24 Hour Relay Race, The End

Part VI – The Definition of Agony

I had drifted off to sleep without realizing it, probably for 15 or 20 minutes, maybe longer. I tried to sit up and then roll up to my feet, but it wasn’t possible at first. My legs had turned to pain-wracked stone. Gasping, I struggled to my feet and took some wobbly, uncertain steps toward the track. All the muscles from my “glutes” down were stiff and they hurt beyond belief when I tried to work them in any way. The pain of trying to walk over to the start line caused me to pant. I was glad it was still too dark for anyone to see my wretched agony. I cursed bitterly under my breath at myself for having fallen asleep.

In all my years of running I had never experienced leg muscles so stiff, not even after my first day of track practice during my freshman year of high school, and that had been pretty bad. Just the same, my guy was already in the far bend of the last turn, and I was going to have to take the baton from him. There was nothing to do, but give it a shot.

I tried to jog in place to start the loosening up process, but managed only to shift awkwardly from foot to foot. I forced myself into a walk toward the onrushing runner barely visible in the early morning night, now chugging into the beginning of the final straightaway. I stopped 20 yards from the start and began a pitiful jog, back toward the start. The runner went into his finishing stride; with my back to him I heard his approach, his deep rhythmic breathing and urgent footfalls acting as sonar, letting me know the approximate rate of his progress. In utter dread I turned to take the baton.

With me hardly moving during the transition, he placed the baton into my outstretched hand, and for the first time, he practically had to come to a complete stop to do so. It startled him since I had taken off like a man on a mission during each previous handoff. Actually, I WAS still on the same mission, but now it was much modified.

I cannot come close to describing the sheer torment of the next few minutes. It hurt so bad that if I had been in any other situation I surely would have stopped and quit, but quitting was not an option. I felt like I was representing the entire Marine Corps, and quitting is not something marines do just because of a “little” pain. The USMC does a very good job of programming young minds when it comes to instilling the concepts of duty, honor and loyalty it seems. It worked on me. My fellow runners were depending on me just as I depended on them, so even the thought of trying to “walk it off” did not occur to me. No, I would “run” the entire relay and that’s all there was to it.

My gait finally began to resemble an actual jogging stride by the time I got to the 220-yard mark on the opposite side of the track. The toxins that I had allowed to settle into the tiny capillaries of my leg muscles were slowly being flushed out with every beat of my pulsing heart. Fortunately, they did not go into spasm, also called a “charley horse,” an agonizing contracture of muscle tissue that can cause even a full-grown manly man to fall to the ground and scream like a baby.

The first quarter mile was finally behind me and my split was dismal, almost 30 seconds slower than I would have otherwise hoped for. Still, as my legs began to loosen up I began to hope that I could salvage something from that infernal mile. I forced my pace to quicken, and then to quicken still more. To my relief, the pain and stiffness dissipated all the more, almost proportionately to my efforts to go faster. Even so, the damage had been done, and no amount of speed and willpower could totally force my legs back to normal. On the upside, I managed to put together a pretty good last half-mile, and finished the mile with an almost decent time of 6:21. As I handed off to the next runner, the sun peeked its way above the eastern horizon.

Looking now at the 29 year-old chart showing the mile times of all the 8 finishing runners of that relay, I feel the proudest of that 6:21, even though it was my slowest. I say that because when I woke up on the ground and found my legs paralyzed with pain, I forced myself to reach deep down for resources I didn’t know were there. Exhausted, famished and in agony, I kept going. For years, that nightmarish moment is what defined me; I compared it to all other tough times and nothing ever came close. Even my most difficult instance in bootcamp before my "hell mile" did not come close, since what happened to me in basic training was a dispiriting event, a time when I completely broke down – something I strove to forget rather than a time to be proud of. Still, I think I might reexamine it in a future post.

For me, the rest of the relay was humdrum, pretty much uneventful. I had experienced the roughest it could throw at me and survived. We were all going so slow from that point that I only had to run 5 more times before noon. In fact, my last mile ended just after 11 a.m. My times remained mostly faster than my running mates, and happily, they continued to call me “the machine.” A title I most certainly had earned since my average mile time over my 28 total miles was 5:44.2, a time that should have been closer to 5:30 if not for my "blowup" from falling asleep. Oh well, as I said, that “mistake” caused me to have to do something that became very important to me, and strengthened me for most of the rest of my life.

George, always the showboat, saw to it that he ran the last mile, and he did it with the same flare that he had run the first one 24 hours before when he had kicked off the relay. Incredibly, he managed to dig deep and ran a very fine final mile, everything considered, in only 5 minutes 18 seconds. You gotta LOVE those Ortega’s!

After the relay I completely sagged. Back at the Ortega house I could only eat a little and fell asleep for a time on their living room floor. Ray wanted to get started back to Alameda, but before we left I copied all the times into my running journal and have it to this day. Blessedly, I lapsed into unconsciousness and didn’t have to experience any of Ray’s crazy driving while awake. In less than a month I would pack my bags and leave for another difficult experience, Marine Security Guard School, but that is another story.

24 Hour Relay Race, Part V

Part V – The Wee hours, and Jesus Runs “The Miracle Mile.”

Now that only 8 of us were left in the relay, we had that much less time between miles, and it had an adverse affect. Obviously, it wore us out even faster, which was reflected in our slowing times. The only upside was that with the slower times, we ended up close to the same amount of recovery time as with 9 men; in fact, our recoveries became longer and longer as the night wore on.

Our exhaustion led to a change in our attitudes about what we were doing – and that is the point – the longer we did this thing, the more our priorities became fixated on survival instead of performance. I was one of the exceptions however, because I was determined to keep my mile times constant, and as the 15-mile mark approached, it was “steady as she goes.”

Earlier, I stated we couldn’t really rest between stints, because of the risk of cramping muscles; but that wasn’t true for all of us. Jesus, probably the most natural athlete in the group, would grab a drink, towel off and fall to the ground asleep. They woke him up as his runner started into his mile, and Jesus would be ready to take the baton from him by the time it was his turn to go again. But at around 2 or 3 a.m. Jesus did NOT want to wake up, and after a kick and a shake or two, the person in charge of informing the runners lost track of Jesus in the confusion of activity in the dark. When there was less than a half lap to go, someone realized that Jesus was still sawing logs.

“Jesus, get up man! He’s coming around the turn! Get up!”

Jesus sprang straight up off the ground and had just enough time to stretch his hamstrings for five seconds before accepting the baton. As soon as he had it, he took off like a shot, swapping the baton immediately from his left to his right hand. Incredibly, he ran like a man possessed. He roared through the first quarter mile in under 75 seconds. Everyone took notice at that and we yelled at him, “Go Jesus! Go! What the hell are you doing man?!” We laughed in amazement, but we felt an undercurrent of nervousness.

We were excited, but concerned. Had Jesus mentally imploded? Was he off his rocker? While most everyone else’s times were slowly and surely degrading by whole minutes, he was suddenly running like he had just swallowed a handful of amphetamines, and his pace never faltered after that first lightning lap. He continued his mad dash for four complete laps, finishing in 4:57.5. He went directly from the finish line back to his blanket, and lay down. We gathered around him and asked him why he had run so fast like that. He answered nonchalantly: “I just wanted to finish as fast as I could so I could go back to sleep.” He yawned, stretched out, and did exactly that.

The night slowly wore on, and although my times were no longer averaging 5:15, or even 5:20, at least I was managing to slow down the least. The lack of sleep and the lack of nourishment was getting to me, and let’s not forget that we were running one serious mile after another. I was in new territory physically; and in the surreal atmosphere of the dimly lit football field / track, I felt like a scientist observing a test subject. Only in this case, I was my own case study. I had no idea what was going to happen to me as I continued to really “run” my miles. Make no mistake – I was not jogging, I was pressing each lap as hard as I had the first. I wanted to see what I was capable of.

One of our biggest problems was the inability to take in substantial food. We had to eat, but we found that the only thing we could get into our systems was a few bites of fruit at a time, and we had to eat it as soon as we could after running. I read once that fruit by itself will pass through the stomach as quickly as 20 minutes. Prepared food containing meat and grains can take hours to clear the gut, so we stuck to raw small portions of fruit. Thing is, it did little to stem our hunger, which grew more profound by the hour. Several of the guys tried to eat heavier things like bites of sandwiches, but that either caused them to slow down dramatically, or they became nauseated and threw up. After watching them I stuck with the fruit slices and juice.

Then, disaster! We were into the “false dawn” part of the night, when the suns rays begin to diffuse into the sky from the other side of the horizon. It’s not light out yet, but the night is no longer so opaque anymore. I had just finished my 22nd mile in my slowest time yet of 5:32:1, but that wasn’t so bad considering how far I’d come. I was so sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes open, even as I ran. Instead of walking over to the gym I decided to lie down and do my leg stretching routine. Next thing I knew someone was kicking me and as I came abruptly awake I had the most vivid dream of eating pancakes and syrup, but couldn’t quite get them to my mouth, because the person waking me up was pulling the fork away.

“Phil! Dude! Wake up man! You’re up!”

I woke up into a nightmare!

24 Hour Relay Race, Part IV

(This story is getting a bit long, so time to break it up. Folks are always complaining how long my stories are. I apologize ahead of time, but just try to think of it as several stories in one, as most tales are anyway).

Part IV – In the Heat of the Night

After the first mile, only two things concerned me: staying cool and maintaining the pace. In order to do the second, it was imperative to do the first. With nine of us running, we had very little time to get our core temperatures down before the next run. We were averaging less than 6 minutes a mile, so basically we had just over 45 minutes from the end of one mile to get ready for the beginning of the next. The most efficient way to do that was through the strategic application of ice on those areas of the body where the blood is the closest to the surface with the most flow. Thus, we discovered that the wrists and the neck are the best places to cool off the quickest. Also, I found that putting ice cubes inside my hat and letting them melt down my face and neck was exquisite. Without ice, we could NOT have continued past the first three miles. No way.

It seemed I had just started to feel almost normal again when my name was called to get ready. My running mates had all managed to continue their quick times, so it seemed that in spite of the heat we were going to be pushing each other to keep on keeping on. I recognized that that was the true nature of a relay race like this – athletes pushing each other, for the “team” and for personal satisfaction. It was a beautiful concept and all, but we were basically at war, and as such, we continued our individual battles against the sun’s blaze as we fought to keep our paces from flagging.

My second mile passed, about as effortlessly as the first; in fact, it was a second faster than the first at 5:15. What was missing after mile number one was the surge of energy we had previously picked up from the initial excitement of kicking off the relay. There was very little fanfare after that, so from mile number two on, it was all legs and lungs.

The afternoon passed mechanically. Each runner fell into the routine that best suited his makeup. As for me, immediately after each mile, I went to the coolers full of ice and water and chilled off. While icing down my neck and wrists, I guzzled water and Gatorade to replace the gallon of sweat I had just lost. Normally, in any other competitive race, after running a mile or any distance for that matter, I’d simply rest and THAT would be the primary consideration. Not so in a 24-hour relay in the height of summer, because there was a whole lot more to think about.

This morning I spoke to my brother on Yahoo Messenger asking him if he had read anything yet on this post. He had, and being a damn good runner in his own right back in the day, he remarked that he didn’t know how he could possibly have kept himself loose for each mile for that long. He hit the nail on the head. THAT was one of the toughest considerations of the relay, and because of it, I could never really rest between each grueling mile. I’d drink and ice down and then I’d walk around to stay loose; we all did. Every other mile or two I’d mosey over to the nearby college gymnasium to visit the restroom, which by the way, was air-conditioned. Needless to say, we took a lot of potty breaks.

The hours and the miles rolled on. The heat took its toll on all of us, but after 8 miles, one of the runners had to pull out. I was surprised that he lasted through the hottest of the day, and it was only as the sun finally winked out that he called it quits. If you look at the mile times, and I will include them in the next post, you might be surprised that he was the only one to fall out. Heat prostration is deadly, and even when it doesn’t take you down all the way, as it begins to roll you up, it tears away the will to do anything but lie down. The primary symptoms are queasiness, then nausea and absolute weakness and malaise. Go back and look at the ages of these fellows; most were between 14 and 16 years old! I doubt if I could have found 9 runners in my squadron of marines who could have done what we were doing, and these guys were young kids, although obviously pretty amazing ones.

After 10 miles, just five of us were maintaining paces in the sub 6-minute range. I was managing to stay around 5 minute 15 seconds per whack, only George and Jesus were close to me, although not quite as fast. The other runners began calling me “the running machine,” because I kept pumping out almost identical miles. I liked the nickname and I wanted to live up to it. I knew I wasn’t the best miler out there, but I wanted to establish myself as the most consistent. Even after 15 miles I was still “the machine,” but as the clock counted down into the very wee hours, I made a serious mistake.

24 Hour Relay Race, Parts I, II and III

Part I – The Ortegas in Modesto

How disheartening is it to have to write a story twice? That’s what I’m doing now, and I have only myself to blame. Its happened to us all, the computer crashes and takes out the entire manuscript, one completely and frustratingly finished. I should have blogged it as a draft, or I could have saved it into an email, but after three years of no problems whatsoever I let my guard down. I should have known that Microsoft would eventually screw me – THAT is the moral of THIS prologue. Anyway, on with the show.......

It was mid-June 1977 when Ray Ortega, a fellow marine in my squadron, asked if I wanted to run a relay race with his twin teenage brothers in Modesto, a small city about two hours southeast of us. The prospect of such a thing intrigued me. It would be a 24-hour relay with nine runners doing a mile at a time. I had never heard of such a thing, but it sounded like a great way to test one’s will and endurance. It took me all of 5 seconds to agree to do it.

Ray drove me out to Modesto the following Friday. We got a delayed start, so by the time we got out on I-5 it was late evening. Ray and I were not close; we had very little in common other than being members of the same squadron on Alameda Naval Air Station. We served in MAG 42, a composite outfit with two very different types of aircraft – heavy lift helicopters called CH-53 Sea Stallions, and single seat attack aircraft, the venerable A-4 Skyhawk.

What I remember most about that Friday night is my relief that we made it to Modesto without dying or ending up in jail. Ray had a late model silver TransAm and he flew it more than drove it. I spent much of the trip scrunched down in the bucketseat with my eyes closed or looking anxiously over at the speedometer, which mostly showed us going well over a 100. At one point I peered over at the dash and could see nothing but darkness. A sick realization came over me, and I confirmed my suspicions asking him, “Ray, did you just turn off your headlights?”

He answered matter-of-factly, “Yep, that way the cops can’t see me, and if they can’t see me, they can’t clock me.”

I suppose it made sense to him, and I must admit that it did get us there a few minutes faster than otherwise. THAT was Ray.

I felt like I had returned from the Twilight Zone once I entered the normalcy of the Ortega home. They were a wonderful family, originally from Guatemala, but you would never know it to be around them. They lived in a typical American split-level house in an ordinary American subdivision. It was warm and bustling and I was immediately made to feel quite at home.

I met most of the other runners including Gus and George, the Ortega twins. They were a breath of fresh air, not at all like crazy Ray. In just a few days they would head down to San Diego to submit themselves to the rigors of marine boot camp, an ordeal only slightly tougher than what was to come the next day. They wanted to be marines just like their brother; well, I hoped not EXACTLY like him.

Actually, I was the one who wanted to be like THEM. They were quite the ladies men. Both had bookend little blonde high school sweeties that followed them around like lovesick puppies. On second thought, I DIDN'T want to be like them, I wanted to BE them. I had turned 20 just two days before and still hadn’t been on a date. I know, I know, it’s hard believe!

We ate lots of spaghetti and drank lots of fluids to get our bodies' reservoirs stocked up for the next day's "impossible" exertions. Even so, I knew no matter how much I ate that it could never be enough, but I gave it a shot and shovelled it down. It was after midnight before the place quieted down some. It was a very lively household! With the race not starting until noon, there was no need to get to sleep early, the plan being to sleep in as close to the start as possible. That sounded fine to me; I love my sleep.

Part II The Ordeal Begins

As planned, we got up late the next morning. For breakfast we continued where we had left off the previous night, eating heaps of pancackes, eggs, bacon, toast, jelly, and washing it all down with quarts of milk and orange juice. Our tanks were definitely topped off as the time to head out to the track approached.

Most of the 9 runners were soon regathered there at the Ortega house. In the naked light of day I watched them scope me out as I did the same to them. All athletes do this. Put more than one in the same room and watch them size each other up. All they knew about me is what Ray had told them and I think he had bragged my running abilities up pretty good. My impression of them was that they all seemed to be in strong lean shape. I judged myself to be in the company of some fairly serious runners, although they sure looked young.

With just over an hour before the crack of the starter’s pistol, we loaded up the vehicles and caravanned out to the college track. I helped unload coolers of food, ice, water, and drinks. Soon, we had an out-and-out camp on the grassy infield area just on the other side of the pole vault lane. We had everything we needed to make us and our camp followers comfortable for the next full day: Three or four beach umbrellas, a couple dozen different types of lawn chairs and recliners, folding tables and chairs, and a dozen blankets spread out on the thickest grass.

Being an outsider, I hung back and tried to figure out what was expected of me. I pitched in where I could, but mostly I stayed quiet and observed. To everyone’s credit I was rarely left by myself for long; folks were always coming up to me and introducing themselves and wishing me well. Everyone asked me about my being in the Marines and how well I knew Ray. Mostly I got lots of “good luck out there” concerning the relay, and “is it hot enough for you?” concerning the weather. My impression: Modestoites are nice people.

Speaking of the heat! If you have ever been to the valley areas of Central California in summer you know how intensely hot it gets. The sun is a fearsome blast furnace and clouds, when they dare to make a showing, are soon reduced to hazy wisps. Being outdoors in Modesto in late June causes the human body, even at rest, to give up its moisture by the gallons per hour, and by midday, a normal person’s energy level is about the same as that of a lifeless rag doll. Rational people swim in their pools or stay indoors huddled around their air conditioners, but not us!

It was almost 12, and despite the heat, quite a few spectators came out to support us. Admittedly, most of them were parents, friends, and girlfriends; although a reporter from the local newspaper showed up. I began to feel like I was a part of something noteworthy. Here’s a portion of the article he wrote entitled “World’s Record Effort…” It was published on June 27, 1977, in "The Modesto Bee" the Monday after the run.

“What is this compulsion to set a world’s record in long-distance skateboarding, raw egg eating, see-saw riding and telephone booth stuffing?

Whatever it is, the season has started and for many, the Guinness Book of World Records can be credited, or blamed, for the inspiration that can lift an ordinary person into fame, however fleeting.

As the weekend heat pushed above 100 degrees, nine Modesto runners kicked their heels into the cinders at the Modesto Junior College track…Calling themselves the Modesto City Runners, they are Rick Simental, 14; Philip Spear, 20; Steve Hurst, 14; Jeff Pezniak, 16; Rick Salas, 16; Tony Bettencourt, 16; Jesus Alberto, 18; and twins Gus and George Ortega, 19.

The running was almost upon me and as always in similar situations, I became edgy with nerves, my stomach jumping and bobbing from proverbial butterflies. All nine of us anxiously kicked our legs out, first one, then the other, all while shaking loose our arms at our sides. I’ll bet Neanderthals did the same thing tens of thousands of years ago as they restlessly prepared to run down and spear to death wooly bison. It seems to be the natural action of any man before attempting something extremely physical, especially when it involves running.

The first man to toe up to the start line of course was one of the twins, George. The boys' high school track coach called down the time and when it reached exactly noon he pulled the trigger of his starter’s pistol. “Crack!” George was off and the 24-hour relay had begun.

Part III – Nine runners On a Quest…

George set an amazing initial pace for such a long-term endeavor. I’m sure he was showing off for our little crowd of spectators, and as one of the primary organizers of the event it makes sense that he wanted to set the bar high for the rest of us runners. The heat seemed to have little effect on him as he just about strutted his 4 laps around the track. He passed on the baton to the next runner with an impressive time of 5 minutes 10 seconds. I nodded approvingly and applauded his effort thinking, ‘Okay, I can do that. No problem, ….I think.”

The other runners sought to continue to run with George’s élan and their times were also all under 6 minutes. When it came time for Jesus to run I took even greater notice. I had been looking forward to watching him run; the guy just looked like a natural. Sure enough, he flew around the track, throwing cinders behind him with every muscular stride, and passed off the baton UNDER 5 minutes at 4:54:6. ‘I wonder if he plans to run many more of those over the next 24-hours?’ I thought.

I was eighth in line to go and my guy was out on the track. “Spear, Phil Spear! YOU are next up!” one of the moms was keeping track of the rotation and calling out the names of the next to run. I soon saw that a lot of logistics – thought and planning went into something like an officially timed relay race. Without all the volunteers, there was no way we could have done it. We needed people to man the stopwatch, to log our times and yell out lap splits, to keep us stocked in snacks and drinks, to watch the runner’s order, and to make sure each finishing runner was not in physical distress. The runners needed to concentrate exclusively on running, and all those people made it possible for us to do exactly that. On that note, my first time in the relay barrel was fast approaching.

When the 7th runner started into his “bell lap,” I took my place out on the cinders about 10 yards before the start line. My butterflies immediately exploded into full-blown adrenalized eagles. I couldn’t wait to get that baton and do what I’d come there to do. It was time to earn my free victuals and drinks. I bounced around on my toes, adjusted my glasses and reset my baseball cap low over my eyes. When the 7th runner was half way through the final turn I became stationary for him to see as his “target.”

I held my left hand directly out behind me, toward the approaching runner, his grimacing face a vision of concentration and pain. My fingers were tight together, my thumb stretched out from them to give him the ideal receptacle for him to slap the baton into. When he was almost upon me, I took off into a run with my arm still stretched toward him. I could easily hear his rapid and noisy breathing. I kept my position to the outside of his so as not to interfere with his finishing strides, all the time trying to match his pace. He slapped the baton into my hand just as we crossed the finish/start line and I began the first of my many miles.

Even now, 29 years later, I recall the joyous feeling of being in perfect shape and taking off powerfully into that first of many miles. The track was wonderful – not too soft with just the right amount of bounce. I breezed through the first lap in 68 seconds; in awe of my own speed, I realized that it was much too fast. Excitement and adrenaline was doing its work well, so I decided to let it. My half-mile split was quick too, on pace for a 5 minute mile. By then, I knew I was going to have a decent first mile time, so I decided to “float” through the last two laps. With my pace in energy saving “overdrive,” I easily loped through the final half-mile and handed off the baton to Gus Ortega with a respectable time of 5:16.

My straining stride turned into a stiff-legged amble as I watched Gus dash off with the baton around the first turn, and THAT is when the full impact of the 100+ degrees of heat beat its way into my senses. As my breath came under control I made a beeline for the hose and its cool stream of water. Two other runners were still taking turns under its gentle splashing flow. I knew from our times that our physical shape was not going to be the question, no; it was going to be the insidious heat. Whoever managed to deal with the heat would manage to finish the relay. I realized then that we would never have a shot at any record times, and instead we would be lucky to simply finish the thing as a team.

Part IV.... To be continued....