Northface 50 Mile Race 2010 – Pine Mtn Georgia
 |
| mile 36 for me- aid needed |
The distance of 50 miles was something I had completed before. In fact, I had run 42 miles solo as a fun run, the last day of 2009. I placed paper sacks every 5 miles or so, packed with food and fluids, as I provided my own aid, only 2 were disturbed. Nevertheless, once I registered for the Northface Endurance Challenge Georgia, I noticed some words not often included in promotional material for a race. The phrase “legs screaming” was used to describe the trail. So I trained like never before, adding a predawn long hill run during the week, towel showering and getting ready for work in the middle of the park. These were some of my favorite running moments.
I watched the clock creep toward 3:20 am, my get-up time. I dared not dwell on how little I slept in that short, lumpy Pine Mtn Georgia motel bed. The clock seemed to stick on 3:18 so I turned it off and got up- race day. My wife Julia drove me to the shuttle, trees decorated with lights marked the parking lot. I ambled onto the bus along with other runners; the mood was somber and quiet, save the chug of the big diesel engine. It was 4am, still a cold mid October night. After a short ride, the bus lumbered into a parking lot. Across the road whirred the sound of generators and towering pines blazing with big white lights surrounded the large grassy field. An energized MC challenged our drowsiness. I got coffee and huddled under a heater with other runners. It was cold now but promised to be quite warm.
We moved to the start as ultra marathon-man Dean Karnazas gave us some words of encouragement. His big grin seemed to say, "You people are in for it." With a bullhorn-type start, we were off churning through a 100 yards of field toward the black maw of an opening in the woods and our singletrack path. Our trail was marked by carefully hung glowsticks. The 5am start meant we would be running in the dark for almost 2 hours. Runners grouped together. I don’t know if it was the dark or just normal race jitters, but there was this communal, tense feeling. I watched one guy accelerate, leave the trail and go crashing some 15 feet into the blackness, branches braking, leaves flying before he clamored back to the trail. I was running probably 15th place and felt calm. I warmed up and the cold night air felt so good. The forest smelled of rich autumn smells that even seemed sweet at times.
The pine straw covered trail wound through the hills of the forest, dipping and turning, narrow as a man's shoulders, peppered with hidden roots and fist sized rocks. I gazed into the 3 foot cone of light my headlamp afforded and kept a short step. A twisted ankle early in a long race would mean hours of agony or worse, failure to finish.
I watched a strong runner ahead of me twist and fall while aggressively hopping a rootbank. It was early in the day and I can only imagine this put a terrible hurt in the rest of his. I made it to the first aid station, “Country Store” at 5 miles. I grabbed gels, filled my bottle and kept on moving. Everything was dreamlike and sureal. Voices and sounds travel long distances on the wind when it is quiet. As the miles clicked by, we runners spread out. We ran on well worn, dusty paths, both root and rock strewn with rolling climbs. The flickering light of the glow sticks floated like ghosts, beckoning us on. I was glad to abide. Following glow sticks through unkown forest alone sharpens the senses.
The cold that had driven runners to huddle around the column heaters before the race's start gave way to the pounding work at hand. Now warm, I stripped off my shirt and cut through the still night air in the hollows following glowsticks now hung about head high in trees every 50-100 yards. The green lights would only be visible for a second in the distance and then tuck behind a tree or limb as they blew in the breeze. Just when I would wonder if I was off course, had missed a turn somehow, another light would appear; sometimes far off, a faint green glow in the blackness, the beautiful silent blackness.
The first aid station was at 5 the second at 11. The wind seemed to pick up as we were heading from Aid 1 (Country Store) to Aid 2. I made my space on the trail letting some eager racers run on and leaving others faltering behind. One runner in particular sounded my internal warnings, as I approached. His heavy words and terse tone made me wary; bravado and machismo were wasted out here. He huffed, "Some first time ultras signed up for this… they’ll be in for a shock later." He smelled of mildewed gear and coughed, splatting phlegm on the ground. I pushed past him at my first chance and made myself as invisible as possible. I did not want a running buddy, no way, not now.
My usual enjoyment and need for camaraderie at the start of the race just wasn't there. I wanted space, I wanted plenty of oxygen... hard to explain... other than I wanted the night... alone.
By mile 11, the second aid station, runners were well sifted, but 2 runners were playing leap frog with me as they were climbing faster than I, but were cautious on the rolling descents. They got by me when I ran up into a thicket missing the trail. I stopped to pee and let them go. I kept telling myself to run my race and that it was a long day. I caught them again, but declined to pass, happy to hang behind them and watch their lights. We moved on, wordless and then they separated as the miles stretched on.
Somewhere after Aid 2 and several long climbs, I came to an outcropping of rock. A woman stood smiling in my lamplight. She said, "Be careful, cliff ahead on right." Cliff indeed, the narrow ledge looked over an abyss silhouetted by treetops. I focused on the rocky footpath as I ran through the rock formation jutting from the earth.
The novelty of the night wore thin in the 14th mile, as the pine needle covered path gave way to increasingly technical terrain. We were running the southern tip of the Appalachian Trail. Dawn was coming as I crested a ridge. The path followed along its spine, a thin line of orange traced the horizon and the greens of the forest seemed to be misty and blue. Everything was still and cold and clear almost as a painting. A morning bird began to sing quietly as I passed beneath the low hanging boughs of a cedar tree. The light brought with it a new sense of energy, and I now moved into the second phase of my plan. "Make it through the dark w/o injury" now became "slowly work the uphills and bomb the downs." My skin was cool from sweat, as the temperature seemed to dip right before dawn, maybe 45 degrees. I ran slack jawed, now without my singlet and armwarmers. I felt the freedom that I can only describe as a gift to runners from God. I felt a renewed sense of strength and well being and soon found myself unscrewing my bottle top to the sound of voices at Aid Station 3. Now on to Rocky Point, the proclaimed toughest section of the course.
At the 16 mile aid station I fueled up grabbing Gues and Brew for my bottle. The next section was going to be a tough 7 miles. From here, I lose a linear sense of events for a bit... so I will pick up the story where I have vivid recollection, mile 18/19... The trail widened, and I was passed by a runner wearing a camel pak and earphones. He blasted past me and charged ahead. I watched him go, thinking how I just couldn't climb like that this early. But as he neared the top of the climb, his pace slowed and soon I realized that my flats and downhills evened us out. So along we went. We spoke, but briefly as he was in a world of earphones and music. The rhythmic slosh of his water pack was trance inducing. We came, to a crossroad in the trail with no markers. A volunteer standing in the trail looked unsure. As we nearly ran him over, he finally pointed up to his left and stuttered, "Uh, go that way, talk with Nick!" Talk with Nick, “About what?” I thought, “I don't want to talk with anybody. I want to hit the aid station and head to the Tower.” Alas, it was not to be.
After a good climb we came to an aid station... the volunteers were confused. We were the topic of conversation on their walki talkies. We had been sent the wrong way, but evidently we were not the only ones and were told we were in the top 10 or so. So off we were sent. I came upon Nick the Race Director, walking on the trail, who said in a confident tone, "You're alright mate. You’ll make it up (the Tower loop) on the backend." The race was made up of many different large loops connected by the main Pine Mountain trail. So we would be coming back out later to run to the Tower. This hurt my race strategy. The Tower was supposed to be mile 28 where I would see my wife, get aid, get dry and get ready to run basically the second half of the race. Instead, I felt lost. We paced together and the miles clicked by. I, feeling sorry for myself, battled discouragement. I kept wondering what mile I was on, 30? 33? 28? My watch lost signal so I had no clues except my fellow pacing buddy did mention when we hit 30 miles.
He stopped abruptly on the trail and that was the last I saw of him. I figured I was at mile 32 or 33 and was looking for an aid station. I came to a volunteer and was told it was time to head to the Tower. This trek took me into a different kind of forest. The narrow trail dipped and ducked under curling branches and I could hear the trickle of water. How far was I into the race? Would Julia still be waiting for me since I was 2 hrs late into the aid station? I had visions of her tear streaked face and fought my own worry. The trail wound into a thick, seldom traveled part of the forest. I felt heavy and irritated and had to fight my natural urge to blame others for my misfortune. Hopping rocks by a 5-foot waterfall glistening in the sunlight, hidden deep in the forest, I had a moment of clarity. I was carrying the weight of expectations of others into the race. Like removing a heavy garment in the heat, I shrugged and felt lighter. I figured I was so off course and fairly messed up, it was now my goal to finish... to finish the race.
The trail opened up as I neared the Tower, the chalky dust and rock was exposed on the trail, and it was time to climb. I stumbled past day hikers and trudged up and up. The trek from here to the Tower was likely no more than a mile but it seemed much longer.
I rounded a bend and in the trail ahead I saw the fuzzy distant image of my wife... it was no mirage- it was an oasis! I was overcome with relief and elation that she was still there. But I had a plan- I needed information... I ran into the aid station saying, "Who is in charge?" with as much umph as I could muster. A kind Northface rep raised his hand smiling. I pleaded, "Please I need to know how far I have from here. I am despondent!”
I took a 10 minute break. With Julia's help, I got food, got dry, hydrated and ready. Then the news came over the airwaves. I had 14 miles to the finish, straight in... and was "doing pretty good." I mashed a gel into my mouth, shouted thanks to all and trotted off. I thought I had about 9 miles to go... but I could handle 14... honestly had it been 15 or more... I am not sure what I would have done. "Straight in," I repeated.
Running back into the forest from the Tower- where families and crews hung out on blankets waiting for runners, I felt like I could do this... and the race was back on. I shouted accolades and thanks to those who were there and waved my arms wildly above my head as I had lost my usual continuous self concern... I was raw, stripped clean of my layers. I pounded the next mile... having to keep my mind focused... “Mile 14 to 13, mile 14 to 13,” I said to myself whenever I would find my mind drifting to the finish and fantasies of glorious rest and comfort. Each mile required I do this over and over. My mind was like a dog that continually ran to the end of his chain, choking himself over and over. At about 10 miles I hit a major low. I thought, “I have to make it to 8 where my track would re-join the rest of the runners.” From here I would be able to get a true sense of where I was and run with other runners.
I was told by an aid volunteer that I was going to "see the marshal" who would direct me further. It sounded so official, a marshal? Like a sheriff?... was I going to be investigated? What? She then looked me dead in the eye and said, "You’re going home." This was like balm to my soul.
I came to a trail junction- 3 people were sitting in camping chairs... one rose to his feet wearing an official looking, brilliant, red jacket- sandy blond hair and keen eyes looked right into me- I was in a lot of pain... and felt lucid and emotional. He said he was the Course Marshal and had been looking for me... He encouraged me, gave me water, told me I was about 7th (I was actually about 11th at the time). My bottle filled, I was off, my mind bent on climbing out of the pit of self pity.
I recited Psalm 23... as I forced my legs to turn over quickly. The trail angled along the side of hill after hill rolling up and down now on familiar terrain as we were heading back in toward the start/finish. I heard my words echo back to me, but in a different way. Instead of, “The Lord is my Shepherd…”, I heard "I am your Shepherd. You shall not want..." this continued through the entire Psalm and in this moment I felt the overwhelming Love of God, of Jesus Christ... that He was, for me... that He was willing to die for me due to his love for me... I started reciting parts of the prayer in no order as a rush of emotion blasted my core, and I was weeping as I flew through beautiful patches of sunlight on the trail, as the yellows and reds of the turned leaves shook in the breezes. I could not feel my body. The pain was gone. I ran with a fire raging inside me. I was weeping and laughing... feeling light as air, sucking in all the oxygen I could get. Phrases of the Psalm came through sobs. I rolled through mile 8, then 7 and into 6.
The LORD is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He makes me to lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside the still waters.
He restores my soul;
He leads me in the paths of righteousness
For His name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil;
For You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
You anoint my head with oil;
My cup runs over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
All the days of my life;
And I will dwell in the house of the LORD
Forever.
from Him...
I am your Shepherd
You shall not want
I make you lie down in green pastures
I restore your soul
I lead you in paths of righteousness
for My name's sake.
Yea though you walk through the valley of the shadow of death
you shall fear no evil
for I am for you
My rod and my staff, they comfort you
I prepare a table before you in the presence of your enemies
I anoint your head with oil
Your cup runeth over
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow you
all the days of your life
and you will dwell in My House,
the house of your Lord
Forever
I passed several 50k runners who were now returning on the same route and came upon a tall, lean runner who looked like a triathlete. As I passed him I noticed his bib was orange (the 50 mile race # bib color)- I was moving up! This gave me a boost.
Soon after, I came upon a runner with a pacer whom I had played hopscotch with earlier in the race... He had run on my heels for quite a while in the early miles. I hung behind him and his pacer, an African-American female, who looked like she knew her way around a track. I just got in line- not wanting to make a move and then end up where we were early in the race; trading places at every hill. This was all business. So I worked with them for a 1/2 mile and then he pulled up and stopped as we got to a climb. I forged ahead without a word.
Praising with loud Alleluias, I still was able to choose which hills to run. Into the 45th mile, I saw the flopping, long blond hair of a tall runner who, I was sure, I had seen at the start. He seemed to be suffering from blown quads as he moved gingerly over the downhill grade. I passed him uttering an unintelligible, "Good job." But I never looked back- the last aid station was at 2.6 miles to go. The time from passing this runner to the aid was a long mental battle.
I finally looked up to see a spotter. She yelled back "Runner!" I was so glad they were glad to see me... I gulped Coke, pawed at a bowl of Skittles and made small talk with the ladies. They said, “Your 6th, No 7th, No 8th!” That was the consensus. I didn't care at all. I was hoping my legs would hold up to get a top 10 finish. As I left the aid station, I heard the spotter yell "RUNNER!"
Just as I figured I had it and relaxed a bit, I caught my left foot on a rock, jarring me forward, which sent a shooting pain up my hamstring that I had tweaked during training on a 28 mile run I had completed with strep throat. I was not injured but shaken; there were no guarantees in this wilderness- no safety net, nothing assured but a challenge. I kept forcing myself to think about the mile I was on and not the finish. "Mile 2 to 1… mile 2 to 1… then… 1 to finish... 1 to finish...”
I recalled our Highland Rim Ultra Runners Club motto- Keep Moving Forward. I thought of my friends and training. I thought of my wife and my baby son. I could see his face and almost hear him laughing. I pledged to myself whatever happened I would not look back in fear of being passed; and so I faced forward through the short, yet heinous climbs right up to the end of the race. I approached the top of a ridge and heard the muffled sound of an MC calling in the runners, the sound of generators and the whooping of friends and family. I was home! I burst from the trees into the open field pumping my fist. The giant Northface blow up finish marker, and tents and sounds seemed like a city! I was so happy to see the finish. I crossed the line, hugged my beautiful wife, got my medal, and knelt in prayer... I was so thankful. Jadyn Stevens, 8th place overall, 10:05:26.
 |
| Dean Karnazes handed out the goodies |
