Ghost Train 100-Miler
This summer, I ran my first 100 miler at the Vermont 100. It was tough—like, really tough. At least the low moments were. Looking back, Vermont 100 was characterized by some of the highest highs and lowest lows I’ve ever experienced in a race. On one hand, I remember running down the trail at mile 36 and tearing up because I couldn’t believe how effortless it felt. But then, hours later, I was walking up the hill out of the Margaritaville aid station, my head spinning with dizziness, my legs shaking, and my stomach churning. Dry heaving on the side of the road, I thought my race was over. Dropping out was never an option, but I resigned myself to walking the final 40 miles. What set off that decline? And how was I eventually able to will my legs to start running again, realize that I actually felt ok, and pick up the pace to have a great last 20 miles? I assumed that my 2nd go at 100 miles, the Ghost Train 100 in Brookline, New Hampshire, would have similarly overwhelming highs and lows. And it terrified me.
Ghost Train is a beloved race in New England, but receives little attention outside of our Northeast corner. It’s a shame, because this event is so darn cool, and I think it has the potential to gain the popularity and competition of a race like Javelina (though it already sells out within hours every year and the waitlist grows to hundreds long!) The course is composed of 15-mile out-and-backs on a mostly flat trail (only 1 hill that gets steeper every lap!) It’s fast. With men’s and women’s course records of 13:29 and 17:15, respectively, I knew that a substantial PR would be possible. I thought that I would probably run between 15 and 17 hours, but realistically, closer to or low 17’s would be a great day.
Leading up to Vermont this summer, I wasn’t nervous—at all. Waking up in the back of my car at 2:15am on race morning, I remember feeling nothing but calm. Ghost Train was different, and not in a good way. All week long, I alternated between excitement and stress. Why the stress? I’m not sure. Maybe it was just the sheer enormity of the task. I hadn’t forgotten how much Vermont hurt, and wasn’t exactly looking forward to that sinking feeling of realizing you cannot run another step. The 9am start also made me worried. It meant that I’d be running late into the night. What if my headlamp died? What if I got too tired? Looking back, I think these nerves are totally normal for such a long race—or any race, for that matter. I used to be terrified before every cross country meet in high school, and while ultrarunning has been a world of calm in comparison, a bit of anxious anticipation isn’t always a bad thing.
One perk of the later start was getting to sleep in my own bed the night before the race. I left the house on Saturday morning at 5am and drove 2 hours to Camp Tevya in Brookline, listening to podcasts about weddings gone wrong to get my mind off the day ahead (it worked!) When I arrived at the race, saw some friends, and started getting set up, my nerves immediately dissipated. I have the tendency to get way too deep into my own head, and often it just takes being around others to snap out of it. At the starting line, it was chilly, sunny, and gorgeous, and I felt great. For the first time in ages, I’d actually tapered somewhat properly leading into this race, and I felt more energized than I had in months.
Like almost every race I do, there was no real plan for Ghost Train. I’d try to run comfortably and strong for as long as possible and troubleshoot problems as they came up along the way. My nutrition strategy was somewhat more dialed than previous races. I would switch hydration vests every lap, relying on mostly liquid calories (with plenty of UnTapped waffles to get some solid food in!) consisting of Maurten 320 drink mix, Gatorade, LMNT electrolytes, and Coca Cola. I’m not the type of runner who makes detailed spreadsheets and calculates the exact number of carbs I’m consuming every hour, but I figured as long as I kept drinking, I’d get in what I needed.
Lap 1 was effortless. I ran relaxed but tried to set a good pace in the lead. Finishing the loop in 1:59, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sustain the effort all day, but quick starts are usually how I roll. It was so cool to see every other runner in the race on my way back, and everyone was incredibly kind and supportive, a theme that would continue throughout the day. I was told I was smiling the whole time, which was mostly true because I was trying to put on a happy face whenever I saw anyone. And it worked—as one runner said after I told her “I’m only smiling on the outside” in the later miles, it helps on the inside too!
Lap 2 felt similarly strong, but I started to worry that I was straining just a bit to maintain the pace and would pay for it later. I was drinking more as the day warmed up (36 degrees at the start turned into mid-70s real quick!) and made a quick porta potty stop back at camp. I finished the loop with 4:02 on the clock, did a quick hydration vest change, and headed back out.
This is where it starts to blend together. Lap 3 may have been the worst lap of the day—I was still moving well, running well under 9-minute pace most miles, but felt as though I had been out there for so long and still had so far to go. As I approached 40 miles, I thought about how good I’d felt 40 miles into Vermont. This time didn’t feel so good. That must be a bad sign, I thought, for the later miles. I also ran out of water with a couple miles to go, and started feeling overly thirsty. Another bad sign. I finished the lap with 6:12 on the clock.
Things started to turn around on lap 4. It didn’t begin that way—I chugged way too much Coca Cola way too fast back at camp and felt nauseous for a few miles—but soon enough the energy kicked in and I started gaining back strength. I had two full hydration flasks, one with Maurten 320 and the other with citrus LMNT. Hydration has been the major downfall of most of my races. I almost never race with a crew, so I stress about wasting time filling up my bottles at aid stations and oftentimes just don’t. This time though, I had a wonderful crew preparing my bottles for me each loop and it was such a relief. I didn’t have to stop once at aid stations, and, other than that 3rd lap, stayed well hydrated all day long. When I felt tired, I started saying to myself, “you have Maurten in one bottle and LMNT in the other. You are ok.” Somehow, that silly little affirmation worked again and again.
Approaching the turnaround point of lap 4, I saw my friend, Mykel, who was running the night 30-miler. He’d been warming up for his race’s 5pm start, and we ran together for a few miles and chatted. It was a huge boost to actually have a full conversation with someone instead of just a quick “good job” in passing. I passed 50 miles in just a tick over 7 hours and noticed myself starting to relax into the now slower but still decent pace. There comes a point in these long races, sometimes many hours deep, where I begin to settle in. There’s no more anxiety or feeling that a pace may be unsustainable. My legs develop this fatigue that I know won’t go away, but that I can certainly roll with. I settled in and got ready for night, grabbing my headlamp at the end of the lap, which I reached in 8:34.
Heading out for lap 5, I again chugged some coke way too fast, paid for it for a few minutes, and settled in again. I was slowing down but remaining consistent. The runners in the night 30-mile race flew by, and I took strength from their fresh energy. The vibe on the course got even better as the sun went down and I switched my headlamp on. All throughout the day, volunteers had been out decorating, and it was totally magical in the darkness. Lit up pumpkins (there was this one long row of jack-o-lanterns with candles that smelled so good), skeleton displays, and a tunnel decorated with multicolored lights. It was truly a Halloween party disguised as a race, and even through my now-foggy brain, I could sense how cool it was to be part of.
I kept waiting for it to really hurt. For the puking and dizziness and shaking legs to set in, and the walking to begin. But as the sun went down, the temperature dropped, and the miles accumulated, the opposite happened. I was struggling, of course, but little things gave me bursts of energy—the amazing encouragement by every runner I passed, the gorgeous night sky through the trees, a song playing at an aid station. Not only was I feeling good, I also had a deep sense of calm that I was going to continue feeling good. There would be no bonking, and I would likely be under 16 hours if I kept up the pace I knew I could maintain.
With 11:13 on the clock (75 miles), I began lap 6, the final full run of the course (the last lap of 10 miles has an early turnaround). I pulled out my phone and turned on a Spotify playlist that I’d titled “100” at a low volume. The music provided another burst of energy. I certainly don’t want to make it sound like things were easy. It wasn’t at all. When I ran into camp each loop, I had to look straight ahead, because seeing spectators sitting—sitting!—in camp chairs made me tear up. I wanted to sit down so bad. When I wasn’t thinking about watching my footing or counting down the miles, I was planning how much I’d sit (or better yet, lie down!) after I finished. I pictured it over and over again in my head—I was going to cross the finish line and sit the heck right down. It sounded wonderful.
There was one major (“major”) hill on the course that I began looking forward to each lap. With Ghost Train being a pretty darn flat race, the chance to use different muscles for even just a few minutes was absolutely blissful. On my last time up the hill (the final out-and-back turned around before it), I couldn’t believe I was still running. I kicked a root once, falling on my hands right in front of a group of runners, but quickly got back up. At the top of the hill, mile 85, I suddenly heard Christmas music blaring. I rounded a corner, and there was Santa, riding a bike covered in blue lights. “Santa!” I exclaimed. “I’m not really here,” he responded, “you’re hallucinating.” I laughed all the way down the hill, silently thanking Santa for the gift of renewed energy.
Heading back to camp, I couldn’t believe I would have to go back out again for a final lap. That sucked so much. Put it out of your mind, I thought, think about other things, and just move forward. You’ll get there when you get there. I tried to think about the funny wedding stories I’d heard on the podcast that morning. It seemed so long ago. Fortunately—or unfortunately—I had to pee very badly, so I picked up the pace quite a bit and hustled back to the porta potties. I hit 90 miles in 13:50. 10 miles in under 2:10 would be doable, right?
I felt like a train wreck going out for the final loop (no pun intended). It was so cold that the idea of drinking stopped sounding appealing, so the amount of calories I was consuming dropped dramatically. I forced sips every few minutes, and got down a surprisingly refreshing UnTapped lemon waffle. I told myself to keep shuffling, and that eventually I’d feel better. Everyone on the course was incredible. They all seemed to know it was my last lap, and the cheers and encouragement I was getting every other minute meant so much. I focused on reaching certain landmarks along the course to mark my progress—the road crossing, the little hill, the singletrack section, the pumpkin patch, the aid station, the makeshift graveyard. It was getting really chilly, back into the 30s, and if I didn’t move quickly, I’d get cold in my tank top and shorts. So I moved quickly. I cried a little when I saw the 100-mile turnaround sign. I’d been so focused on zoning out that it came quicker than anticipated, and I realized that there was still plenty of energy left in my legs.
The final 5 miles back were magical. Soak it in, I told myself, enjoy every step of this. It was midnight, but the course was alive with energy. I relished in the cheers as well as the moments of quiet and stillness on my own. When I finally got back to camp and ran the last short out-and-back through a covered bridge and around a pumpkin (true story!), there was no fatigue in my legs. Until I crossed the finish line (complete with caution tape to break!) I put my hands on my quads, and they spasmed in a way I’d never felt before. Every step of those 100 miles hit me all at once. I sat down immediately on the pavement, and a volunteer helped heave my pitiful self into a chair and wrap me in blankets.
My final time was 15:34:50. I never thought I’d be able to run that fast. It was so so tough, but with constant fueling, hydration, and encouragement, both internally and externally, I never had any major low moments. I can’t imagine that every 100 will be like this, but the lessons I learned at Ghost Train will certainly help when those inevitable lows do occur in future races.
I felt awful after finishing. I spent an unknown number of minutes slumped in the camp chair, then stumbled over to my crew’s tent, put on a sweatshirt, wrapped myself in a blanket, and curled up on a tarp. Then I got cold. After a long pep talk, I managed to get back to my feet, hobbled to the aid station, choked down some mac ‘n cheese, and went back to my car to try and sleep. I couldn’t. My legs hurt too much. So after scrolling on my phone for a while, I bundled up and went back to the finish line, where I spent the early morning hours eating an untold amount of grilled cheese squares while sitting by the fire and chatting with other runners, volunteers, and spectators. The atmosphere was amazing, and I had a blast soaking it all in.
I’m super psyched about this race. Of course there are always things to improve upon, but overall I’m still processing how much my legs surprised me with their ability to keep going. The support and kind messages I’ve received after the race have meant so much. This community is the greatest, and I’m so eager to get back out there, even if it's as a volunteer for a few weeks while my legs recover! I’ll treasure this weekend for a long, long time.
