So here’s what I’ve gotten myself into.

On June 6th I’m running my first ultra marathon at the Eagle Up Ultra in Canal Fulton, Ohio. For the uninitiated, an ultra is anything longer than a marathon, which means anything longer than what a sane person would consider a reasonable distance to cover on foot in a single day. The race is 24 hours long. You run loops. You stop when you stop. The clock keeps ticking either way.

I signed up for the 50 mile distance back when I was feeling brave and uninjured and could still pronounce the word “tendon” without flinching. Then I rolled my ankle. On a paved bike path. The shoulder was soft. I was not. Five weeks of no running followed, during which I aggressively researched ultra training plans and aggressively did not execute them.

So now we’re negotiating. My two road marathons clocked in around 15 to 16 minute miles. If I hold a conservative 18 minute mile, which is essentially power walking with intent, the math says I could cover 50 miles. Maybe even 100K. The math has never met me.

But here’s the thing about a 24 hour race. The format begs a question, and the question is: what if I just keep going. Not in a motivational poster way. In a genuine, slightly unhinged, let’s fuck around and find out way. You show up, you start moving, and the day tells you who you are. Possibly someone who quits at mile 18 to eat a hot dog. We’ll see.

Some context. I actually prefer trails. I’d run them every weekend if I could. But I’m a social runner and my local run clubs are road marathon people, while the trail club hangs out on a path called Rocks and Roots, which has a 100% success rate at injuring me. The name is not subtle. The trail is not subtle. I keep showing up anyway because I am also not subtle.

Last Saturday I drove down to Chillicothe and ran the Big Deal at Great Seal, 21 miles with 3,400 feet of elevation. It took me nine and a half hours. That is not a running pace. That is a forced march with occasional jogging breaks for morale. At some point I stopped checking my watch because the numbers had stopped being numbers. It was, somehow, fun. This is the kind of thing you can’t explain to people who haven’t done it, and shouldn’t try to explain to people who have, because they already know and they’re worried about you.

The reason I’m doing any of this is that I want to run 100 miles before I turn 60, and you don’t wake up one morning and do that. You build to it. You ask your body a question, then you apologize, then you ask again. Eagle Up is the next ask.

The course is a five mile loop on crushed limestone along the Ohio Erie Canal Towpath. There’s camping. There’s a band. There’s free beer at the finish, which I will either savor like a champion or hold mournfully while staring into the middle distance. Somewhere between the 6 AM start and the 6 AM cutoff I am going to discover something about myself, and there is roughly a coin flip’s chance it’s flattering.

If you’re local and bored that weekend, come hang out. Watching people slowly disassemble over 24 hours is genuinely better entertainment than it sounds. Bonus points if you bring a chair and want to hand me snacks, because I haven’t fully sorted out the crew situation. But mostly, just know this is happening, and think of me around mile 30 when I am almost certainly negotiating with God.

June 6th. Canal Fulton. Eagle Up Ultra. Let’s find out.

https://www.race-brimstone.com/eagle-up-ultra

Photos of last fall’s trail race