly, and when he was done, he set his hand on my forearm and said, “You are such a blessing to my family.” I was speechless. I didn’t have a clue what to say to an 8 year old saying something like this to me. Maybe I said, “Thank you” but I am not sure.

Pretty soon Brandy and Susan came down to join us. She told me of a dream she had, back in June, where two firefighters came to my aid. She had no reason to assume that they would come from outside the Bloomington Fire Department. To me, this demonstrates that God has a sense of humor—only someone as thickheaded as me would need a further indication that what happened, did so for a reason.

It’s been just about a week now since we got back from Kansas. My knee and ankle are feeling much better. I still have a pretty bad cough—from the wind and rain, I guess. I haven’t run yet, but hope to very soon.

Writing my experience has been as therapeutic for my mind as the rest has been for my body. I thought I would be relieved when it was all over. But that’s not the case, actually. And writing has helped me slowly re-open the door that felt so abruptly closed last Sunday morning.

I think often about going back and doing the race again. That’s the competitor in me, I suppose. I have friends that would say, quite simply, that I am addicted to running, the adrenaline. They may be a little right, but that’s certainly not the whole story. After such an amazing, fulfilling experience, how could I not want to do it again?

I wrestle a little every day with not finishing the race. I try not to linger too long on the fact that I didn’t reach the finish line, though. It seems that in doing so I diminish the multitude of other incredible things that have happened since this journey began. Ironically, It seems to me that finishing the race would have omitted a few key pieces of the puzzle. I remind myself of this when these thoughts creep in. The bottom line for me, then, is that question of needs and wants—I wanted to finish the race, but I didn’t need to.