The blast of an airhorn to call the crowd’s attention to an
approaching runner. The clang of
cowbells as the runner draws near. The
enthusiastic cheers of the crowd. High-fiving
the “severed arm” that hangs at the finish line. Receiving the buckle that celebrates the
completion of a hard-run race. This is
the conclusion I expected. This was the
reward I worked so hard to achieve. 148
runners got to experience all of those things on that day. I wasn’t one of them.
Instead, I was back at my campsite 5 hours earlier than I
should have been. I was chilled and
desperately wanted to get the campfire going.
Just like the rest of my day’s efforts, I couldn’t seem to get the spark
to catch. I managed short-lived flames
and too much smoke, but the wood wouldn’t burn.
I choked back frustrated tears as I attempted over and over again to get
that fire to burn. After an hour of no
success, I sat in my camp chair and debated what to do. My friend was still out on the course,
running and fighting for the finish. I
wanted to be there to cheer her in but could I hold it together? As I sat in my camp, I could hear the airhorn
a quarter mile away announcing runners’ approaches and each time it brought a
new wave of tears. Yes, I admit it, I
cried. I was jealous. I was angry.
I was sad. I was bewildered. I was raw with disappointment. That day and every day in the 4 days since,
I’ve gone over the details but I still don’t know how my day went so wrong.
Race morning started according to plan: up early for a light breakfast, walk over to
the staging area to check-in and toss my drop-bag on the pile. Nervously, I waited for the start and
wondered how much rain we were going to get.
The thunder had started while we were getting checked in, but the rain
itself held off until right before the RD chased us out of the shelter for the
¼ mile jog to the start line. While we
stood at the starting line counting down the final minutes to the race, the
rain intensified and a cold wind drove it even harder. No big deal: I’ve run in rain before. Hell, I’ve run in a derecho and lived to tell
the tale, what’s a little rain? I should
have been asking “what’s 5 hours of rain”?
The first half mile or so of the race is on the road, then
we dive into the woods to start the trail.
As planned and expected, I was nearly bringing up the rear. Since I was pacing with my heart rate
monitor, I assumed I’d run a very even pace and likely start passing runners
after 8-10 miles like I have learned I do.
The course is absolutely gorgeous, but also brutal. Rocky bluffs and outcroppings, small boulders
to jump over and around, and stunning overlooks of the lake. The rain continued. The wind continued, although the trees helped
to block it a good bit of the time. The first
mile went slowly as the conga line sorted itself out and we navigated our way
through the Devil’s Butt Crack, the most bottle-necked portion of the
course. This mile being slow didn’t
worry me, all according to plans. The
second mile would be better. Except it
wasn’t. I knew what pace I needed to
maintain to make it to the turnaround before the cut-off and so far, both miles
were significantly behind pace. My first
hints of concern started to brew as the third mile was no better.
I kept doing the math as the miles ticked by, knowing that I
was falling farther and farther behind pace.
I had never run on a trail this technical and wasn’t prepared for my
pace to be so much slower than usual.
I was now running in last place with no other runner in sight ahead of me. The elevation was a non-issue, it was the rocks in the trail and the
boulders to climb over in those first few miles that were my battle. Even as I was approaching 10 minutes behind
cutoff pace, I thought that the route would even out and I’d be able to make up
time. Then we got to the mud.
The mud was a slippery, sloppy mess. I couldn’t get traction. It sucked the strength out of my legs. It wasn’t just mud though, it was mud with
huge hunks of rock hidden within it. You
didn’t know until your foot hit the surface whether your footing would be on
solid ground or slippery goo because it all was covered in muck. I fell.
I got up and ran/slogged/dragged my sorry self a bit further. Fell again.
Almost fell more times than I can even count. The
rain washed the worst of the mud off of me, just for me to fall in it again.
By the time I was at the 6-mile mark, I was pretty sure that
this was going to be a DNF unless a miracle happened. I was not going to make the cutoff time for
the halfway point, I was exhausted, I was cold, and I didn’t want to be struggling
back to the start line after sunset since I hadn’t brought my headlamp. When I got to the 25k turnaround, I asked the
aid station workers if I could turn around there even though I was supposed to
be in it for 50k. They seemed very
puzzled by the question and told me it was up to the RD. Since he obviously wasn’t there, I’m not sure
what I was supposed to make of that. It
was either turn around there or resolve to make it to the 50k turnaround
because there was no other way off of the course. They informed me that the RD had extended the
race cutoff by an hour. That gave me an
extra 30 minutes to make it to the halfway point. Fine, I decided to keep going but I was still
about 90% sure that I’d call it a day at the turnaround.
The course continued to get sloppier. I got colder.
I fell again, but that last time it was scary. I very nearly pitched head over heels down a
steep slope that led to the lake.
Honestly, I think that was my decision point. My coordination was trash, I was fatigued,
and my fingers were blue. I wasn’t even
halfway done with the course. How could
I possibly pull it together for another 6-7 hours? The next obstacle was a waterfall that had a
steep rock-covered slope down to and out of the crossing. My legs were trembling as I struggled to make
my way through it without falling and breaking myself. Second most scary part of the course. Did I mention it was still raining? Not as hard, but still raining and still
cold.
As I was seeing other runners running back towards me and on
to the finish line behind me, they all seemed to be in good spirits. I’d fake my way through the greetings with a
smile and a cheerful “good job, runner” or answer their questions with an “I’m
still moving forward”, but inside I was bewildered by how they could look so
energetic and happy. I felt like
garbage. I saw a couple of guys who told
me that I could still make it to the turnaround in time but I’d have to “book
it”. Couldn’t they tell that I was
already in my “book it” mode? This was
all that I had, there was no secret reserve to tap into.
I pulled into the aid station at the turnaround after the
cutoff. It turns out, I was only 11
minutes behind the cutoff. The
volunteers actually encouraged me to go back and try to finish. I couldn’t do it. The thought of facing the return trip
terrified me. I was practically crying
with fear that I’d have to climb that rock waterfall again, that I’d have to
slide my way through those endless miles of mud that would likely be worse than
the first time, that I’d really take a bad fall and there’d be nobody behind me
to find me until they sent out a search party, or that I’d be so slow that
sunset would beat me to the finish and I’d be left to feel my way home in the
dark. I dropped out because I was
afraid. I dropped out because I was
exhausted and no longer trusted my legs to carry me safely home. I dropped out because my hands were blue and
I didn’t know if that meant I was flirting with hypothermia. I dropped out because none of this race had
gone according to my plans and expectations and I didn’t have a back-up plan.
I hitched a ride back to the campground with the volunteer
who was hauling the drop-bags back to the start. I dejectedly walked from the staging area
back to my camp. After a few hours, I
did make it back to cheer in the runners who had succeeded where I’d
failed. I watched one runner cross the
finish, then decided to wait a hundred yards before the finish because I was
still too upset to witness the celebration.
I did stay long enough to cheer in every last runner, admiring their
perseverance, their determination, and wondering how they were different from
me. I still don’t know.
What do I know? I know that I ran the toughest 15 miles I’ve
ever run. I know that I can quit and not
BE a quitter. I know that sometimes the
smart decision may not be the easy one.
I know that I can do so many things today that I couldn’t do a year ago. I know that I can try again. I know that next time, and there will be a
next time, I will bring a headlamp, warm gear, and gloves because come hell or
high water, I will fight my way across the finish line.
