85.8 is not 100

It was supposed to be my comeback 100. Turns out, it wasn't. Again. (Heavy sigh)

I wrote some time ago about my Forest Gump moment at mile 64 of the Yeti 100. I quit, frustrated and tired. After 30 years of training and racing, I concluded that I had enough. I was done with ultras forever. That sentiment, however, didn't stick for very long.

So I discovered timed races, drawn specifically to the 24-hour format. With no cutoffs and a seemingly less competitive feel, I completed and wrote about two of those events in the last year. The Black Mountain Monster and Buffalo Mountain Endurance Run were my first attempts. I figured I would stick with that format for the remainder of my ultra career.

And then came Kim Weatherford.

I've known Kim, a women 25 years my younger, but never really spent much time with her before the end of last year. Kim did not start running until she joined a group from church in 2011. Those initial steps served to overcome inertia, building in intensity and duration in the next few years. She has built quite the running resume and has a goal of three 100 milers this year alone. Completely taken by mountain trails, her search for cabins tucked away in remote locations marks her real estate ponderings. Kim is kind and encouraging, almost beyond description.

Even though I warned her of being old, slow, and a lot more tentative on technical trails, Kim and I ventured out on a few training runs together and then a couple more. Before I knew it, she had talked me into signing up for the Greenbriar 100 near Boonsboro, MD. The website described the course as "NOT considered overall "technical" HOWEVER . . . there are two sections around 150 yards (each) that some MIGHT consider technical... the entire loop is 'runnable' with no steep or long climbs." With no intermediate cut-offs and a generous 33-hour limit, it sounded like an ideal re-entry race. Shoot. I went 80 miles in 23 hours before stopping at a 24-hour race because I couldn't breathe, walking a lot of it. (Turns out I had Covid.) I figured that if Greenbriar was similarly non-technical, going another 20 miles in 10 more hours would be no problem at all. Greenbriar sounded like the perfect race for me to check off a 100-mile finish in my 30s, 40s, 50s, and now 60s.

For months, I envisioned sauntering along smooth, forested trails under sunny skies and pleasant temps. But the forecast wasn't quite as encouraging. From the Friday morning of race day through Saturday night, the 90-99% chance of rain and temps in the 40s was not appealing in any way, shape, or form. Sure enough, the rain came down in buckets during breakfast Friday morning. By the time we made our way to the park for the 2 PM start, we were relieved that the rain had at least slowed.

Our group of 100 milers huddled under the protection of the aid station tent, listening to the animated race director, Kevin Sayers, offer final instructions. Again he said, "This course is NOT technical!" His words were encouraging and I was anxious to begin the journey. I knew if I stayed steady, controlled my emotions, and had no major mishap, that treasured buckle would find a place on a brand-new leather belt.

Within a short period of time, the use of "not technical" came into question. By the time I arrived back
at the start-finish of this 7.15-mile loop, I was convinced that one of two things happened: Either the RD was being facetious in his description or his perspective was radically different from mine. Big rocks. Little rocks. Pointy rocks. Ankle-busting loose rocks. Long, long sections of all varieties. Still, if I could maintain this pace for the next 13 loops, a 25-26 hour finish was in hand. That thought spurred me on despite the internal trepidation that sprouted in the deepest part of my gut.

The rain came and went as I trekked on. By loop 4, I almost hoped that I would break an ankle to give me a good reason not to carry on. That said, I felt I was in control of my emotions and had not gone into a dark place. It wasn't that I was struggling from a fitness or muscle standpoint. It was just becoming increasingly difficult to navigate all the technical bits. I even tried using my trekking poles but that seemed to require more total energy, offering diminishing returns with time. Hence, I continued on with just my little 'ol legs as support.

At the stroke of midnight, the 50-mile runners were released on their journey. I made sure to yield the trail by stepping aside when I heard a runner come up from behind. "Good morning," many offered cheerfully as they and their fresh legs cruised by. Sometimes I would jokingly yell out, "Showoff!" I figured it might put a smile on their face. While it was a bit disappointing to be passed, it was more discouraging being lapped by a few of the fast 100-miler guys. I simply podded on, running when I could and hiking when I must.

Sometime before the dawn broke I finished lap seven, the 50 mile mark. I think I remember the time on the clock reading 15:40. Whoa. That was so slow! I had spent several laps trying to predict my finish time and every prediction looked more bleak. Even if I didn't slow down for the last seven, I was looking at over 31 hours of slogging to the finish. I liked nothing about that prospect, especially when I had anticipated a finish significantly under 30 hours.

About the time a fresh pack of 50K runners started at 8 AM, the temperature dropped like a rock, the wind came up, and the rains (and a little sleet and snow) came down. Despite a waterproof jacket, the cold went deep into my bones. I wondered how those who had but shorts and a short sleeve shirt could survive. The inclines and declining trails quickly became rivers and any horizontal dirt became shoe-sucking, slipperier-than-a-sardine mud. To make matters worse, 25K runners responded to "Go" at 9 AM, multiplying the number of feet making the trails more treacherous. I tried my best to be cheerful when the short course runners went by, many making comments about how technical and rocky the trails were. I felt validated.

As trail conditions became more challenging and my travels difficult and slow over the next few loops, it became apparent that it would be impossible to complete 100 miles within the time limit without some miraculous restoration of my legs that could no longer be trusted to run. I now had a decision to make. Do I bag it or persist until I am told that my race was over? There were parts of the course that I came to hate. It would be nice to never have to traverse that ground again. On the other hand, I had no intention of an emotional quit like I had at Yeti. The decision made, laps 10, 11, and 12 were completed; not quickly, but completed nonetheless.

Another decision came after lap 12. Did I have enough time to do 13 and make it to 93 miles despite no chance at 100? Big decision. If I went out, I would be the last one out there, the race director and aid station would be committed to stay, and I would miss Kim's spectacular finish. I was conflicted but in the end, I decided to stop at 85.8 miles. No, it was not 100. I had failed once again to earn that buckle. But I had a great conversation with race organizers who were reconsidering if they had unintentionally misrepresented the course, and I documented my friend's finish.

I prepared, tried my best, dealt with circumstances beyond my control, and maintained, for the most part, a reasonable attitude. Of course, I am disappointed and even a little remorseful of not sucking it up for that penultimate 13th lap. However, I surprised myself with NOT swearing off future races, even the ones with cutoffs. I must be realistic in my choice of race, but I think I still have something left to give in the long, long races. It is no secret that I am not capable of being fast, but I can be steady. I have no desire to be pressured into competing in shorter races, but thanks to Kim, she has given me the gift of rekindled love of being in the mountains on early Saturday mornings. 

I am forever grateful. May we enjoy many more sunrises atop a mountain.