On the Razor's Edge

A lesson from ultrarunning

I’m Tim Gorichanaz, and this is Ports, a newsletter about design and ethics. Today, something a little different: story time. A special for paid subscribers, here’s a story from my latest 100-mile race, which I ran earlier this month.

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Ten minutes in, and I’m already feeling misanthropic. It’s a competition, so maybe that’s expected. But then again, this race is going to last twenty-something hours if I can manage to finish, and that’s an awful long time to run without any company.

I’m running a 100-mile race in the woods, on a hilly trail dense with rocks and roots. Sometimes during a 100-mile race, I do fall into step with someone I enjoy talking to for hours. Sometimes. But never in the first few hours. At the start, I’m still finding my pace, settling into the day.

Right behind me, these two loudmouths are talking nonstop. They're saying things like, “Oh, we won’t be running up this hill on Loop 6, will we?” and, “Bet that guy’s running to the toilet!”

In my head I’m calculating how much space will be between each runner once we have a chance to spread out over the 16.7-mile loop. It’s around 400 feet. Can’t wait.

I try to keep the effort easy for the first loop, but I must have been trying to get away from the loudmouths, because I finish in just over 3 hours. That puts me on pace for an 18-hour finish, which is way faster than I have any business trying for. Going this fast from the start is to risk blowing up and not finishing at all. In these things at least one-third of the people won't finish, and going out too fast is one big reason.

I go easier on the next loop, and the loudmouths lose me. I finish this loop in 3 and a half hours. That’s encouraging.

Now I get an idea in my head: I should have no trouble finishing this race in under 24 hours—which is the threshold for what’s considered a great time in 100-mile races. I ran this race once before, in 2017, and finished in 26 and a half hours. That time, my first two laps were much slower. Today I’m feeling confident.

By now, night has fallen. The next three loops will be in the dark. I turn on my lamp and get going.

I put more effort into this next loop, but I finish slower: 4 hours. And then I really double down for the next one, only to finish in 4 hours and 10 minutes.

Now I’m pissed, so I work extra hard on the fifth loop, and when I check the time I see that 4 hours and 20 minutes have passed.

All signs point to I went out too fast.

Now I have 4 hours and 40 minutes to complete this last loop, and so far I’ve slowed 10–30 minutes on each one. I might still be able to do it in 24 hours. It will be close. But it’s a razor’s edge, because I could just as easily not finish at all.

To start off this loop, I seriously put in some muscle. I’ve been running for 83 miles at this point and my legs are starting to freeze up, but I’m going to show them who’s boss. I really stretch out, getting as much distance as I can with each stride. I quicken my turnover. This will be my ticket to a faster loop.

But within a few miles, I can’t sustain it anymore. I slow. I freeze. My shin has been hurting, which never happens to me, and I feel some pain at the top of my tibia or fibula or whatever, on the outside of my left knee. I look down, and it’s all bruised.

It’s all I can do now to shuffle forward. I move my arms like I’m running, what we ultrarunners call “power-hiking,” but really it’s like Michael Scott in The Office going sha-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta.

I realize there is no way I am finishing this loop in 4 hours and 40 minutes. A sub-24 finish is out of the question, but I can at least finish, right?

Right?