True confessions.
The last 100-miler I successfully completed was in 2008 at the inaugural Grindstone, a rugged mountain race with a ton of climb and descent. Then and for the most part, I stopped trying. Running the long stuff was getting harder with each passing year. It was in 2021 that my Forest Gump moment of "I'm tired. I think I'll go home" caused me to pull out of Yeti 100 at mile 64. What a wuss.
Near the end of December 2022, I decided to give a 100 another go. My training partner and I picked a race that seemed like a good fit with a generous time limit. Last month I stopped 14 miles short of 100 miles at the rain and rock-ridden Greenbriar 100, a race erroneously touted as non-technical.
Within a day of waddling through my front door after the race, I signed up for the C&O Canal 100 as my redemption, slated to be held a slim month after the Greenbriar event. I was sick and tired of failing to achieve a 100-mile completion and the acquisition of a big and bulky belt buckle, the traditional award given for the final step over the finish line. The way I figured, it was now or never. I had trained well over the winter. Why let those efforts go to waste?
Kim, my training partner eagerly agreed to be my crew and pacer. With a new Go-Pro in hand, she started recording the event before we even pulled out of her driveway. (
Video here.) The predicted weather was not good, which proved true pulling into Camp Manidokan, the start, finish, and waypoints along the way. A leaking tent set up in the rain produced an insanely hilarious solution to ensure a chance at a good night's rest,
described here. It was a soggy mess before we were sent off like a giant herd of turtles infiltrated by a select group of speedy cheetahs.
Despite consistent training up through the Greenbriar race, I knew I would not be running the whole time. My relatively low volume of training and the recovery period after those hard 86 miles simply would not allow it. My motto became, "Run a little. Walk a lot." And it worked for the first 60-70 miles. In fact, one young woman with whom I played cat and mouse all day remarked that my methodology seemed to be very effective. She simply could not get away from me even though she was running a lot more than me. That made me smile and maybe even a little smug given that my ultra experience was likely greater in length than the number of years she had been alive. These youngsters!
There were only two aid stations where crews could meet runners. Kim, always prepared, awaited my arrival wherever possible. She assessed my needs, found the appropriate items, and orchestrated a smooth transition into the coming miles. And, she didn't even seem to mind when she had to handle my sweaty, gross clothes when an outfit swap was necessary. It was nice to see a kind face waiting for me to arrive, no matter what condition I was in.
As the miles piled up, so did the clouds. Though the majority of the day gifted us with pleasant temps and glimpses of sunny skies, it was concerning that forecasters reported incoming storms starting at about 11PM. But I had no power to make the rain come or go (although I did pray it would never come). Hence, all I could do was be intentional to take in the river views, the abandoned locks, and marvel at the toil of the men who dug out the canal by hand back in the 1700s.
Once I hit 70 miles, my run-walk strategy turned into a walk-walk plan. Kim joined me for these last 30 miles, filling me in with curious facts about the canal learned from an old guy in the area museum. I talked of the next section of trail, having traversed it all two times before. Even though we were not actually running, we made decent progress, taking a few minutes at aid stations in an attempt to intake palatable calories and fluids. There was no doubt I was getting tired, the miles taking a toll on my digestion and with hands beginning to swell likely due to an electrolyte imbalance. It was imperative that I get a handle on things and figure out the best way forward. I had gone through 50 miles in a little over 11 hours. I knew there was plenty of time to finish in the 30-hour cutoff even if I slowed down even more. Still, the feeling that I was stuck in a time warp getting nowhere fast was becoming disconcerting.
The first raindrops started to fall at about 3:45AM. Sporadic at first, the huge drops quickly turned into a curtain of wetness. We plodded on, thankful we both had waterproof jackets. The distance between aid stations seemed to grow as the rain became ever more intense. We kept walking, wishing first light to come sooner than later.
Daylight did come but the rain refused to give up. Inches-deep water pooled along the path. I was struggling more and more with fatigue, temperature regulation, and emotional breakdowns. I heard Kim ask me the same questions and suggest actions that I would have voiced had our roles been reversed. But I knew I was on the edge and had little ability to do more than I was already doing. A couple times all I could do was ugly cry while shuffling forward. I was shivering uncontrollably, teeth literally chattering non-stop. The miles covered relatively quickly earlier in the race now seemed unending. When would the misery end?
There was no way I would not finish the race. I had invested too much to quit now. Finally, the last turn up the hill and into the camp finish line came into view. But adding insult to injury, the muddy lower trail was impossible for me to navigate alone given zero traction from the bottom of the road shoes I had switched into due to blisters. Kim took me by the hand to steady me as I grabbed for any branch or slim tree trunk I could find. But we made it up the hill, across some gravel, navigating the last push to the finish line ill-defined by a piece of orange marking tape laying across the grass. I stopped at the line, surprised that no race official was there to acknowledge my arrival, no matter how unspectacular. I heard Kim call out. "This is Rebekah. She just finished!" Then, from underneath a nearby canopy, a woman asked me to say my number and a gentleman in a florescent vest came forward to nonchalantly hand me a running cap and the silver belt buckle for which I had run 100 miles. Despondent tears turned to a smile and back into a few joyful tears as Kim took pictures.
It was over. The monkey was off my back. I had just completed a self-assigned big task. Now the priority became getting warm. As the hot water in the shower flowed over me, it washed away the accumulated dirt and grime. But my feelings of defeat and insignificance also found their way into the drain. By the mercy of God, He had allowed me to do something special. At 66 years old, I finished the race with two hours to spare. But more importantly, I finished with my mind and body intact, a friend by my side, and with much encouragement along the way.
Yes, I ran 100 miles for a buckle. . .and it was worth every step!
Comments