Running Above and Beyond IBD—Malibu Canyon 100k Race Report, 1st Place Overall
By Cory Fleming
A little less than a year ago, I tested the limits of ulcerative colitis and life without a colon. Just six months after finishing my set of J pouch surgeries, I raced Ironman Lake Placid. As expected when putting a months-old J pouch through that much stress, I faced my share of gut issues, but the race was a huge success. I competed hard, got a great result, and proved to myself that I was on my way to a (more) normal life. I could do the things I love at a level I was satisfied with.
Now, having had nearly a year and a half to adapt to my new insides, I figured it was time for the next big test: the Malibu Canyon 100k, an ultramarathon run entirely on trails in the Santa Monica Mountains. Throughout about 60 miles (the course measures slightly shorter than 62.1 miles, or 100k), we’re treated to more than 10,000 feet of elevation gain, plenty of rocky singletrack, and some tricky descents. Add in the gut-related stress associated with running—especially ultras—and what could go wrong?
Well, not too much it turns out!
The Lead Up
We’ll start at the beginning of this year. All through January and February I had a nagging little running injury, so I did a lot of cycling and very little running. But my cycling fitness was the best it had ever been and my J pouch was doing great. I had no plans of running an ultra during this time—certainly not a mountainous one—but then a huge life change set things in motion: my fiancée Natalie and I moved out of New York City and settled in Hollywood at the beginning of March.
Nestled up against the Hollywood Hills, and not far from the trail-running playground that is Griffith Park, the running opportunities were the complete opposite of those in the middle of Manhattan. (The cycling is much better, too.) Fortunately, my injury had healed up, and in early March I could begin running consistently again. My new surroundings inspired me to look for an event with similar terrain—with so many nearby hills to enjoy, it’d be a shame to train for something flat. I stumbled upon the Malibu Canyon 100k, and it checked all my boxes: in the mountains, long enough to require some serious training, and only a short drive away. Its June 7 date was also perfect. Natalie and I were leaving for Greece on June 11 to get married, so this was the closest I could cut it, getting as much time to train as possible.
My local hills
I built up mileage quickly, knowing that three months wasn’t much time to prepare for an ultra, especially having put so few miles in my legs in January and February. But I was also having a lot of fun cycling, so I continued spending plenty of hours on the bike as well. Most weeks, I trained somewhere around 15 to 20 hours total. As I was getting started, and my running mileage was relatively low, most of my training was on the bike; then, as my running legs got stronger and I could handle more mileage, I’d reduce my time on the bike.
In March, I started with a weekly running mileage of about 25 and quickly built up to 50. April saw my weekly run volume get to the upper 60s. In mid May, I peaked at around 75 miles per week, and hilly ones at that. My legs were handling the increase in volume well, helped by a bit of strength training each week, and I still found time to get on the bike. I was firing on all cylinders. Best of all, I experienced virtually no issues with my J pouch. I had to eat over 4,000 calories a day to fuel my training, a tall order without a colon, but my body managed well. I made sure to get plenty of lean protein, ate as much fruit, vegetables, and whole foods as I could handle, and filled the remainder with simple, easily digestible carbs—basic cereals, pretzels, bread, and the like. By the time June 7 came around, I don’t think I could have done much better with the mere three months I had to prepare.
The Race
The race-day forecast was typical of Malibu in June: an overcast morning with lows in the upper 50s and afternoon sun with highs reaching the mid 70s. With the race starting at 5:30 am, plus the 30-minute drive, parking, and some small pre-race tasks, I decided to leave the house shortly after 4:00 am. Natalie joined, and my parents would meet us at the start line. I set my alarm for 2:45 am, but as usual with my J pouch, I woke up about an hour before that to use the bathroom. Having to wake up once or twice every night is an annoyance, and it’s not ideal for sleep and recovery, but it’s a tiny price to pay for the quality of life my surgeries have afforded me. Anyway, I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I had a few cups of coffee and an early, relatively small breakfast primarily of simple carbs and a bit of protein. With the J pouch, I’ve found it’s more comfortable to avoid big meals and instead eat consistently throughout the day.
All the pre-race stuff went smoothly, and promptly at 5:30 am, the race began. Not everyone was running 100k—the race offered distances of 100k, 50 miles, 50k, 30k, and a half marathon. The 100k and 50-mile races began at the same time, and the shorter ones started later. So, as I set off, I was among folks racing 100k and 50 miles, and it was impossible to tell who was racing which distance. I didn’t mind—the plan was to go at my own pace, rather than worry about what others were doing.
The First 25 Miles
Nonetheless, I started the race hard. Well, not relative to a normal run, but hard given that I had 60 miles ahead of me. Of the 150 or so of us who began at the same time, I positioned myself in fourth; three people went out at a truly blazing pace. Being so far toward the front ensured that, when the trail quickly turned to narrow, hilly single track, I wasn’t stuck in a crowd.
The first aid station came a little over five miles into the race, where Natalie and my parents were waiting. When I reached it, I had already climbed and descended 1,000 feet, and my pace was below 8:30 per mile—for reference, averaging a pace nearly two full minutes slower would beat the standing course record of 10:22:31, which was subtly my goal. However, I felt in control, and the strong start gave me some separation from most of the runners, allowing me freedom to maneuver and run my own pace. I waved to Natalie and my parents as I passed the aid station without stopping.
The next eight or nine miles went smoothly, and I clipped along at a comfortable pace, chatted a little with another runner who was running the 100k and ultimately went on ahead, and took in nutrition—drink mix I had preloaded in my hand bottle, maple syrup I had put in a soft flask, and gels. The plan was to take in around 300 calories (75 grams of carbs) per hour and hydrate well.
At some point around 14 miles, I was running on the smoothest, flattest part of the whole course, and while messing with my soft flask, I managed to kick the only rock on the trail. I went full Superman, airborne and horizontal, throwing everything I was holding and hitting the ground hard. It was a yard sale, my sunglasses, hand bottle, soft flask, and gel wrappers littering the trail. I laughed while picking everything up, and surveyed the damage: just a gash on my right index finger, which was bleeding quite a lot but otherwise not an issue. I gathered myself and ran on.
When the goin’ began to get tough
Miles 18 to 21 held the biggest climb of the day, a steep ascent of well over 2,000 feet. Despite being the part of the course I was most excited about, it was my first mental low of the day. My legs didn’t feel nearly as good as I thought they should this early in the race, and a sticky, warm fog wrapped the mountains, making the climb a viewless, sweaty slog. I hiked the steep, technical sections, jogged the parts I could, and powered through, closely following a racer in front of me who happened to be ascending at the same pace. Mercifully, as the ascent ended, so did the fog—we had climbed out of it. My mood lifted, and my legs magically felt better. I cruised to the aid station at mile 25 with a newfound runner’s high, where the 50-milers would turn around and we 100k runners would continue.
Miles 25 to 45
My parents, Natalie, and Cory Greenberg—Ride4IBD founder and friend—were waiting for me at the aid station, along with Cory’s wife, Jenny. We all chatted while getting my hydration and nutrition sorted for the next section. I had the characteristic J pouch “need to go” feeling, so I excused myself and found a porta-potty. This was my first and only(!) gut-related stop, which is fantastic compared to the five during the Ironman I had raced a year earlier. Hell, only one stop is better than many ultrarunners who have all their digestive organs!
The next section of the course was a 10-mile out-and-back run only by those racing the 100k, which provided an opportunity to see where my competitors were. When I was about a half mile away from the turnaround, I crossed paths with the runner I had chatted with earlier, who was heading back—so he was about a mile ahead of me, and looking strong. He was the only person I saw before reaching the turnaround myself, meaning he was leading the race, and I was in second. I soon saw the person in third as he headed toward the turnaround, and calculated that I had a mile and a half lead on him. “All good,” I thought. I’d continue at my pace and keep my eye on beating the previous course record, even if it were only good for second place on the day. I saw Cory and Jenny a couple of times during the out-and-back, which helped with my morale, and I felt great as I finished that section, having kept a good pace throughout.
The two Corys
The real “fun” started at mile 39, where the four-mile descent began back down the race’s biggest climb. Truth be told, I’m a terrible technical runner; I really don’t have much lifetime trail experience, and my local trails are much smoother and simpler than the descent’s rocky, twisting singletrack. As a result, I had to hike slowly down some portions and found myself comically stumbling at least once every few minutes, sometimes ending up in the surrounding bushes. Still, I made it to the bottom without any true incidents. Then came another mental low point. After being laser-focused on descending safely, my mind was finally free to wander, and I began noticing my fatigue. My legs were tired, my brain was tired, and no amount of carbs seemed to help. “Why did I think I was ready to race 100k?” I thought to myself. “I have maybe 50 good miles in these legs.” A bit deflated, I made my way to the aid station at mile 45.
The Last 15 Miles
After sucking down a couple of caffeinated gels and grabbing several more for the road, I jogged toward an imminent 1,000-foot climb, feeling drained. My performance on the climb wasn’t great. Grades that were runnable earlier in the day now required hiking, and fatigue continued to mount despite being well hydrated and fueled. I guess that’s no surprise; after all, I had been running for over eight hours by this point. I finished the climb, and as I descended, I passed the 50-mile mark. A mental switch flipped upon realizing I only had about 10 miles left, much of which was downhill or flat. All of a sudden I felt good again—not just mentally, but my legs too.
I reached the final aid station at mile 55 with my form feeling solid and my pace much quicker than expected this late in the race. Natalie was waiting there, lifting my mood even higher. My parents, Cory, and Jenny all had to leave the race earlier, but their support was carried on in spirit.
Floating
I checked my watch. If my math was correct—always a tenuous assumption with the brain fog that comes this deep into a race—then, barring catastrophe, I would slip in under the 10:22:31 mark and beat the previous course record. That thought drove me, but I still couldn’t help but ask an aid station volunteer how far ahead first place was. He told me first place was 15 minutes ahead, second place was only a minute or two up the trail, and I was in third. “Weird, I don’t think anyone has passed me for second place,” I thought, and figured the volunteer was mistaken. I started the final climb—another 1,000-footer—all the same, feeling motivated.
That motivation was quickly zapped as exhaustion took over. The thought of finishing, more to end the pain than to relish the glory, got me to the top of that climb. Just a two-mile descent to the finish line remained. I ran those final miles in a hard but measured effort, wanting to finish strong while avoiding a turned ankle or other last-minute disaster.
The Finish
I stopped my watch as I crossed the line, and it read “10:10:44”—I had smashed my goal. “First 100k!” the timekeeper yelled as I finished. “Yeah, this was my first 100k,” I replied weakly and confused, hunched over and suffering as a volunteer put a medal around my neck. “You’re first, you get a free entry to …” the volunteer began. “Wait, what happened?” I interrupted. “You’re the winner,” she clarified.
Turns out, I had overtaken the runner in first place toward the end of the race, not recognizing him because he had changed hats. I was completely surprised and elated, though I didn’t believe it until I saw the runner come in a little later.
Depleted from the day’s effort, I sat in a chair and clutched my legs, occasionally picking at some Greek food Natalie had brought me as my appetite slowly returned. I chatted with a few of the other runners, one of whom insisted I have a tall can of MadeWest IPA—even with a wonky post-race stomach, I couldn’t refuse the offer. I hung out contentedly at the finish line for a couple of hours, recounting the day’s events with the others. Natalie then drove me home, and my parents took us out to dinner. What a day.
Official time: 10:10:44.
More Proof of What’s Possible
Chalk the Malibu Canyon 100k up as another win against the preconceived limits of those with ulcerative colitis—particularly those with a J pouch. Sure, my J pouch has some effect on my everyday life, but I trained and raced similarly to any other high-performing athlete. Generally, I don’t water down my goals or frame them merely as achievable “for someone with a J pouch”; I set goals as if I had a wholly normal body, freeing myself of limitations. At the same time, while working toward these goals, I remind myself simply to do the best I can in light of my situation. I’ve begun to find balance in aiming high while being understanding of my body and kind to myself. So far, it’s working.
As I finish writing this, I’m 24 hours away from leaving for Greece to get married, followed by a honeymoon throughout Europe. I couldn’t be more excited and grateful for how my life is going—my ulcerative colitis has caused some extremely dark times, and it’s not a stretch to say complications following one of my surgeries almost killed me. Now, I’m about to marry an incredible woman and have the trip of a lifetime. When I get back, I’ll start thinking more deeply about what endeavor comes next. I’m going to build off the momentum this win has generated and continue to see just what I’m capable of. I haven’t come anywhere near my full potential, and hopefully, I have many healthy years ahead to keep reaching new heights. Stay tuned!