Pace Setter : March 2024

“Nothing Will Go Wrong”: My Clearwater 50k Experience

by Jon Lindenauer

There were two expressions about marathon running which I heard for the very first time during my training cycle for the Clearwater Ultra:

"A marathon is a public test of private willpower."

And:

"When you run a marathon, you are not racing against other competitors, you are racing against the distance itself."

Those two training maxims could not be more thoroughly etched into my mind in the build up to this race.

The true beginning of that journey was in 2022. I had just completed the Chicago Marathon and felt like I was on top of the world. It was the first time that I would describe myself as having *raced* a full  marathon. Sure, I had *completed* the distance on numerous previous occasions, but I would not say I had truly raced 26.2 miles. More accurately, I had raced 19 or 20 or as far as 25 miles before slowing to a stagger / hobble. My secret goal had always been to "conquer" the marathon then move up to the ultramarathon - however, I never conquered it so that never came to fruition.

After Chicago it seemed as though it was finally time. At long last after years and years of attempts which typically resulted in my vowing to never, ever race another marathon I had solved the puzzle. Within weeks I signed up for 50k and had over a year to mentally prepare. It was my second crack at the distance. The first time was at the USATF 50k Road Racing Championship held annually in Caumsett Park in Long Island, the first weekend of March. That course consisted of a single 5k loop repeated ten times - and when I had run it the ninth 5k loop was possibly mentally, physically and spiritually the toughest 5k I had EVER completed. Ultimately I did finish all ten loops but I felt totally and utterly conquered by the distance (rather than the other way around). "Maybe I am just not cut out for this," I told myself in the aftermath, as I laid flat on my back in the snow, emulating the chalk outline of a murder victim and generally feeling far less alive than usual, "Maybe I should just stick to the shorter distances." It stung. Rather than assuaging my fears, doing an ultra had only served to further reinforce them. Finally though - after all those years and hitting more walls than a malfunctioning Roomba - I had cracked the code. And I had all of 2023 to fine tune things before the big day.

2023 wound up being an emotional rollercoaster of running and racing.

From February through April I had one mediocre performance after another. Even training as hard as ever none of my times were anything special (based on my own historical precedent). The Helderberg 2 Hudson Half was one of the most unpleasant race experiences I ever had in any race of any distance - including full marathons. I focused all my hopes for the season on at least finishing strong with a solid marathon, and had chosen the Maine Coast Marathon in Kennebunk. For the first 16 miles of the race it seemed as though I might actually attain my goal. I was leading the race and running strong. I started to fantasize about what it might feel like to actually win a marathon. A few miles later I suffered the most epic meltdown I had ever experienced in any race. My pace slowed to a halt. I struggled to breathe. Forming coherent thoughts was virtually impossible. Shortly after the mile 23 marker an ambulance was called due to my having collapsed multiple times. For the first time in my running career I had begun a marathon and not finished it. On Strava I titled the effort "My Lowest Low". Later that night when I was somewhat recovered I walked off alone in town. It was a beautiful, charming little slice of New England coastal life. And I could not enjoy it. Instead I was slumped against a tree, crying, feeling pathetic - feeling like I had utterly failed myself. No matter what the place was or the time I would have given anything just to finish. This is the main thing I do for fun and there was nothing remotely fun or enjoyable about what had transpired that morning.

And then - contrary to any and all expectations I had for myself - from that moment on 2023 proceeded to be possibly my best year ever of racing. I shattered my goal at the race that was just 12 days after my failed marathon. I ran 21 races for the rest of the year after Maine Coast and met or exceeded my ambitions at all but two; and both could have gone far worse given their circumstances. However, the plan had always been to run a fall marathon to build my confidence back up for the distance. That never happened, and now I would be going into an ultramarathon remembering that my most recent regular marathon resulted in a DNF and me being carted off the course by a paramedic.

On many occasions I have been asked if I get nervous before races. The answer is almost always "no". Anyone who asked me about the Clearwater Ultra would have heard an emphatic "YES." I am rarely ill and was sick four times from November to January. The home treadmill I purchased specifically for indoor marathon training broke and had to be returned. I had not actually completed a marathon race for an entire calendar year. I was training in upstate New York in the wintertime for a race in a city where the monthly highs regularly went into the high 70s and low 80s. Things which had nothing to do with the race made me anxious: I was given tickets to an MMA event in early February and had a cold chill as I realized "you know, before I go to that I (somehow, someway) have to run a 50k race... Man, oh, man... What have I gotten myself into..."

Not that I would but there was no backing out. I had announced to everyone I was doing this race. Plane tickets were booked, not just for me. Friends, family, co-workers, in some instances people I barely knew - all had wished me luck. My best ever block of marathon training had been realized in the build up to this race - including my first two weeks ever over 100 miles. Still I was haunted by doubts, and fears.

In 2023, I had run (or attempted) 28 races, and easily the race I thought about the most was the Maine Coast Marathon. For over a decade I had fantasized about the prospect of winning a marathon. It did not matter how big or prestigious it was, as long as the measurement of the course was accurate - just a true 26.2 miles. There was something so special about that race which no other lesser distance could never properly replicate. That is the specific distance associated with a person running a long, long way - that is the distance which represents the ultimate feather in a runner's cap. And for me it has become the source of so much mental and emotional anguish. In the middle of the night I would lay awake wondering if I could have still somehow somehow finished the race. Acutely I recalled the bitterness of sitting in the medical tent watching runners go by, seeing them cross the finish line of a race I had led for over twenty miles only to never appear in the results. In my nightmares I would hear the course marshal speaking on a walkie-talkie "Yeah he's about to drop again at any second... he's done." The saying "you're only as good as you last race" weighed heavily on me. There had been so many agonizing miles I had fought my way through at the end of races, and through it all I had always still crossed that finishing mat - now it was not quite always. No shorter distance race could be suitable for me to gain my redemption, it HAD to be a race that was 26.2 miles long, or more.

I got to Clearwater a few days in advance of the race. The weekly high there was over 80 degrees. The last time I had gone running outside back up in New York the high was 15 degrees. In that weather I wore two hats, two pairs of gloves and three tops and bottom layers and was still chilled to the bone. Here,

running a few miles in the morning the day before the 50k I felt exceedingly aware of my lack of heat acclimatization: I wore fairly short shorts and a sleeveless top and was somehow way overdressed. Jumping in the ocean at the end would have been the only way to get more drenched. "Man... If the conditions stay like this for tomorrow," I told myself, still pouring with sweat while recovering indoors, "there is just NO WAY I could realistically finish a 50k."

The night before the race I walked with my wife along the streets of Clearwater Beach. I was afraid. I had already posted on social media the day prior, publicly admitting I was afraid. I thought about my one other previous 50k, and how I had woken up in the morning in a cold basement, still pitch black outside, thinking "I have to run a race today that is over 31 miles long," I braced myself in the dark and the cold and added, "that is FAR."

With all the years and the training and the races since then I was not much less intimidated. From where I was staying I could look out across the water every day of my trip and see the park where I would be starting and (hopefully) finishing, and everyday for varying spans of time I did exactly that. To myself I seemed quieter than usual. I had joked to people that the main goal would be to NOT wind up in the back of an ambulance again - that goal was not actually a joke.

My wife sensed my despondency and stopped us to put her arms around me. She gave the warmest smile.

"You're going to do so well tomorrow," she said, "You're going to feel strong in the race and nothing bad is going to happen. And you're going to finish and be really happy. I know it."

I did not want to ruin such a beautiful sentiment by saying "Maybe.. maybe not."

"Please don't collapse at the finish line," my mother said as we walked in the dark to the car the following morning. She had made that same request a number of times. The racing jersey I was wearing as she said this was for a 5-mile race in Utica where I had collapsed at the finish - the moment was even captured by the local news station. I did not want to make promises I couldn't keep. My own words from a post two days early echoed in my thoughts "the goal is just to cross the starting line and the finish line" which I further amended "it doesn't have to be pretty, if they have to take you away from the finish in a wheelbarrow that is fine, as long as you make it there."

The starting area was loud and lively. Many had traveled from far and wide to make this their "run-cation". Millennium Running - the organization hosting the event - was itself making a journey to get here: the company is based in New England, where the lion's share of its races take place. I would recognize their emcee anywhere, he was barefoot (as always) sporting his signature dark brown dreadlocks and on the microphone he had infectious enthusiasm for days.

I crouched down at the start, recalling my first time in the starting corral of the Boston Marathon. Everyone around me had been patiently sitting, waiting for the time to tick closer to the starting gun before finally standing. It had never occurred to me before that regardless of pace, running a marathon was a long time for a person to be on their feet - this was yet another strategic point which I took to be amplified for the ultramarathon. Crouched down on the pavement with a sea of multicolored shoes all around me, I prayed, then took in the sound of the emcee's voice.

"Nothing will go wrong for you today. Everything is going to go how it's supposed to. You're going to have a great race. Only positive energy."

There was a distinct lack of bibs which matched the white of mine (the color specifically designated for ultramarathoners). Along with the ultra there was a marathon and a half-marathon which would go off at the same time. I knew I needed to be careful not to let myself get dragged into chasing down the top half-marathon runners.

"Don't worry about anyone else," I reminded myself, "You're racing the distance, not any other person."

The starting cue blared.

Immediately as I ran out of the starting chute my gel and hydration belt jostled around wildly. I had to adjust on the fly. This over 31 mile race would feel even longer. The first mile already saw the first hill climb of the course which I created as a wrangled my belt. It was one of three bridges on the course (all of which I would repeat twice), and I knew the topography of the race and of Florida in general to know the most significant hills of the race would be the bridges. As I descended I could see the half and marathon leaders off in the distance. "Don't worry about them," I reiterated to myself, "Just run your own race". Still, just maintaining my same approximate speed, I overtook many of the half leaders in the first few miles. By five and a half miles I was mostly alone. Around that time I passed a set of signs. "..By God's grace.." the penultimate sign read, and was followed by "..You will finish the race."

There were yellow-accented mile markers specially for the ultra. I passed the 24, the 25, the marathon, the 27 - though I was still a long, long ways from actually reaching those distances. As I passed the 28 and the 29 I made a point of telling myself, "You WILL pass these markers again, no matter what, you WILL get to them." The course overall consisted of two half marathon loops along with a separate almost five mile segment completed only by the ultra runners. The turn for the segment fell between the 18 and 19 mile markers for the regular marathon, and would see me reach nearly the 24 mile mark for my own race before it was done. Before I had even run it, I nicknamed this segment: the descent into darkness. Far, far too well I knew how quickly a marathon could change after the 20 mile mark. If I just completed this segment and stopped - with over seven miles still remaining in my overall race - I would still have made it further than I had for the Maine Coast Marathon. I fought back memories of nearly every other marathon I had run - I could so, so easily recollect every single time I had hit the wall and precisely where it had happened, in my first ever marathon (City of Oaks in Raleigh, NC) at exactly 20 miles, at the Tobacco Road marathon at 25 miles, at both Tobacco Road (a different year) and Maine Coast just after 18 miles. The wind became gusty. I feel it pushing against me, and knew it would only become more and more adverse as I wove in a general clockwise direction through the miles still to come. The course was drenched in bright golden sun. I passed many, many struggling marathoners. My greatest mental hurdle of the race came as I eclipsed 26.2 miles. On my Garmin watch I saw I had broken the 2 hour 40 minute barrier. This in and of itself would have already represented my second fastest all-time marathon effort. "Man..." I thought, shaking my head at myself internally, "You could have been done right now and pleased with yourself. You could have been on the beach drinking a cold beer right at this moment. But instead you chose to run FURTHER than a marathon. I really, REALLY don't know about this."

The wind whipped ever more fiercely in the final miles. I passed a younger man running completely backwards to keep the wind out of his face - this was the first time in any race I had seen this employed as a serious tactic. Family members would later tell me that even walking against the wall of wind was a challenge. I cast off my belt at the marathon 25 mile marker (around the 30 for me), the gels were all gone and the bottles were fully drained, and so now it was nothing but dead weight. I could go back and retrieve it later, all I cared about now was finishing an ultramarathon.

"He's about to drop at any second," I remembered. "Yeah, he's done." No, not today, was my rebuke to that memory. I won't be denied this time. Today I am finishing not just a marathon, but an ULTRAmarathon.

"You're going to feel strong in the race and nothing bad is going to happen. And you're going to finish and be really happy."

I kicked it in hard like I was completing a much shorter distance and finished with my arms raised in triumph. The emcee's spirited voice cheered my name over the speakers. The finishing tape struck light against my waist. It was almost exactly how I had envisioned in my mind so many times before - long before I ever knew about this particular race. Only this was better though than what I envision, because this was REAL. I thought I would cry tears of joy but did not. I just smiled and felt the warm sun on my skin, and my family assisted me in my saunter from the finishing chute, then out onto the beach where a whole finishers village had been erected for the occasion.

As I sipped my celebratory beer and watched the waves from afar I finally allowed myself to fully take stock of what had been accomplished.

-I had run my second fastest marathon during the course of the 50k - it being only my second time ever breaking 2:40 for a marathon - and (not so incidentally) only my second time of not hitting the wall during a marathon

-I ran my 50k personal best by 14 minutes

-More importantly than anything else, I felt as though I had conquered the 50k, rather than the other way around. I felt like a true ultramarathoner.

Across nearly two decades of racing, this was more satisfying than any other finish line. It wasn't about winning, or medals, or prizes, it was about redeeming myself to myself. In a completely different part of the country, seeing the ocean at Sand Key Park in Clearwater, Florida was not so unlike seeing it along the coast of Kennebunkport, Maine. I remembered so vividly how I had promised myself this, as I jogged on dead legs along a hilly, windy waterfront road.

The following day it was usually cold for central Florida with temperatures plunging into low 50s. The beaches were desolate. The sky was gray-tinged - there would be no rain but there would be no sunshine either. Hardly anyone was outside for any reason, and the people who were looked as though they were trudging through icy Siberian wilderness. I ran in shorts and a t-shirt along mostly empty walkways, back to Sand Key Park. It was a stark contrast from the day before with virtually nobody there and only sparse remnants that an event had even taken place.

"This is where it happened," I told myself as I jogged through the spot where the finish line had been, "This is where a guy who DNFed his last marathon, and brooded over it for almost nine straight months, won an ultra." What had been a dream for so long was now a comforting memory.

A family member had asked me, "What do you even think about when you are running for that long?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I said, already in the earliest planning phases for my next marathon while my whole body still wore the fatigue of this one, "... Finishing the race!"

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