Sure, you might get all tangled up in the details, the minutia of desperate people; things like having done about 600 miles of training instead of the 1,100 last year, or maybe the wettest March on record, the mud up the trail and threat of rain for the first six hours of the race. Yeah, you might look at stuff like that and fret about your chances for a PR, but not me. No, I’ve got a laser-like focus on the heart of competing in an ultra: beauty tips. So, when I pulled up to the start at 5:30 am, I wasn’t worried about that piddly stuff. In fact, I wasn’t worried at all. Sure, I had woken from a fitful night’s sleep with bags under my eyes, but I knew that a concealer stick, cover-up or powder makeup will mask blemishes and dark circles under your eyes. Concealing unsightly marks on one’s face should take about one to two minutes if only treating specific problem areas. Visine eye drops may be applied to reduce redness of blemishes before applying concealer. I greeted my pals (Bill, Elizabeth, Sarah and Jeff) near the start. After briefly toying with the idea of heading off to Denny’s, we opted for the starting line. It’s precisely this kind of poor decision-making which is the hallmark of ultrarunning. I consoled myself that we all five of us looked damned good while making the bad decision.

Now, the sky’s dark and cloudy and I’d seen lightning on my way to the race and here we all are, 500 or so bad decision-makers standing up on a levee—the highest spot for miles—kind of like 500 some odd human lightning rods, with me among the taller ones. 6:00 am and the race starts kind of joggy-like, really. Rain washed away access to the aid station at mile 40, so they moved it and made some adjustment to the course down here at the start. I figure they shortened it, on account of how I didn’t run the 5.9 miles into the first aid station in 45:52. That’d be bad. We all of us pulling into that aid station there decided we hadn’t run 5.9. We said things like, “No. Can’t be,” and also, “My hairy ass that was any 5.9 miles.” and some just nodded like veterans who know these things in a quiet, less profane way. One guy even said, “I wish I was born a woman.” Some of us thought that was off-topic, perhaps even a non-sequitur.

On to the alleged 9.4 mile mark, where last year my goose was nearly cooked by…a goose. Rumor had it the goose was making his first attempt at the Barkley Marathons this year. He had grit, that goose, but I doubt he could make it through even one of those loops at Barkley. I mean, c’mon, he’s a goose. Gooseless, I pulled into the aid station 11 minutes ahead of schedule, but suspicious of the mileage. I looked over the aid station’s offerings, mindful that what you eat will reflect on the health of your nails. Red skin around your cuticles can be caused by poor metabolism of essential fatty acids, while insufficient vitamin B12 can lead to excessive dryness, very rounded and curved ends and darkening of nails--and that’s really unattractive. For beautiful, strong nails, supplement your diet with royal jelly, spirulina or kelp, which are rich in silica, zinc and B vitamins. I asked where the aid station manicurist was. Someone said, “My hairy ass there’s an aid station manicurist. Not THIS early in the race.” As I ran out of the aid station composing in my head a very angry letter to the race director, castigating him for this glaring oversight, I overheard a guy explaining to the aid station psychologist, “…it’s just that I feel more like a ‘Sheila’ than a ‘Walter…’”

Mile 15.6, 12 minutes ahead of schedule. By now, I’m getting a good read on my splits and I’m running 8:30 miles and that’s too fast. I skipped the aid station, because that’s what you do when you’re working on a bonk. And a blister. Did I mention the blister? Pinky toe, right foot.

Nimbus Overlook, mile 19 and the first real hill of the race. I got to the top still 12 minutes ahead of schedule. I approached the aid station table, looking for products that normalize your skin, such as those that contain alpha hydroxy acids, which are derived from fruit, milk and sugar cane and have anti-inflammatory properties. When applied to the skin they help remove dead skin cells (exfoliate), giving us a younger appearance. Up to now, we’d been on the bike path, but here we move to the muddy trail for a bit, hoping for a nice mud facial.

Negro Bar, mile 23.5. I’ve given back seven minutes, and while I’m still ahead of schedule, people are catching me. A guy runs with me a bit and we get to talking. I introduce myself and he says his name is Sheila. My hairy ass your name’s Sheila, I say back, and he didn’t like that at all. Called me bitch and took off. I think I’ve bonked. Sheila looked great. Porcelein skin, really. I wonder what his regimen is?

Climbing up to Folsom Dam, I’m sure I’ve bonked. The outside of my quads feel like they’ve been dipped in quick-set concrete. I’m like, someone’s driveway or something. A guy passes me, says something and I notice he’s got on a shirt from my buddy Mark’s running club. Mark’d told me he had a couple friends in the race and I ask this guy if he knows Mark and he does and I say back to him that if I’m alive at Rattlesnake Bar, Mark’s going to carry me the rest of the way and that guy said right back something to me that made me think he thought I was kidding about being alive and I answered him most emphatically that I was not kidding. I pass the marathon mark at 3:50 and pull into the Beals Point aid station (mile 27.4) at 10:03. Missus’s there with Young Master O'Connor and Little Miss O'Connor. Got a change of socks, shoes. Here’s a tip: for variety in a 50-mile race, switch to a brand new pair of a model of shoe you’ve never worn before, save that three miles on the treadmill two nights ago to “break ‘em in.” It’s just good strategy. I tell Missus I wanna quit. She looks at my legs shaking liking like jackhammers and calls me bitch and says something about wanting to quit herself when I put that plate of stew in front of her that one time but did she quit no she didn’t and I was going to suck it up, princess if she can eat my cooking night after night, I can run 23 more miles. Young Master got me some ibuprofen and looked at my blister and puked. We decided I was going to take a couple of minutes to collect myself before moving on to the more difficult second half. I swallowed a handful of Enduralytes, a cup of coke, a bit of candy bar and Missus said to me as I was leaving, “Remember, increased blood flow due to aerobic exercise will positively impact one’s complexion with a glowing look to replace dull skin. After the exfoliation process concludes, use a toner or an astringent to tighten skin and remove any makeup or cleanser residue. See you at Rattlesnake Bar in two-and-a-half hours, crybaby.”

I climbed up the levee and shuffled along, watching people pass me. My race is over. I did the road section too fast. I’ll just make as a sloth and search and rescue can hoist my carcass out sometime in May when the water recedes. It was a good life.

But wait. 4.1 miles plodding, dry socks and shoes, 800mg of ibuprofen, a handful of Enduralytes, a cup of coke, I don’t know what it was, but I recovered. My legs loosened up. By the time I got to the next aid station, I wasn’t hurting badly at all. I started the most difficult trail section and began overtaking the people who’d passed me back at Folsom Dam. I’m 11 minutes behind schedule, but starting to feel good. I think I may actually have set my 50k PR.

I had planned on 15 minute miles through the worst trail section. There’s parts in there all helter-skelter and a sore, inflexible body kind of has to work at it like a tide erodes a cliff—sort of over time, you might say. I met a guy there in that section and he kind of summed it up with, “My hairy     ass that’s three miles.” I took that opportunity to explain to him that there were many products on the market which are effective in long-lasting removal of unsightly hair from all parts of the body, but that my personal favorites were the photo-epilation systems. What I’d planned on doing in 15 minute miles I actually did in something like 13 minute miles and after passing through Buzzard’s Cove (mile 34.5) and Horseshoe Bar (mile 38), I was through the worst of it and back looking at a PR. At Horseshoe Bar, I was feeling particularly muddy, having tramped through countless shoe-sucking bogs, small lakes and the like. The senior aid station beautician was dealing with a more extreme case than mine, but his assistant gave me the following sound advice: Splash on some body spray or perfume and get ready to head down the trail. By sparing only two minutes before leaving here, your new quick and easy makeup plan can be modified to fit your own beauty sense while giving you a simple foundation to effortless beautification. Remember, running 50 miles is hard to do. Don’t make it harder by being very ugly. I had a few miles to go to reach Rattlesnake Bar, Missus, the kids, and for the first time in my ultra experience--a pacer. I was, however, over the euphoria of my recovery and starting to deal with a general decline in my condition. Body spray be damned.

Generally speaking, buoyancy is a property you don’t increase by adding something. At least, not something in the neighborhood of 150 lbs. I’ve heard “less is more,” and I’ve heard “more or less,” but to date, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard, “more is less.” Stands to reason then that when I pulled into the aid station at mile 41 feeling less than buoyant, I wasn’t going to become anymore so upon leaving it, having added a companion. Or so you might think. Found out otherwise. Whatever constituted me at the moment—worn out, muddy, stinking, hungry, legs well past bonking, whatever--Mark was there at the aid station and he shouldered the full weight of it with a grin. After a cup of Coke and making a gift of my mud-caked gaiters to Missus, off we went. I heard Missus call out scornfully, “Gee, muddy gaiters. Thanks, ya cheap bastard! You ain’t getting any tonight!” About nine more miles. We were yapping and I was managing well. Caught up with Gordy Ainsleigh at Manhattan Bar (mile 43.2).

We ambled on through a more gentle section of trail and I managed to keep moving. And this is where I learned what a pacer and a little pride can do. On my own, I’m quite sure I’d’ve been walking a fair portion of the last three miles. There’s a hill I couldn’t climb any other way. There’s a point where you surrender to a walk that it becomes increasingly difficult to start running again and then it’s just an interminable walk to the finish. I was well past that point, but it was a matter of pride to run the last 2.4 miles between Last Gasp and the finish—a climb of 1,500 feet. It hurt. It hurt a LOT.

Everything in me was screaming to stop. Mark displayed a knack for looking at his watch and announcing at just the right moment something about that PR floating up there on the hill above us. I’d be about to say, “Uncle,” and he’d say, “Did Deanne get your Ben & Jerry’s?” (post-race tradition). I asked him if he remembered she’d said I wasn’t getting any tonight and what the hell did he think she was talking about anyway when she said that thing to me. I want you all to picture Mark—a guy with a 2:47 marathon under his belt—saying, “Well, if we can just knock out this next mile in 11:00, we’re in good shape.” That was a moment for me. We got to the final bastard of a hill. It’s a short, steep climb about 100 yards long at the most, but it’s so cruel after 49.75 miles. “You can do this,” he said. Now, you can argue what constitutes running, but I guarantee you I was FLYING at 3 mph. Crested the hill, about puked, then that thing that happens happened. I started sprinting. There’s no pain so bad as the pain and desperation I felt climbing that last bastard of a hill, so sprinting from its crest was like made possible in the same way stabbing yourself with a 6” blade is made possible by first stabbing yourself with a 9” blade. Mark disappeared to the left as I entered the chute, came out the other side 8:45:59—a 98 second PR—to the sound of announcer, Norm Klein, telling the crowd that Tretinoin cream (commonly known by the trade name Retin-A) will slightly reduce the length and width of stretch marks, something the gentleman crossing the finish line would have done well to remember this morning.