| The author carried all his gear on a sled that proved problematic.
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On foot at the Arrowhead 135
Runners break trail at winter ultramarathon across Minnesota
by Jim Benike
As the van driver dropped us off for the start of the Arrowhead 135-Mile Winter Ultramarathon just outside of International Falls, Minnesota, he said, "It doesn't really feel that cold. It's a dry kind of cold."
Substituting the word "heat" for "cold," I'd heard the same sentence in Death Valley and the Sahara desert. The locals always say this, especially those who aren't runners.
In fact, it was minus 20. When we went to bed, the forecast was for 4 degrees above zero. How could the weatherman be so far off?
It was still dark on February 5, 2006, when the 32 of us set out on this adventure. Most were mountain
bikers, but there were also two skiers and five runners. The runners, myself included, would be dragging sleds.
This was the second year for the Arrowhead 135, held on the Arrowhead snowmobile trail that crosses the northern tier of Minnesota. The trail was well-groomed and as wide as a country road with just enough loose snow to follow the bikers' tracks – as well as the occasional wolf track.
The first runner to finish the race would be the first ever to do so on foot, given the short history of the race.
In my quest for that honor, I pulled 19 pounds of required survival gear on my sled, including food, water and extra clothing. I had less doubt I would need the tent and sleeping bag rated for a temp of 20 below. The cold was already penetrating my layers of clothing. Oh yeah, it's just a dry kind of cold. Right.
I started out running a little fast, but I needed to stay warm. My eye lids were freezing shut when the duct tape across my nose and cheeks fell off. I had to stop to get my neoprene face mask out, otherwise my nose would get frostbite.
Just 7.5 miles in, one runner and almost all the bikes were ahead of me. I had slowed to a jog. Pulling the sled felt like I was always going up hill. Any real incline forced me to walk.
Even with a 60-hour cutoff, it was theoretically possible to finish the race by walking. There were only two aid stations along the way. The first aid station would be a gas station and general store at 37 miles, and a cabin, where I'd retrieve my drop bag, at 67 miles.
The first day was uneventful as I followed the trail through the snowy pine forest. I hadn't seen anyone except for the occasional snowmobile whizzing by.
I stopped every hour to refill my 28-ounce water bottle from a larger insulated container inside a soft sided cooler. I would drink about half the bottle and sip the rest. My goal was to finish the bottle before it turned to icy slush and froze solid. I ate Perpetium mixed as a paste and McDonald's cheeseburgers, no onions. At 330 calories, the cheeseburgers were good fuel for cold weather. They had less fat than the cashews on which I nibbled.
At 4 p.m., I arrived at the general store just as two bikers were leaving. I sat down for the first time that day and had two hot dogs, a Rice Krispy bar and a cup of hot coffee. After refilling my container with 2 gallons of hot water and putting on my reflective vest complete with flashing lights, I was ready to set out again just as the sun was setting.
The hills started after the aid station. More hills than I expected or trained for. The rails on my sled weren't
designed for going down steep hills. One rail broke just as it got dark.
Fortunately, I had spare rails, bolts, rope and duct tape with which to make repairs. Little did I realize that my rail system would plague me for the rest of the race.
My sled was a $10 4-foot, red plastic job with two sheet metal runners bolted to the bottom. My rail system was two 6-foot pieces of perforated aluminum used for ceramic tile edges bolted to the sled and the
other end connected to an old fanny pack.
The night was cold. I had a small thermometer that barely showed any mercury. I didn't get out my reading glasses to see the exact temperature because I figured it didn't matter. The moon was so bright at times I thought a snowmobile was coming up behind me. In the woods, I turned my headlamp down to the lowest setting. When I was out in the open, I turned it off and enjoyed the moon, stars and the illuminated snowy landscape.
While refilling my water bottle, I noticed one of my metal sled runners was dragging behind the sled. Somehow it had broken. I threw it into the sled. Now the sled pulled unevenly because the rails were different lengths. My system had held together through 100 miles of training. I had even replaced the rails in case of metal fatigue. But those were 100 miles of flat trail, not up and down hills. Coulda, shoulda, woulda, I thought to myself.
My right foot was hurting now – the tendons just above the ankle. I sufferd the same injury in 1999 caused by not enough training on hills. It was hard enough trying to run on level ground, but now I couldn't run the downhills. At 3 mph, this was going to be a long race. Still, there was enough time to beat the 60-hour cutoff.
I had a goal of reaching the halfway point at Melgeorge Resort – a warm cabin with food and my drop bag
– by 1 a.m. That hour had long passed by the time I reached a sign that said the resort was five miles ahead. It would take almost two more hours to reach the cabin. At least I had enough water.
Competitors crowd cabin
Once at the resort, it took awhile to find the right cabin. It was the only one with lights on at 5:30 a.m. Gene Curnow, who I hadn't seen in years, was at the table checking people in. He didn't recognize me under the frost, balaclava and neoprene face mask.
Almost all the floor space was taken up by sleeping bikers. One guy was actually sleeping outside. I started to occupy the last bit of space under Gene's table when he said that Don Clark's bed was empty as he had left to greet the first expected finishers. A warm bed felt good.
Except for my time at the first aid station, I had been on my feet for almost 24 hours. My back was sore,
my right foot really hurt, and my rail system was a wreck. I had planned only to rest for a half hour then decide what to do.
Ninety minutes later, I was awakened by the bikers getting up. The toilet on the other side of the bedroom wall and was flushed every few minutes. And I smelled fresh coffee.
The time had come to ask myself if I should drop out or continue. If I started again, I would be on my own.
There weren't any more aid stations until the finish line. The only water I'd have would be from snow I melted over my little stove. Standing still in the dark, melting snow would mean cold hands and feet and the pain of warming up again.
After a bowl of turkey noodle soup, a banana and a few cups of coffee, I felt better. My back and feet didn't hurt, but I was still sitting down.
Most of the bikers had left. One biker was dropping out. He and another guy had taken a wrong turn and returned to the cabin after a four-hour detour in the dark. It occurred to me the biker, if he started out again now, could reach the finish line before dark. If I started now, I'd get there after dawn.
Then John Storkamp, another runner, stumbled in like a frost-covered zombie. After a few minutes, we
convinced him to take off a few layers, get something warm to eat and get into bed.
With that I filled up on hot water, duct taped a few toes and fixed my broken rails. I double-checked the turns on the trail with Gene then signed the logbook saying I was headed for the finish line.
On the trail again
The sun was up and, thankfully, it wasn't as cold as the previous morning. The bikers had talked about the
big hills to come before the last flat 20 miles. Fortunately, I had grabbed my trekking poles from my drop bag. The hills were so steep, I couldn't get up them without the poles. The steep downhills hurt, but I knew more ibuprofen wasn't going to be much help. And every few hours I needed to stop and repair my rail system.
By 4 p.m., I needed a break. I rolled out my mat on the side of the trail in the late afternoon sun. My own
snoring woke me 10 minutes later. About 7 p.m. I reached one of several three-sided shelters built 10 miles apart. It took a bit to get the stove started, but soon I had about a gallon of water. A cup of tea with double sugar improved my attitude. I hurried to get going again so my fingers and feet would warm up.
My plan was to continue though the night to the finish line. Plan B was to set up my tent inside a shelter 20
miles from the finish line to sleep through the cold dawn and continue in the sunshine. At 2 a.m., Plan C went into effect.
My back was screaming from pulling the sled. I pulled off the trail into calf-deep snow and set up camp. At home it took just a few minutes to set up the tent. But now I couldn't get one of the poles set correctly. Fortunately the snow was deep enough to hold the pole. I put my vest and flashing lights on top of the tent.
Just then, fellow runner John Storkamp came by. He asked if I was OK. I considered going with him but it would have taken too long to repack, and I was tired. "See you at the finish line," we said to eachother before I watched his blinking lights fade down the trail.
The 20-below-rated sleeping bag was just on the edge of comfortable for two hours. I repacked as quickly as I could and struggled back into my frozen shoes. Two miles down the trail, I reached an intersection.
Straight ahead looked like the correct way. I could see bike tracks but, curiously, not Storkamp's footprints. I trudged ahead but soon lost the bike trail. I backtracked and found a turn arrow I had missed.
At dawn I thought I saw something up ahead on the side of the trail. At first I chalked it up as another halucination. I had already seen many nonexistent people, animals, garages, houses and motels. Mostly I
saw illusionary warm buildings. But this time what I saw was moving. It was Storkamp getting out of his tent. He had stopped for the night, also. We again exchanged greetings.
A short time later, I passed a shelter. Was this the shelter that was five miles or 20 miles from the finish, I wondered. I could hear trucks and saw an occasional headlight. Other than Melgeorge cabin and one snowmobile, I hadn't seen a light in two nights. Then came a sign indicating I had just 20 miles to go.
But my sled seemed heavy again. Storkamp passed me as I took off my nighttime layers. My back hurt more than my foot now. I couldn't walk more than 10 minutes without having to stop and stretch. I recalculated my pace. I was moving less than 3 mph so I was looking at an afternoon finish. Late morning, a race official came by on a snowmobile. He informed me I was about nine miles from the end.
My back was killing me, however. I couldn't go 100 yards without stopping. I tried pulling my sled by hand, over each shoulder, any method I could think of, but it still hurt. The pain stopped only when I stopped.
With only four miles to go, I tried to run in vain. I caught a glimpse of my shadow across the snow and wondered who was that pretzel-shaped man? I thought about crawling, but I couldn't crawl that far before my hands, feet and knees would freeze.
There was a sign up ahead and next to the sign was Scott Wagoner sitting on his bike. He had called it quits at the first aid station. Storkamp had just finished, Wagoner said. He agreed to guide me to the end, three miles away now.
The last stretch was several downhill blocks. My sled careened around me and into my legs. Both rails were broken, but it didn't care. I could see the finish line. When I got there, the clock read 54 hours and 40 minutes.
As the first and second runners to ever finish the Arrowhead 135, Storkamp and I had left our footprints for others to follow.
Jim Benike is a 57-year-old general contractor from Rochester, Minnesota. He has completed over two dozen 100-mile or longer ultras, including the Badwater 135 and the Marathon de Sables, and is a veteran of 10 American Birkebeiners. |
