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his year, however, is different.He’s at the starting line only sohe can cheer on his friends.Szydlik, who is nursing a nagging caseof sciatica, is running only eighteenmiles — the second leg of the 50K relay, with a friend who is a back-of-the-packmarathoner. The relay doesn’t start until8:00 a.m., and Szydlik won’t be able toset foot on the course until about 11:00.For this consummate competitor, it’sodd to go into an Ice Age race knowing that winning is not even a remote possibil-ity. “Steve owns Ice Age,” says ultrarun-ner Kevin Setnes, one of Szydlik’s perennial competitors. “It will be a note- worthy day when someone comes alongand takes his title away from him.” Szyd- lik half-jokingly wonders if he will be able to stop himself from taking off at the fifty-milers’ official start. After wishing a fewracers well, Szydlik sees Ann Heaslett, last year’s women’s winner, sporting thecoveted number one, the number he’s worn the past three years. He says underhis breath, “That’s just fine with me.”
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teve Szydlik is trying to articulate the mentality of the ultrarunner.He finally settles on a commonsaying among long-distance enthusiasts:“If the bone ain’t showin’, you keep ongoin’.”In 1996, Szydlik, who was defendinghis Ice Age title, did exactly that. He broke his wrist on mile thirty-one, but went on to a seventh-place finish. “I wasn’t having a particularly good day,” herecalls. The on-site physician fashioned amakeshift splint out of a cardboard boxand wrapped the fractured wrist in band-ages. Although in pain, Szydlik didn’tdeem the injury a race-ender.Back home at the University of Wis-consin-Oshkosh, Szydlik is known as theRunning Professor. Colleagues say it is arare sight to see him walk anywhere. “If he needs something from the hardwarestore downtown, he’ll just stick his walletin his pocket and run there,” says fellowmath professor Ken Price. “Steve is a physical freak. He’ll run ten miles everyday and then come to class and teach.”Ronnie Carda PhD’90, an exercise physiologist at UW-Madison, remembersrunning the six-mile loop that goes through the UW Arboretum with Szyd- lik. “On certain days, Steve would run that loop four to six times,” Carda says.“Those of us who ran with Steve nowcall running around the Arboretum‘doing a Szyd.’ ”Carda says Szydlik kept a low profileabout his running prowess. “When askedhow he did in events, he would alwayssay, ‘Okay.’ Later on, you would find out that he had won the race.”Szydlik, thirty-seven, is the quintes-sential trail runner. Although he lovescompetition, he doesn’t run for the tro- phies or medals, many of which he has left on the awards table. He simply runsfor the joy that running gives him.In 2002, Szydlik ran every single dayexcept one. He endured the sweltering August heat and the raw winter days, logging at least three miles each day. He purposely abstained from running onNew Year’s Eve. “I didn’t want to start being obsessed,” he says without irony.Not like fellow Ice Ager MichaelMcAvoy ’72, who once ran five miles in business shoes because he forgot his run-ning shoes on a trip. McAvoy, who is vice president of operations at All SaintsHealthcare in Franksville, Wisconsin
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isa streaker, which in running terms issomeone who runs daily, rain or shine.He has not missed a day of running at least two miles in twenty-three years.But such dedication pays off for these elite athletes. Szydlik, a three-timemember of the U.S. Track and Field100K team, has run more than twenty-five ultras. In the 1998 100K WorldChallenge in Nakamura, Japan, Szydlikfinished first among American men andsixteenth overall, clocking in at sevenhours, twenty-five minutes. He averagedabout seven minutes, ten seconds permile for sixty-two miles.In all his races, Szydlik has loggedonly one DNF — a Did Not Finish inrunner’s parlance. He wasn’t humbled by the remote and rugged territory of the Western States 100-Mile Run (aroute from Squaw Valley to Auburn,California, that includes a vertical climbof 2,550 feet in the first four miles).Rather, Szydlik’s lone DNF took placein the heart of Madison at a four-milerace. The reason? He got lost. “I was outin front,” he says. “I thought I knew where to turn, but I was wrong. By the time I realized what was going on, I was too embarrassed to go back, so I just leftand went home.”Quitting big races, however, would be too easy and potentially habit-form-ing, Syzdlik says. “During a race, I’ll say,‘When I finish this, I will never ever, everdo another one.’ [But] I have this stub- bornness that doesn’t allow me to quit.”
6:00a.m.Defendingwomen’schampAnnHeaslettdoesn’tlettheexcitementofthestartgettoher.Sheknowsbetterthantoripoffacoupleofblisteringmilesinthebeginning,onlytopayforthemattheend.Shethinksverymethodi-callyabouthowfastshe’sgoingtostartout,howfastshewantstocompletethefirstloop.“Youhavetouseyourhead,”shesays.“Youhavetobepatient.”
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atience may have its time and place, but ultimately, there comesa time to forsake it in the heat of
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ON WISCONSIN
Next year, Jason Dorgan hopes to get intothe Badwater Marathon, a 135-mile runthrough Death Valley.
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