11 minute read

Between spring of 2014 and 2016, injuries and bad luck kept me from a second ultra. My first had been Bel Monte 50k. It didn’t go well. I walked the last 15 miles. (And no, as close to my heart as it is, I’m not gonna count the bad joke that’s the JIM.) The reasons? Same ole, same ole. Too much, too soon. Blah. Blah. Blah. Those two years, working aid stations and feeding runners was as close as I’d get—Grindstone, Mountain Masochist, and the TJ100k. (Working an aid station is a completely different endurance event.) As the last injury healed, I slowly added miles, and early February, I hit “submit” on the Promise Land 50k payment.

I buckled down, built mileage slowly, took recovery weeks, and worked on daily nutrition. I also hit the gym as often as possible, with funny looking exercises at the gym and the kettlebells. Kettle bell lunges with a twist. Single-leg kettle bell dead lifts. One-legged bicep curls balanced on a half circle foam roller. That work payed off. Climbs because slightly less daunting. My ass literally ached, though.

But it’s the race, that’s what these things are about.

The Charlottesville Area Trailrunners (CATS) set up a nice little camping compound the night before. It was humbling hanging out there. AJW, Nick Dipirro, Dan Spearin, Jeff Lysiak, Amy Albu, John Andersen, Marc Griffith. Locals with serious running resumes. Said a few Hi’s, but mostly stayed with the other first timers—Liz, Ken, Costi, Nicole, and Brian. Horton’s pre-race briefing was fun, and he reminds me every bit of a few Arkansan uncles.

The plan was simple. Aid station to aid station. Easy, easy pace. In my short’s pocket was the course elevation, mileages between ASs, and a little sustenance. My watch was set to show average speed, race time, and lap distance. Every aid station counted as a lap, so instead of focusing on the thirty-four miles, I concentrated on the three or five or six to the next.

With the rain and stream crossings, I went to put on a trusty pair of thick NuWool Injinis… Which turned out to be two lefties. Oops! So on went the brand spanking new non-NuWool ones. Merrell Trail Glove 3s over top the socks. Capilene shirt. UD Jurek hand held. And that was it. Aid station to aid station. “Should I wear sleeves? A Houdini? Maybe I’ll hope for the rain to stop,” was the general topic of conversation. Coffee, a muffin with cream cheese, loaded on top of the previous night’s calories. Listening to Horton yell about check-in. We all lined up, everyone chatting still. I was back with Costi and Chris, Bob was back there too—it takes balls to aim for a power-hiking finish.

And we started.

Jogging up the first mile, then hiking with Costi and Chris, I waited for the “What the fuck are you doing, Harvey?” moment. It came some point in mile two. Another part answered “What you trained for.” “What the fuck are you doing? What you trained for,” became the day’s mantra (along with an ear worm from Hamilton’s “My Shot.”) Bob passed us hiking up.

As promised, the first three miles was a Jarmans. A much more scenic version of Jarmans with a water fall, birds chirping instead of dogs barking, and much more company. At some point I was hiking my own pace and broke away from Costi and Chris. AS1 was right there at mile three. Hitting the trail to the next station, I passed David S. while he threw something into his pack. I stuck behind a group, let them set the pace for awhile, before moving on to the next group. I was looking for that “just right” pace. And I didn’t want to be that guy, that guy who passes everyone in the first five-ten miles and spends the rest of the day getting passed. The trail was beautiful. Slightly technical. Mountain laurels. Fog. Perfect temp. Nothing to do but climb and occasionally say “On your left.”

We hit the crest and the trail turned onto a grass covered fire road with rollers. Mostly downhill, but I kept the throttle closed. Ignore the other runners barreling past you. I pass on the uphill, they pass on the downhill. Leapfrogging other runners became a theme for the day. David S. bombed down past me. We chatted on an uphill, he left me behind on a down. At some point, I wound up behind one of the TJ100k finishers (@healthyincville) and a runner in yellow shorts and a very purple pack. We settled into a nice rhythm of climbing and jogging, before Yellow Shorts turned around and “LIZ!” I exclaimed. Liz, @healthyincville, and I stuck together for a few miles.

Starting up the second major climb, I drifted away from Liz and @healthyincville, ran into David S. hiking. With only a mile or so to AS2, my stomach grumbled so I gave it half a Kind bar. Into second AS. Ham and cheese sandwiches. Ham and cheese sandwiches tasted so good. And I almost cried when I realized, “I’m on the other side of the aid station. This is happening, ten miles in, feeling fine, and I’m on the other side of the aid station.”

Liz caught David S and me shortly after AS2. She was telling jokes to another runner. The fog hid what were probably great views. Liz was telling jokes to another runner. One for every mile. (Ask Liz to tell her penguin joke. It’s good.) I felt strong and there was nothing to do but hike a little faster. Hike and hike and hike, and jog when doable. The miles just rolled by as I’d fall in with a group for awhile, then push a little past on a climb, looking for that Goldilock’s pace. Up to the BRP, onto a fire road, and downhill finally. A string of runners passed a group of birdwatchers—I wondered what they thought of us weirdos.

And downhill into Sunset Fields, AS3. A half-marathon completed. A shout out from Michelle A. Downed ginger ale, ate what looked good, gave a solid and heart felt “Thank you for being out here!”, and downhill. Rocky, technical. In the back of my mind “Don’t win ‘Best Blood.’” Also in my mind was the pesky neuroma between #4 & #5 metatarsals, the nerve that always finds the pointiest rock to land hard on. And dread, knowing that as much of a relief this downhill was, it would suck coming up. The trail grew rockier and rockier.

I fell in behind another group around the first major stream crossing. Started chatting with a runner from Connecticut, who turned out to be friends with Marc G. We talked about how they don’t have hills like this in CT, how she finished the Beast series.

Then Costi caught up to us, and we moved on from Connecticut, and into Jordan Chang’s AS4. More ginger ale, some sweets, an entire orange’s worth of orange slices. And being sure to say “Thank you so much for being out here!” From there, Costi and I stuck together till the climb up Apple Orchard.

Nothing exceptional happened during the road 5k. Running for that long was a relief. We chatted a little. (I admit, as a baker, I feel a little out-of-place among the doctors, nurses, veterinarians, professors, headmasters, and researchers who tend to run ultras. The community around trail running and ultras, though, is incredibly inclusive. Being out there is what matters.)

AS5 came along with it’s ice cream sandwiches. Everything still felt good and fresh. Hard to believe it was mile 20. My stomach said “SALT.” I said, “Hey, do you have anything salty?” The AS crew pointed to the bowl of white crystals and said “How about salt?” Then my stomach said “ORANGE, SALTED ORANGE.” Yeah, stuck it in my mouth and the tastebuds told the stomach to take a flying leap. But it got a little salt into me.

The next 5 miles were the grind we were promised. Nothing to look at and a series of small climbs. Costi and I fell in with a veteran of Promise Land. Costi talked about ticks and infectious disease… while we ran through knee high grass. Plenty of wide, muddy crossings blocked the trail. Nothing to do but sink your feet in. A friend of the veteran came up behind us, and told stories of the snowy Holiday Lake 50k—nerve damage, trudging through mud, Amy Albu’s injury. Fun. Times.

Almost a marathon down, we hit the downhill and back into Chang’s AS6 before the final climb. Things felt good. I had thoughts of finishing close to 7:30. All I wanted at the moment though was something fizzy, sugary, and caffeinated. But no luck. All out of coke. Oh, well. Food? Meh. Pringles tasted too salty. Fig Newtons held no appeal. Oranges? Yeah, oranges. This is were I made the mistake.

Hitting the marathon mark, looking around, the forest and trail look exactly like the same point of Bel Monte 50k, just before the grueling climb up Bald. And I remember feeling like death back then. This time? Everything felt ok. 2000ft, three miles, and the infamous Stairs stood between us and Sunset Field. All the talk of The Stairs, I pictured a long stair case built of railroad ties, winding up and up and up and up. But really, climbing up Apple Orchard wasn’t bad. (The kettle bell lunges payed off.) I picked my way up the trail. Pushed a little. The stairs came and… It was alright. A little suffering, but the trail up the falls made up for all the fogged in vistas.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the climb after the stairs. This was the rocky descent I knew later would suck. Suck it did. I should’ve had move food at AS6. The climb became a slog, and I realized I’d be pushing for under eight hours. I passed Ken N. during a rough patch in his race. And my stomach started complaining. It couldn’t make up its mind—hurl? Or eat? My fingers were the size of hot dogs. And white. “Hurl? Or eat?” Stopped for a moment, squatted to give everything a stretch. More climbing. The stomach didn’t care for water. Then I remembered feeling the same way at the top of the Furnace Mountain climb. Despite how nauseous the thought of sweet anything made me feel, I opened a Clif bar, tore off a corner, chewed, washed down with water. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. 1/3 of it in my stomach. It settled. A few minutes later, all was right. And I heard Parkway traffic. Fingers more like vienna sausages, but everything else was alright.

Heading into Sunset Field, I had a little disorientation. My watch said five miles left. My brain said “Retracing your steps back the way you came is like thirteen. There’s no fucking way you’re doing thirteen more.” But into Sunset Field I went. Discovered that Nutty Bars are amazing after twenty-nine miles. (Yeah, those are going on my next aid station.) Leaving the last aid station, I was almost giddy seeing the trail went a different direction. It WAS only five miles to go. Wish I could say the last five were easy. By this time, the trail was just rocky enough to upset the neuroma. The downhill reminded my legs just how much they’d done. And I developed a stitch, probably because of the fluids in my stomach and the not-so-soft landings tired legs made. Costi, who I’d last seen at the bottom of the falls, flew past me on the trail. Down through the mountain laurel. Down past the stream. Heard a car go by on road. And then onto gravel. Three miles. Ran when I could, walked when the stitch grew too painful. And tried not to glance at my watch to see how much further. I didn’t worry about the runners passing.

The “1 Mile” mark came into sight. I ran. I picked unfamiliar landmarks, associated them with a mile I know by heart, and ran. “Make that mailbox Sherwood Ave, make the next bend the turn onto Florence. That pole is the god-awful orange Charger.” And there was the camp, and the turn. Into the chute another run said “Run faster! She’s behind you!” I thought it was a joke… Then I heard the runner’s feet. And I opened it up. She grew closer. So did the finish line. Pushed harder. So did she. Yards to go. Her in the corner of my eye. A yard, she had half a stride. Over the mat, a full stride. It was a race for 220th. And she won by a fifth of a second. We both congratulated each other and shook hands, big smiles for finishing.

Experiencing a Horton race, Horton miles, the Blue Ridge in Spring, Apple Orchard—Promise Land felt like a rite of passage. The next day, I walked backwards down the stairs. My legs didn’t move quickly till Thursday. There’s a pair of shorts that says “Finisher.” Just over 24-hours after crossing the timing mat, I signed up for the JIM. Because I’m an idiot. And because I’m looking forward to going up and down, up and down, chatting with interesting people.