We stop and stare at the old fashioned thermostat hanging from a rusty nail on the side of the barn. It’s a big round metal thing with rusted metal flakes and faded gray black numbers. We stand in the dirt road under the direct attention of the sun, the three of us, and then another, and another. “Do you think it works?”, “It can’t really be that hot!” Here we are in the beautiful Green Mountains of Vermont, it’s summer, and we’re not believing our eyes, but certainly believing our bodies as we all struggle with the attempt to run 100 miles while the temperature approaches 100 degrees. The gauge was dead on 100, but later I hear reports of many different readings, all between 95 and 98. It’s not Death Valley, but then again, I wasn’t expecting this kind of heat either.

We start comfortably in the dark at 4am under the trees in front of Smoke Rise Farm, running casually within the crowd down the dirt road to the first turn and onto the trail. I’m surprised and disappointed to find the rugged and muddy single track trail I remember from last year has been cleaned up. I think I liked the rugged trail better. We pass a frog pond in the dark and listen to the bull frogs croaking a baritone serenade. Enjoying the song, we lapse into silence, so as to soak up every note, and it passes much to quickly. The sun rises early in Vermont’s summer months, and we soon have him as a traveling companion. Oh how badly he will mistreat us today as we wander about the countryside. If only we knew what kind of day he has in store for us as he peeks over the horizon and bids us good morning. Then again, maybe it’s good we don’t know. I arrive at Taftsville shortly after sunrise already wet with sweat. We stop for food and a refill of our water bottles, pushing off quickly so as to keep our picnicking to a minimum. Three years in a row now, I have managed to run with Fred Kirby in this section, and this year is no different, as we meet again and get reacquainted, passing the time exchanging stories, jokes, and histories. It’s a pleasant journey and we forget about the heat for awhile. But the sun’s still with us every step and continues to work on undermining our strength. We ignore him as best we can, determined to enjoy the day and persevere as best we can. We meet Ray Zirblis as we come into Pomfret. and realize that we’ve already met on the email ultra-list. We have a drop bag here at mile 18 with a change of shoes for Joyce and additional water bottles for me, should I need them. Joyce changes her shoes while I eat and collect the extra bottles. I want to take the power bars too, but they have melted and are already gooey. I pick up additional electrolyte caps and bags of dried apples and apricots.

We leave the road soon for more trail and find some great climbs under the trees, in the shade. The sun can’t join us directly, so he sends his runnin buddies, Heat & Humidity to keep us company until he can join us again. I’m not doing as much running as I would like so I take advantage of our slow pace to take pictures of Joyce and friends as we roll along. At mile 27 we stumble into Stage Road for a short break, where I enjoy an ice cold coke and some deliciously cool watermelon. Our good buddy Neil’s here babysittin the bunch of us and passing out lots of free advice in his own wonderful manner. I know that Neil knows what he’s talking about and I listen with care. ‘Joe - eat this, drink this, take this, now get out of here!’ Isn’t he great! We wander down the road, through a barn yard, and up a trail on a very large hill with absolutely no shade. We visit with a woman on horseback as we slowly climb, and her horse likes our company so much that he hangs just off my left shoulder for a bit. The poor guy is struggling as bad as we are in this heat. They stop in the middle of a mud puddle for a drink, and we leave them behind. The trail between Stage Road and Route 12 has a couple of tough climbs and some very pretty scenery. I wish I could say I enjoyed it more, but I’m beat. I suggest to Joyce that I should probably drop at the next station and get myself together, so that I can join her later as her pacer. But, she wants me stay with her. I know I should quit, but I hate to drop, and she really wants me to continue with her. I know better, but I go on. There are a few guys laid out under a tarp at mile 30, and I think about joining them. I sit there and look at the shade for awhile as Joyce makes ready all our gear. She drags me out of there by my hair, kicking and screaming. Yea right! I was easy. ‘Let’s get going!’, ‘Okay Babe!’ More on that later. It was shortly after this that we see the thermostat, and then I find the pool.

We pass an oasis with running water, a bubbling brook collecting into a pool about three feet deep, a serene setting beneath large shade trees. I think about it for only a fraction, then I stop, walk off the road, and slide my body into and under the ice cold and fantastically refreshing water. Joyce is right behind me. We drop our water belts on a flat rock, and then slide in... shoes, clothes, hat. Silently, I reason that it will be good to douse all our clothes with cold water, but really I just don’t want to waste the few seconds which would keep me out of the water. Lying down in the pool, completely submerged, I allow my face to poke out of the soothing coolness. If only I had thought to bring my snorkel, I could have gone all the way. I must remember to bring it for my next long run. My moaning attracts the attention of other runners, who point and laugh as they go by. ‘What a fool’ they must be thinking, while others are thinking ‘what a genius’. One man’s passion - another man’s poison. Another adventurer joins us in the water as we are leaving and I note the look of satisfaction on his face as he slips into the water and begins to moan. It makes me laugh. The stresses that we apply to ourselves such that we so thoroughly enjoy a dip into a cold pool of water. It seems so simple when your living on the edge.

The Lincoln Covered Bridge is next. I stop to refill all three water bottles with half ice and half water. I undo my bandana such that I can fill it with ice and then tie it on my head. It’s too cold on my forehead, so I spin it around until the ice is resting against the back of my head and it feels much better like this, with the melting ice cold water running down the back of my neck. Just past Lincoln Bridge, we climb one hell of a long slow hill. We move quickly up the hill, never running a step, but moving continuously with a brisk walk. Submerging our bodies in the cold water and using the ice packed bandanas are keeping us at it while many others are melting. As slow as we are going, we are passing many who are stumbling badly. Some look to be in pretty bad heat trouble. We stop to help one poor fellow, and give him all the water from one of our bottles. He drops to one knee, and then sits down in the road, just staring ahead, lethargic. He says he’s ok, but I doubt it. Just another 100 yards ahead and around a bend is the next aid station. We find a pleasant woman in front of a nice home with a beautiful mowed lawn, helping folks refill their water bottles. She has arranged a large horse trough with a garden hose running cold water into it from her home. We also find Mario, puking his guts out under a shade tree, and two more guys lying in the ditch next to him. Looks like the losing side of a battlefield. The woman is terribly worried about Mario and doesn’t know quite what to do. We talk to Mario for a few moments, give him some ice to put in his bandana and on his neck, give him some more cold water, and stress to him to please stay here in the shade at least for a little while. He’s not doing well at all, but talks about moving on to 10 Bear. We ask the woman if she could please call an ambulance for Mario. The fellow we had helped back around the corner finally comes in, looking much the same as we left him. We spend a small amount of time here trying to help, and finally move on. Mario tries to stand up after we leave, passes out, and ends up in a hospital.

As one door closes, another opens. As we leave Mario’s battlefield, we meet Joy. We walk and talk as we climb and finally crest the hill. Joy is from right here in Woodstock and in a talkative mood, so we visit for a bit. Wanting to stretch our legs out a bit after the long slow uphill, Joyce & I push ahead on the next long downhill while Joy continues to walk. I kept one eye on the roadside as we run, looking for another creek deep enough to dunk my body in, and it pays off. Joy comes by and finds us lying in another pool. She laughs but keeps on going. We stop at the next station for watermelon and some PB&J, and then good ol Jay Norman is with us again. With my hands full of grapes and watermelon, we roll onto the highway and up on her shoulder, about two miles from Jenny Farm. We run with Jay and then Joy on in to Jenny Farm and then on to Camp 10 Bear. Just a couple hundred yards out, we come up behind Britt, limping badly with a blister problem.

We change out of our damp shoes, socks, and clothes at 10 Bear. I wipe myself down, removing the blood, sweat, and mud that I have collected since early this morning, Vaseline the body parts that rub, and have some food to eat... all at the same time. My weight is good and I’m doing ok, if not just a touch slow from the heat. The dunkings have done wonders for me. Neil waits on us like we’re his kids, taking care of our every need. We leave a short time later, comfortable, clean, dry, and full. Ready for the next section, I hope! Our buddy the sun joins us again right out of 10 Bear and I begin melting fast. Within two miles, our hard earned advantage is gone and I’m back where I was, dragging my butt again. Pinkey’s station is at the base of a rather good climb up a rugged creekbed, and knowing what’s ahead, I reload my bandana with ice, top my water bottles, and start up the hill with a steady but easy gait. I want to top out before I stop, so I keep moving. Near the top, we wade through a dense field of large green ferns that provide a rather tropical backdrop so I finally stop to take a few pictures of Joyce in this jungle.

Once on top, Joyce recovers quickly while I continue to drag. We stop twice to fix the metatarsal pad in one of Joyce’s shoes, sitting on the hard packed dirt road to do so. We have covered 50 miles and it’s still a long way from over. I’m feeling pretty rough as we arrive at Tracer Brook. I sit down for a few minutes to compose myself on a roadside rock. It’s hot, even in the shade. I repack ice into my bandana and refill my water bottles. I try to eat but nothing’s working right. I sit there and watch all the hustle and bustle around me like I’m not even part of it. I feel like I’m looking down at myself from outside my body and I wonder what I’m thinking. Joyce and I walk out of there like Jekle and Hyde, two sides of a run going in different directions. I try to keep the faith and manage a good power walk on our trip to the top of Densmore Hill, but I’m not fooling Joyce. She already knows that Joes melt in this kind of heat and it’s possible maybe that she notices the trail behind me as I drag my butt up the hill. There’s not much shade to be found on this long hike, and the water trough half way up the hill has me dunking my head and shoulders once again. We have a long animated conversation as we trudge up the hill and by the time we reach the top and find the aid station barren of water, we have agreed that the wise thing for me to do is drop at the next station. I want her to go on, but she does not want to continue without me, even though she’s running well. I tell her to go on into 10 Bear and Neil will for certain take care of her and fix her up with a pacer. It’s really all so mixed up right now. I want to continue, but we have agreed that I will stop. And I want her to continue, but she has decided she has had enough and she will save what she has left for the next race she has on her calendar. She wants to save what she has left in the tank. She is feeling good and accepts this as a great 60 mile work out. We walk downhill to the next station knowing we will drop when we get there. My body over-heated, my brain over-stressed, my emotions in turmoil, I step off the road and tell the station’s radio operator that I have quit. It is done.

Coming into this thing, I thought I was in really good shape. My training had gone better than expected, I had run many long runs building up just for this event, and even tapered off to three weeks of easy running. All of my runs had been in the intense heat and humidity of a typical Texas Hill Country summer. But let me emphasize, although I did run in this kind of heat, I never ran 100 miles in this kind of heat! Also, my plan for Vermont was just not too bright. Joyce has paced me for more than a few 100 mile runs, and this was supposed to be her turn. I was supposed to take care of her. It was her race, and I was her support. Well, things worked out such that she missed two months while I continued to run, and run well. My thought was that if I could be in great shape, with Joyce doing her first 100 at less than her best potential, then I should be able to run with her the entire way. I had already run this event twice, and knew every hill and creek. I could be her tour guide on the run and everything we needed would be in our drop bags. I had run a few times in the past with someone for as much as 70 miles, and enjoyed such experiences immensely. What better way to really enjoy the entire experience, but with my wife. We had run 50 miles together and a few marathons as well. We had been training together for many years running step for step, doing every imaginable distance, and all of it together. But, a Century Run is something else entirely. Even if the weather had been perfect, this may have been difficult. With the heat, it was a disaster. I had a bad day and she had a good day. She rode the heat like she had been raised in it, and she had. She helped me as best she could while I struggled with the heat. She had one dread, and that was running by herself in the dark, and she wanted desperately for me to be able to run with her through the night. I should have crewed and paced only and never even entered the race. Oh well. I have vented. Now, on to the next one!

joe prusaitis

report from the RD:
This year's finish was, as expected, much slower than previous years. The brutal heat abused all runners, and caused the first-place finisher's time to be approxmiately 3 hours behind the course record! It also caused the highest attrition rate ever, with only 44% of the starters crossing the finish line (109 of 246). The typical finish rate for the Vermont 100 is approximately 75%.