I visited John Worgan yesterday and was encouraged to see he has lost none of the fighting spirit that he always had. He greeted me warmly and was as gracious and hospitable as ever. Funny, too. As he says, "A man with a pig’s heart valve has earned the right to be funny!"
  When a person can be self-deprecating and humorous while undergoing a long series of chemo treatments, you relax a little, get the feeling you are privileged to be in the same room with a real man. Character is measured in many ways other than speed of foot or running accomplishments, and John has long had all bases covered. He is the rare businessman who was successful financially while never sacrificing the more personal side of life.
  John crewed me from his truck on many of my BB/BS solo Hyannis.-P’town jaunts, presided a term over the CCAC, hosted many a Grand Prix race, underwrote many worthwhile Cape Cod charities, hosted Cape Cod Baseball League players, even ran the 7-mile Falmouth Road Race AFTER double knee replacement.
  He loved running, and he loves runners.
  It is wonderful to see his lovely Connie, his true partner in this race of life, loyally by his side in this time of need. If ever I saw true romance, it is these two. Like their house sign states so aptly: Gettin It Right.
  Boy, do they ever.
  The Big C and whatever else John might be fighting must be quaking its shaking nerves in its dirty hole about right now, for it has fired its heaviest artillery at these two only to see their shining faces shouting we have only just begun to fight!
  Join in and support these two wonderful members of the club and send your get well wishes to:
  John Worgan
  8 Summer Lane
  Brewster, Ma. 02631

~ Pete Stringer

  This past Saturday, Jan. 27th, the Cape Cod Ultra Society staged its debut ultra race under the sagacious eye of race director Bob “I got it all under control” Jensen, fresh off his fearless triumph of conquering the mighty rt.66 Mother Road 100. On a day better suited for penguins, ten intrepid ice warriors showed up at the Sandy Neck starting line despite the seven degree weather. Seven opted for the full 50K, while three newbies prepped for bigger things later by doing a single traverse of the figure-eight double-loop course.

  The upside of the frigid weather was that it made the beach sand slightly harder and thus easier to run on throughout the day (it had only risen to 13 degrees by noon), but recent storms made the beach side rockier than usual, and the overall times were not as quick as they might have been. Everyone was muffled up with piles of explorer-worthy garments, so recognition of friends depended more to voice recognition than eyesight. The group gathered by the Atlantic Ocean to answer Bob’s son Rob’s starting flare gun appeared incognito, the swaddling clothes lending a quaint overweight look to bony ultra types. Friends were identified vocally, despite the broad daylight.

  But off we went on the leg to Scorton Creek, each picking the line we thought most runnable, be it up near the dunes out of the wind, or lower and flatter surface down near the waves, which offered a changing surface every couple hundred yards. At Scorton Creek we turn left and picked up the marsh trail, heading back to the parking lot for about a mile. About this time we experimented with the ice sheets, tentatively discovering which was runnable (this is salt tidal water, remember) and what would break and give us a quick ice footbath.

  At the three and a half mile point, the trail heads back to the beach for the final mile and a half to the parking lot (and start), thus completing the first loop. The second loop of the figure eight heads about a half mile on the macadam to the ranger’s station, then due east on the marsh trail, where we run to trail #5, about 4.5 miles along a double track trail. With the marsh on your right and unrunnable thickets to your left, it was pretty difficult not to occasionally dunk your feet for a flash when the ice would give. Brrr…I found that this was a mighty depressing situation only a mile or so into this section after I had taken a couple of ice soaks. From then on, prudence, not time, ruled the day, and at times I would even kneel and crawl my way around suspect surface…after the race, I found that other runners used this same approach, and hang the minutes lost! (this is tough for an inveterate competitive fellow to choose, an exercise in patience) At trail # 5 the trail takes an abrupt left hand turn through the dunes, a winding and altogether charming winter wonderland through the woods that presents us back on the beach a half mile later. Here we are four and a half miles from home, and running this section appears as endless as a Badwater, for there are nothing but dunes and beach as far as one can see. However, the faint shape of the Cape Cod Bridge became more and more distinct, and one could measure some progress that way. I reached the parking lot with a run-a-mile, walk-five-minute routine I intend to try at the six day race in May, and was cheerfully greeted by station captain Gael Gilmore and the teen band “The Tainted Cheese” (Rob & his four friends, local rock celebs). Unfortunately, they were unused to being roused at such an early hour for wake-up, and had forgotten their instruments. Efforts acapella were disappointing and quickly abandoned.

  The first lap had taken me three hours seven minutes, and I was told I was in fifth place in the 50K, with the duo of Jeff List (recent Hellgate completer) and Greg Stone running side by side in the lead. It was great to discover I had an extra pair of dry socks in my car, and even though I had trouble changing into the icy shoes again, the feeling was definitely comfy by comparison. Off I went for the second lap, and even though the temp had only moved a tad, it appeared more clement now, and my competitiveness returned. This was fun!

  Coming through the forward side of the Sandwich loop, it was nice to see Jeff & Greg heading in the opposite direction, as well as women’s winner Susana Carlson, smiling all. Second loop took me 3:36, so despite being passed by Fred Merullo near trail #4, it felt good. It felt especially good to arrive at the home base after about 20 miles and see my smiling cherry-cheeked wife Jane basking in her finish of the 25K. Noble, ever-lovely Jane, to borrow my bud Fred’s line. Hooray for you! I thought — not just gorgeous but tough as nails too!! A veritable eskimo squaw at the Iditarod!

  Bob’s wife Fiona had relieved Gael as the official timekeeper and aide-de-camp, and was busy helping everyone. The boys in the band (now renamed : “A Lesson Learned”) had headed home to retrive their guitars, but somehow lost their way back to the base camp. Second lap I managed to keep the feet dry (the tide had ebbed some too, of course, as our oceanographer Jeff had explained), and all went well. I was told that Greg had taken advantage of Jeff’s few walking breaks on the beach heading home to put a bit of distance between them and capture the coveted beachsand winner’s trophy. (Bob’s artistry) Also hand-made were the inscribed quahog shells for all finishers. These were historical and authentic-looking and thus a special hit. A couple of bowls of Bob’s delicious Shackleton soup revived the circulation, and stories were told. All were in awe of the natural beauty of the course in this pristine park (it looks exactly the same today as it appeared those many Saturday’s of my youth sixty years ago), and so appreciated that the cold snap had not deterred our participating. We thought few changes would be necessary for a successful return next year.

[Results]

   “What difference does it make how fit you are if you’ve lost your
mind?”
   This statement was a quote attributed to the wife of one of the
entrants in the Haliburton Forest 100-mile Endurance Run held
Labor Day weekend in Northern Ontario.  The setting was the
stark, primitive wilderness in a private, protected wild animal
preserve.
   I was there because I had found it too difficult to wait a whole
year for personal redemption.  I had attempted the Vermont 100
a month earlier, only to be frustrated by losing the trail in the dark
of night after passing the last medical checkpoint at 84 miles,
still on schedule for an American record in my age group and on
the way to becoming the first person from Cape Cod to officially
run 100 miles non-stop.
   The difference, this time around, was that I had a support crew. 
I had gone to Vermont without heeding the race director’s suggestion
that I have handlers or “pacers” for the last few miles.  I had sadly
learned that while running may be ultimate individual sport, ultra trail
running over huge distances is a team effort – both logistically and
emotionally.  My girl friend Diane Metayer and Harold Ratchford,
the best buddy over the past 30 years, provided me with the
wherewithal to be successful this time around.
   The “Holy Grail” of 100 running is to complete the distance in
24 hours; a special belt buckle is awarded to those who accomplish
the feat.  Thus, when I crossed the line at 5:34 a.m. the following
day, there was a special sense of joining an elite group of human
beings.  Only five of us were in this category, though 11 of the
22 starters completed the course in the allotted 30 hours.  My time
placed be two hours ahead of the next finisher in my age group,
whom I had passed for the last time at 74 miles.
   Diane and Harold alternated at pacing me over the last 20 miles. 
Their help was invaluable.  By that time I was doing more walking
than running, almost a necessity in the dark, given the difficulty of
seeing roots, rocks and trail signs with a flashlight.  In preparation,
I had taken a cue from Ted Corbitt’s book and had run a lot of
26-mile marathons beforehand; six of them since Boston, or about
one every other week.  What would I do different next time?  I
would drink more coffee, no matter how much antacid what would
require.  I would walk uphills even earlier than I did, perhaps at 40
miles on.  I would not attempt two 100’s this close together.
   In the end, as we rather gingerly and painfully limped over to
the awards brunch the next day, Harold – a non-runner, totally
innocent of the crazy weekend he had volunteered for – turned to
me and smiled, “Geez, Pete, if I had known how bad you wanted
one of those buckles, I would have gone out and bought ya one!”
   What, and miss all the glory?

     Every once in a while, we sluggers manage to carve our little ray of sunshine, and I guess I got mine on Sunday. But it came hard.

     In late August I had planned my Fall of races, and had duly noticed that Dick Fedion’s 60′s division course record at the Nifty Fifty was somewhat in my ball park. The record was 7:52:15, and I had run within three minutes of that time in 1998, the last time I had run the race. But that was also the year I was in great shape, having done a 19:46 100 and several marathons in the fall around 3:20. Plus I was three years older now, with the usual trickle of aging detria. Time doth march on, as Ponce Deleon even found out.

     I had crashed and burned in my Slam pursuit over the summer, so knew I needed to take inventory and do something different. I began a slow diet, losing about a pound a week, with a goal of 162 for the race in eight weeks. I am a natural heavyweight, and if I eat “normal”, I gradually grow to over 190 despite 50 or 60 miles a week, which has predictable influence on my times. I have a rough tab on this effect in my 30 years of Jim Fixx and John Jerome running logs, which is almost irrelevant to the skinny guys, who simply don’t relate. My mileage and training hasn’t changed significantly for 20 years, after a learning period of 30 years before that, as I was one of the original subscribers to Track & Field News back in 1953, when it was Bert & Cordner Nelson’s newsletter.

     I ran the Clarence Demar in 3:48 (170lbs.), Cape Cod (very hilly) in 3:38 (166), then the week before sort of skated through Jeff Washburn’s new Stone Cat Ale trail marathon in 5:26 because it was a very forgiving course and I wanted to show my support for a good friend’s new venture (superb in every way, I might say). Called it my last long run, which I always do closer to a race than advised anyway, but always on non-pavement so I get the low impact of the beach or golf course.

     Through my buddy Rusty Snow (13th American at New York this year in 2:22), I have learned and practiced the depletion diet before a race, plus a few other logistical squeezers, like following strict tangents (Jim Garcia is a master at this, I noticed during the race — and why not? After all, he is an engineer), peeing on the run, racing through the aid stations with prearranged grab bottles, etc.

     I also had the luxury of changing shirts on the fly, as my girl friend Jane was there every loop, and as it grew warmer, it was great to run barechested for a while in my best Walt Stack imitation, as is my usual wont. I would have liked to slip out of the tights just to shorts, but the comfortability factor wouldn’t have warranted the time lost for this. Didn’t want to stop for nothin’. Including, I hasten to add, a rascally little white toy poodle who came yapping out at us, then BIT me in the ankle, the little #X*%!, as Steve Peckonis observed, grabbing a stick up. Oh well. Life in the battle zone.

     The pace was the key. I puposely went through the marathon slower (4:01 to 3:59) than in ’98, hoping to slow down less in the late stages, and had noticed in admiration some of the great negative-split patience of folks like Betsy Laflamme in previous years. Every running cost-efficiency test I have read bears this out, but few have the discipline to bring this to practice, save a few great track runners. (check out the last mile of every 10,000 meter world record) The best I could do was to slow down less, and at all costs avoid anything resembling the wall.

     It was very hard. From my laminated sheet tucked in my shorts, I never had the luxury of a three or four minute cushion to relax with, but had to grind away. A loop course offers some extras, like Garcia and Setnes duel for 35 miles as they whizzed by me, the many greetings from my fellow grunters as we trudged along. Missy Heeb and Ruthie Kesler and yes, Dick Fedion himself, shouted encouragement every time I came to the home station. Boy, that helps. And there was always Jane, my noble Jane, who had seen me through all the other wars of Vermont and Leadville and Western States. This was tough, but damn, isn’t everything you every really wanted tough?

     The last loop was scary. I knew I had about a minute and a half margin, but was wobbling and knew I was right on the edge. I could fall so easy. I had to be careful not to blow it. All the planning and training and hopes that for once, I would be in the record books right alongside those other real runners. An old man can dream, can’t he?

     The last mile was an exercise in focus and balance, and when I could see Don Allison and Mike Menovich about 300 yards away in front of the Washington Oaks School at the finish line, I couldn’t bear to glance at my watch. Don announced the good news to me, 7:50:50, my fastest 50 ever, and a scant minute 25 seconds inside the record. I collapsed into Jane, who of course was crying and who was the one person who could truly know what it all meant.

     Now, I know I’m a little pea in the pod, and I know the difference between “Well done, lad,” and true greatness — like a Bernd Heinrich (same age!) running a full hour faster than me a month ago at a race in Maine and winning the damn thing outright, but I also know that our sport offers each one of us a chance to pursue our goals for our very own right. And that’s got its own importance, and can be so beautiful.

     After the awards ceremonies, Dick Fedion came over and congratulated me on the new “improvement” on the age group record, wryly adding, “But thanks a lot, Pete.”

     Yet somehow I don’t think he minded a bit.

See you on the trails,

Pete

    It was interesting to read Naoko Takahashi’s eight 5K split times on her way to the first women’s sub-2:20 marathon in Berlin Sunday. Talk about an evenly-paced marathon — the difference between her slowest (first) 3.1 mile checkpoint and her fastest leg (last), was but 23 seconds. Wow. And that little difference can often be explained by a mere topographical change in the course. Or a head wind, for that matter. I’ll bet Adam (Mr. Negative Splits) Polakowski really can appreciate this. He’s the very best when it comes to understanding pace.

**

    I loved seeing Janet Jordan stretch out her previous longest ultra Sunday by 19 miles, as she successfully completed the Vermont 50 mile trail run. Brian did the same course by mountain bike, and now the campaign begins to see if I can get Janet to attempt the Vermont 100 next summer, now that we have “the night-time pathfinder” Brian in the fold to lend his noble light as pacer over the last 32 miles. (allowed in Vermont 100, though you have to leave bicycle at home for that one).

**

    The high school cross-country season takes on an extra twist when half your friends are coaching the various teams. Paul Fendler coaches Cape Cod Academy, Kevin directs Sturgis, Don Bates coaches Harwich, Don Smith leads Barnstable, Brian Corrigan is at the helm for Mashpee, and Jim Hoar trains D-Y. The one and only Melissa Sherman has left for Boston College, but we can still enjoy Jeff Way, Eric Critzer (son of 100-miler Judy), and Eric Burgess duking it out. And the latter two are only juniors, so there is much more to come.

**

    I recommend the book “Racing the Antelope” by Bernd Heinrich for all you naturalists out there. Heinrich is a legendary record holding ultrarunner who has combined his study of some of the amazing endurance feats of other species with his own 100 kilometer running. Heinrich is a professor at the University of Vermont who I met through another good marathoner who teaches there, Ralph Swenson.

**

    George Eliot wrote: “If a man is not willing to attempt to go to the utmost reaches of his perimeters, then how is he ever to discover just how very far he might go?” I like that. The ultra Grand Slam awaits. Cruel, patient, exacting and inscrutable perhaps, but next year, if I just play it just right… Hope does spring eternal.

See you on the trails,

Pete