No Business 100
It’s a bit surreal to be writing this. For so many months, the starting line, let alone the finish, of the No Business 100 felt distant. This race was graduate level. Deceptive was the word that I heard most often when others would describe the race. On paper, 13,000 feet of elevation gain is not all that dramatic when compared to Grindstone, Hardrock, Wasatch, etc. I would come to realize that there are other, more sinister factors at play in making this race so challenging. The challenge that I found was exactly what I set out to find, though. When combined with the few grains of self-reflection that I found out there on the trail, the difficulty made for a special day.
With all of that in mind, I set ambitious training goals through the spring and summer of 2021 to prepare. I knew what I needed to do in training to give myself the best odds of success on race day. I knew what mistakes I had made in training for 100 milers before, and I knew how to fix them. What I didn’t know was if my body could handle the training that I knew was necessary. I’ll pause here to say that my training was ambitious for me. I’ve only been running ultras for four years now. My legs aren’t quite as callused as, say, a ten-year veteran of the sport, and I kept that in mind when I set my peak training weeks at 60-70 miles with a peak long run of 40-50 miles. If I could hit those numbers without physically or mentally breaking down, I knew that I would have the confidence and fitness to finish this race.
I won’t bore you with any more training details. This is a race report after all. What I will briefly say, though, is that the combination of consistent strength training, higher mileage weeks, and a 50 mile peak training run made a world of difference in my fitness leading into the race. The Iron Mountain 50 miler was that peak long run which served as the crux of the training. Starting in Damascus, VA and traversing Mt. Rogers and the southern Virginia Blue Ridge, it was a true mountain race. The race atmosphere was low-key, grass roots, and everything I could hope for in an ultra. Finisher medals in the form of locally made bread and jam served as a cherry on top of the experience. I felt stronger than I ever have at Iron Mountain. Peyton and I ran strong for the first 37 miles of the race, covering two separate 2000-foot climbs. We came into the mile 37 aid station and I mentioned to him that I was going to take off to see what I had left in the tank. I wasn’t able to empty the tank in those last 13 miles, though, and I managed to catch four runners ahead of me to clinch 7th place overall. I’m not a numbers guy, but that felt pretty good.
I had four weeks to recover from Iron Mountain before the big dance at No Business, and that's exactly what I planned on doing: recovering. The barn was packed full of hay, and I just had to make sure that I didn’t burn that barn down. The month whizzed by in a flurry of paranoia about rolling an ankle and how many miles were too many on my race day shoes. I arrived at race week feeling fresh and fit, which seemed a miracle in and of itself. It was a totally new feeling for me, as I have a history of toeing starting lines with one or more nagging injuries that tended to rob me of confidence and assurance. This one was different. I was healthy and grateful for that. My fiance, Jessi, and our close friend Hannah had come out to crew me for the race. I decided that I would send them to the two largest and least remote aid stations at the Blue Heron Mining Company (mile 33/39) and Bandy Creek Campground (mile 76). That ended up being useful because it made their day easier and took my mind off of whether or not they would make it to aid stations in time to see me. Additionally, I would be picking up my close friend Pete at mile 76 to pace me to the finish. All of these folks would end up playing a major role in my finish.
I have to address the lack of motivation that I felt for the days and hours leading up to the race. This would end up being my mental struggle throughout the first 40 miles of the race. I don’t have a great handle on the cause, but I just wasn’t as excited as I felt I should be. I wasn’t as excited as when I ran my first 100 mile race, and I wasn’t even as excited as I was for Iron Mountain. Burnout, perhaps? I’m still not sure, but I think this is a fixable problem. While I was eager to run and experience the No Business 100, in the future, I need to be even more excited about races that I sign up for. The good news is that there is a long list of races that leave me in chills with a smile on my face when they come to mind. Those will be the races that I target in the future.
Aside from the mental struggles of lacking significant motivation, the first 33 miles of the race went by relatively quickly. Technical creek bottoms and crossings comprised the first 15 miles of the race. It’s worth noting that this race is a single loop that changes directions every year. We were running in the clockwise direction this year and I couldn’t help but think about how difficult this terrain would be with 85 miles on the legs next year in the counterclockwise direction. If you are reading this and are planning to run the counterclockwise direction, you’ve been warned.
The climb up to the Peter’s Mountain aid station (mile 15) was less trail and more stream-bed-following. This was the first breathtaking section of the course though. It was in this gully that we traversed house-sized boulders and crystal-clear creeks in an ecosystem that was something out of a fairytale. By the time I reached the aid station, my feet were thoroughly soaked. As someone who is prone to toe blisters, I planned for this and left a drop bag at Peters with a change of socks and insoles. The sock and sole swap, while momentarily satisfying, ultimately proved to be futile. The aid station was followed by several miles of runnable gravel road. That change of terrain was a welcome one, but it was exposed and temps were starting to rise. I strategically took my time on that road to save my legs for the hottest part of the day and some of the more difficult sections of trail that lay ahead.
By this point, I was still struggling mentally, and knew that I would have to make some friends if I was going to turn that around. I slowed down a bit to catch up with a group of folks that would ultimately play a major role in getting me through those first 40 miles. Among that group was David and Bryan. Two long time friends from Bloomington, Indiana that had come to Tennessee with the intent of going home with some shiny new belt buckles. They were down-to-earth and became fascinated with my occupation in lunar science. That’s kind of how these interactions work on the trail. What’s your name? Where are you from? What do you do? That’s the typical order of introductory remarks that sometimes lead to lifelong friendships. There were others in that group, but these two stood out as the kindest and the most genuine. It’s largely because of them that the next 17 miles went by so fast that I don’t remember much of it. As we came into the Blue Heron station at mile 33, they mentioned that they were both 46 years old and exactly 20 years older than me. They said that they were starting to hurt as we approached Blue Heron and that I wouldn’t understand their pains until I turned 46. To that I responded that we all should meet again in 20 years to run another 100 miler so I could feel what it was like to be running one at 46.
I can’t describe the relief and joy that I felt when I was Jessi, Hannah, and Pete at Blue Heron. The Long run, a running store in Knoxville, was sponsoring this aid station as well, so there were plenty of other familiar faces. I wasn’t planning to stick around long though. The next 6 miles was the only section of the course that deviated from the larger race loop. We would come through the Blue Heron Aid station the first time, go run the Blue Heron Loop (~6 miles, ~1200 ft of elevation gain), and then we would return to the Blue Heron aid station a second time and get back on the primary course loop. I blitzed through the first Blue Heron stop quickly. I just grabbed water and a few gels, and I set off to do the Blue Heron loop with Bryan and David. The difficulty of that loop should not be underestimated. There are several wooden ladder climbs on the loop which did not feel great on 35 mile legs. I can imagine that they would be worse on ~70 mile legs if one were to run this race in the counterclockwise direction.
David, Bryan, and I starting the Blue Heron loop: Photo by Pete Schreiner
The second stop in Blue Heron was my first planned long stop where I would sit down and change my shoes at a minimum. I ended up doing a complete wardrobe change to rid myself of my sweat-soaked, salty clothes before the long night ahead. The stop was long but deliberate. I picked up my lights, 25 miles worth of gels, a lightweight windbreaker, and I put down as much ginger ale and mashed potatoes as I could. I left Blue Heron with a new mindset and my lacking motivation was no longer lacking. The looming darkness promised cooler temps and just about everyone on course was looking forward to that. I was personally more excited about the darkness itself. The silence, the loneliness, the opportunity for self-reflection. I’ve always felt more comfortable in the darkness that I do in the light. I feel a sense of belonging that I seldom feel on bright, sunny, blue-bird days. I knew that running through the night would be the highlight of my race.
Mid wardrobe change next to my beloved mashed potatoes at Blue Heron: Photo by Pete Schreiner
When I reached the Ledbetter aid station at mile 47, the sun was just starting to fade. Bryan and David had left Blue Heron a few minutes ahead of me, but I caught up to them at Ledbetter where they were both sitting and sipping some hot liquids from styrofoam cups - never a great sign. They, along with two other runners in the aid station mentioned that they were dealing with stomach problems. The competitor in me actually enjoyed this a bit. I tend to draw competitive strength from seeing other runners hurting when I feel strong, so their toil served to only boost my already heightened morale from the Blue Heron stop. While I was feeling mentally and physically strong, I knew the next ~17 miles would test my resolve. The next aid station was 8.5 miles from Ledbetter, and the next aid station after that was 9.5 miles. To make this section of the course even more strenuous, I was beginning to pull away from the group that I left Ledbetter with. That meant I would be running this section alone. Again, that would have little mental effect on me, but should I get injured out there in the middle of one of these longer sections, help would be a long way off. Brian Gajus, the No Business RD, had already warned me twice about the ruggedness of this particular section of trail. It was this area where the race earned its name. When settlers first reached this area in the 18th century, they exclaimed that they had no business being here.
Apart from the long descent out of the laurel hill aid station (mile 55), which was a bit washed out and cobbled, I actually didn’t find this section of trail to be too strenuous, though. The course alternated between the John Muir trail, which was mostly flowing single track, to horse trail. The horse trail sections of the course were muddy in some sections, but they were largely flat and runnable. I didn’t have too much trouble. It was in this section that I opted for a podcast to take my mind off of the nighttime headlamp running monotony. Daniel Boone was my podcast topic of choice. At this point in the race, we were just south of the Daniel Boone National Forest, after all. That kept my mind occupied for the next few hours until I would reach the Duncan Hollow Aid Station (mile 65). I can’t, in good conscience, keep from warning any future NB100 runners who are reading this about the climb into the Duncan Hollow Aid Station. It’s relatively short, only about a mile long, but it gets up to a 20-30% gradient in some sections. That being said, one should take solace in the fact that the climb is punctuated by one of the best race aid stations east of the Mississippi. The Duncan Hollow volunteers had a 20+ item food menu for runners to choose from. Steak, salmon, shrimp, perogies and soup were all on that menu. Given the stomach problems that everyone seemed to be having from the early-race heat, I’m assuming they had plenty of leftovers. I opted for some mashed potatoes and coffee.
In the zone at Duncan: Photo by Jesse Kokotek
Duncan was my mental crux. I knew that once I got to Duncan, the most challenging aspects and sections of the race were behind me. Following Duncan Hollow was ~12 miles of flowing runnable trails that would be perfect for recovery and some mindless running, until I started seeing the snakes. I’m only putting this in here because I’m pretty sure my parents won’t read this far (If they do get this far - Hi, Mom and Dad! Love you both!). I stepped over 5 copperheads on this section of trail. Most were small; less than 15 inches maybe, but one was a good three feet long and they were spaced about every two miles on this section of trail. Their presence threw me off, mentally. This was supposed to be the section of trail where I would make up time and enjoy some flat, familiar trails. Instead, I was running with the paranoia that a snake bite would end my race. That paranoia turned to frustration which turned into quite a bit of walking on trails that would otherwise be runnable.
The Grand Gap aid station (mile 71) would be the last aid station before I saw my crew again at Bandy Creek (mile 76) and picked up Pete to pace me for the last 25 miles of the race. At this point, the spring gels that I had been eating for the entirety of the race were no longer appetizing. Forcing them down became a chore that was only possible when accompanied by a few generous swigs of water. Soda and chicken broth became the magic combination. I knew I only had a few miles to Bandy creek once I reached Grand gap, so I downed an entire ginger ale and I kept moving towards my crew. The four miles between Grand gap and Bandy Creek drug on. Seeing my crew and Pete made it all worth it though. I came into Bandy Creek feeling physically strong and glad that my crew hadn’t left me (I was ~3 hours past my predicted arrival time). This was the second aid station where I planned to sit down for a few minutes to really take care of myself. I had kicked a few rocks between Duncan and Bandy; each leading to a popped blister and about 3-4 minutes of intense stinging. Though this meant that my toes required considerably less attention to prevent blistering because the blisters had already come and gone. Again, it was mashed potatoes and coke, and Pete and I were on our way to the finish. I’ll take a minute here to say how selfless and awesome it was for Pete and Hannah to drive four hours to spend their whole weekend helping me achieve this silly goal. If there was a true friend test or good human screening, this type of event would definitely be a component.
Pete and I were now off and moving as quickly as we could towards sunrise and the finish. We weren’t moving fast, but we were consistent. I told him about everything you’ve just read, which, as you can imagine, took awhile. We paused to turn our headlights out on one of the gravel road sections following Bandy Creek and we were treated to a sky full of stars and galaxy clouds that resembled flickering metropolitan lights from the vantage point of a not too far off mountaintop. The Big South Fork is a designated dark sky region, meaning that the light pollution is kept low for us stargazers and dreamers.
It was between mile 80 and 85, just after leaving the Charit Creek aid station that things started to unravel. My stomach really started to go south and gels became accompanied by gagging and immediate reflux once they were down. My solution was more water to dilute the baby-food like consistency. On top of that, the outside of my right foot began to ache with the increased pressure experienced on steeper climbs. I made Pete aware of these issues and he did his best to help. An expert ultra pacer, he didn’t try to talk the issues down or cheer me up. He just listened, agreed, and kept me moving. He clearly knew the job well. A seasoned ultrarunner himself, he also knew what I was going through and where I was at mentally. This was the unravelling point where problem solving skills are simultaneously put to the test and honed. It was the point when you begin coming apart at the seams and you just do what you can to make it to the finish line. For me, what I could do was hike the climbs and descents while running the flats. Coke and soup broth held true as excellent aid station provisions that settled my stomach and provided just enough calories to supplant the few gels that I was taking in.
The Sawmill aid station, or rather, the watermelon they had there, proved to be the turning point where I knew that we were going to bring it home. The sun had just come up at this point and with it came a bright orange glow in the forest and on the trail. A sub-24 hour finish was long gone at this point; probably somewhere on the trail with the snakes outside of Duncan Hollow, and sub-27 hours seemed less than likely. I never cared about those things though. This was about the journey; the quest for something deeper. Wanted to find something and learn about myself out there. In a 100 mile race, you become reduced to the rawest form of yourself; a state that is unequivocally rare in everyday life. Spending time with your thoughts in that state allows you to know yourself on a deeper level than you’ve ever thought possible. You learn about fears and insecurities; about life goals and the importance of those close to you. You learn how you will treat people whose sole purpose is to help you when all of the cards are stacked against you. You learn to find the good in the bad; to make something out of the nothing that you have left.
I walked down the 0.5 mile-long paved hill to the mile 93 aid station in Pickett State Park. It seemed like the paved surface aggravated my foot so I was sure to keep the pace slow on that hill. Jessi and Hannah were at that aid station to greet us and offer moral support more than anything at this point. From that aid station, we had a five mile trail loop to do around Pickett state park, and then a three mile jaunt over to the group camp to the start/finish line. That Pickett loop may look docile on paper, but it is far from it with 93 miles in the legs. Wooden ladders, technical downhills, and some exposed sections (It was now mid-morning and starting to get warm again) were all components of that five mile loop that I was glad to have behind me when I got to mile 97 and saw Jessi and Hannah for the last time before the finish. Three miles to go. We had it in the bag now.
I kept the easy pace for worry of something going wrong until Pete and I got to the last highway crossing at mile 99. It was at this point that I turned to him and asked - “want to run a bit?”. We kicked it into another gear and began moving fast towards the finish at what we thought would be mile 100. I realize now based on how strong I was able to run at this point that I probably hit the panic button slightly early and I could have been moving a little faster over the course of the last 10 miles. Hindsight is 20-20 though, and It’s hard to say what’s going to go wrong and when during these things. I’ll keep that in mind for the next one and I’ll do my best to push more when it hurts.
Pete and I hit 100 miles, but no finish line. We were trying to listen for music and cheers, but we heard nothing. That meant that we must be at least a mile away. We slowed the pace again for the sake of self preservation until we were passed by a younger kid on the trail who was running like it was mile 5. We heard another runner coming behind him so we kicked it back up into a run. We both knew that we couldn’t stop running until we crossed the finish line now. I didn’t have to hold that pace for long.
I crossed the finish line in 27 hours, 8 minutes, and 41 seconds. Good enough for 15th place. It was the most difficult course that I’ve ever had the privilege to run, and it was a day that I was damn proud of. I felt overwhelming satisfaction. A sense of validation for the hundreds of training hours away from home, the early mornings, and the late nights. After finishing this one, I feel like an ultrarunner. I feel like I was destined to do this.
