Schmitt's account

This is Leigh Schmitt's account of the 2003 Vermont 50, originally published in Ultra Running Magazine. Reprinted here with the author's permission.

After a restful sleep bumming the floor - in true trail runner fashion - from some friends who were staying at the Ascutney Mountain Resort, I awoke to an eerie, almost surreal dead calm on race day. The stars were out, and standing upon our balcony, it felt like a warm ocean breeze. All I could think of was Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. "We're not in Kansas anymore," I muttered as I fumbled to the shower. Fifty miles in a hurricane? Cool, sign me up.

The race start was a typical frenzy of activity. Dodging through a sea of bikes, anxious runners and spectators, I checked in by the deafening loudspeaker, hit the sani-can, and found a quiet spot on a grassy knoll to stretch. From my vantage point, I could easily survey the entire scene. I love the Vermont 50; it has such a carnival atmosphere. The bikers with all their gear, the lights, more gear, the long lines for the porta-potties, the pre race rituals, the nerves, and the Vermont charm. The bikers went off in waves every 5 minutes, starting around 6:15am. The fifty mile and 50k runners didn't start until 6:45, so I had ample time to stretch, meet random people, relax, and hit the bathroom... multiple times.

At the starting line, I recognized a few fellow trail runners, but was surprised at the number of new faces, as well as the increased level of participants due to the addition of the 50k. It was tough to tell who was running what distance (in the twilight, it's nearly impossible to decipher red numbers from black on a small racing bib), so I snuck up towards the front and hoped for the best. I was worried about starting off too fast, and, unknowingly, getting sucked into a pack of 50k runners. Prior to the gun, I kept telling myself, "Run your own race, run your own race." At the very beginning, I ran out front with a nice guy from New Hampshire whom I had met the night before in Brownsville. He was running his first Vermont 50. Soon, I found myself out in front, cruising at my own pace... waiting for some 50k speedsters to blow on by. 0ne mile led to a few, and, at the first aid station, I was running alone with bikers on the horizon.

As the morning wore on, gray skies turned to sprinkles. Surprisingly, I found the course to be in pretty good shape. A few puddles here and there, and the larger ones were, for the most part, fairly easy to navigate around. I was optimistic that, at my present pace, I could run the race without a pair of 40 lbs. wet Mizunos. Wishful thinking. And then, on the 28th of September, it rained. And rained. And rained. I was thoroughly soaked at mile 20, and the bikers (or "chum," as I like to refer to them in this race) were becoming increasingly easier to reel in. The course became a bikers graveyard, as riders were bailing left and right. Squeaky breaks, no breaks, muddy components, lost chains. Garvin Hill, the #4 aid station at mile 20, is traditionally THE place to stop, and take in the bucolic Vermont countryside. Instead, the hill was shrouded in mist, and bikers were huddled under the tent, taking refuge from the storm, and snarfing down sugary snacks to stay warm. As I pulled up, a few riders let out a sigh that the first runner had arrived. Traditionally, the bikers would then hop on their bikes and scatter, hoping to avoid the humiliation of being passed by a measly runner. This year, however, was different. Everyone seemed complacent chilling out under the tent.

Ultimately, the race became a war of attrition. The mud, in many sections, was shin deep - and hopelessly unavoidable. Puddles became bogs, muddy sections turned into vast quagmires, and small creeks transformed into full blown river crossings. I knew the conditions were serious when I saw a handful veteran bikers stop at a creek and dismount. Instead of throwing their bikes on their shoulders, and simply walking across, the pit stop was instead an opportunity to dunk their machines in the drink in hopes of freeing their components of muck. Other riders heaved and strained as they laboriously pushed their bikes up the now almost unrideable slopes. Glad to be a runner, I thought. I found comfort in picking lines, jumping from rock to rock, and even running though the brambles along the trails. Anything to get traction.

It wasn't until mile 47 that I truly had a sense of time and... space. My wife - who was a real trooper and absolutely instrumental at the aid stations - informed me from under her rain parka that I had a sizeable lead. Prior to that, I was running scared, having nightmares about Joe Kulak passing me at mile 98.5 in the VT 100 a few months prior. Not today, I thought. Run your own race. At the soggy, yet completely stocked aid station, I took a few deep breaths and ate. What a day. The snickers tasted unbelievable as I ran into the mist. Three miles to go, and the rain didn't seem that bad after all.