Never say die

Caymen on the right

For someone who had run a total of five miles between Nov 2022 and Oct 2023, the petite 29-year-old with dark brown hair looked incredibly calm staring down the 100 miles that stood between her and the finish.  

Maybe it was the fact that her mileage, all on roads, increased to 317 miles from Nov 2023 to Oct 2024. Then between Nov 2024 through Oct 2025 the mileage total doubled to 619 with her first trail 10K race in Feb 2025. But as she stood at the line of No Business 100 in “no where” Tennessee, she had 1217 miles on her feet from Nov 2025 to Oct 2026, much of that on mountain trail.

Caymen and partner, Laura, joined our band of merry trail runners sometime in 2025. They seemed to embrace the concept of spending hours galivanting along forested trail while absorbing the tales of both triumph and woe from the more experienced women. But to be honest, I didn’t spend a lot of time with them as I was either waiting for knee surgery or recovering from the insertion of a pile of titanium into both knees.

Nevertheless, the other women in our group have an uncanny way of convincing newbies to set goals. Dream big. Do what they once thought impossible. Caymen knocked out a tough and rocky 50 miler last month and plunked down the substantial fee for the privilege of running 100 trail miles through rural Tennessee and bits of Kentucky.

Robin and Caymen

The plan was simple. Run with friend and mentor Robin, a 50-something women who completed this very race last year as her first 100. Both women were being crewed by a cadre of our more experienced members, including myself. Each time we met them at crew-access aid stations, both Caymen and Robin seemed happy and content with their steady progress. All was well – until it wasn’t.

After a long and chilly moon-lit night, Robin arrived alone at mile 85, tears welling up as she told us she had lost Caymen. Caught up in a conversation with other runners, Robin had not noticed Caymen falling behind. Distraught, she was fearful that without encouragement, the blister-ravaged feet of the younger runner would lead to a drop from the race given the ominous text to Laura: “IDK if I can do 15 after I see you.”

At our prodding, Robin and her appointed pacer left to conquer the last fifteen miles leading to the finish. Kim, the ultimate encourager in our group, took off running down the gravel road to discover Caymen actually running up the incline. She looked strong despite the constant pain produced by numerous blisters. When they both arrived back at the aid station, I was elected to guide her to the finish given my 36 years of trail racing experience. I worried - really worried - that I would be too old and slow to do her much good, especially being just four months removed from a total knee replacement.

Large portions of this section were incredibly slow and technical: Slimy rocks, fallen trees, slippery mud, constant ups and downs out of and into creek-laden gullies. We chatted some, Caymen politely listening to my stories to pass the time. I led the way. Her decision. We made progress, howbeit slowly.

Caymen somewhere in the last 15

Glancing at my watch, I asked Caymen how many miles her Garmin watch said we had left. “9” was her answer. Hum. We had three hours before the 34 hour cutoff. 3 miles per hour. 20 minute miles. Sounded doable, right? Maybe. The terrain and legs that had so many miles on them already were not going to make this easy, especially since we were currently slower than the newly established benchmark.

I asked Caymen what she was thinking. “Will you be devastated if you miss the 34 hour mark?” knowing she would still earn a buckle even if finishing over the official time limit.

“No. I just want to finish.”

“Okay. But let’s do our very best so we can say we gave it our all. So here’s the deal. I am the carrot dangling in front of you. Your one and only job is to keep the distance between me and you constant. Got it?”

Still smiling

I stayed out front, adjusting my pace as needed but delighted to see the deep down courage and resilience of my young friend. We started dropping a minute or two off our mile times. Still, the math was a challenge. Could we? Would we? Was it possible to go sub 34? There was no way to tell unless we tried hard. Really hard. Unimaginably hard. It would be no rest for the weary.

When we arrived at the last aid station with 4.2 remaining, the aid station captain informed us we were critically close to the cutoff. That said, I was shocked to see that we had 97 minutes left to run those remaining miles. WHAT?!?! How did that happen? Surely, an official finish was possible after all.

We agreed to dig deep. Do all we could. Run up hills. Hike the unrunnable sections with a vengeance, conquering steep and off-camber trails with precipitous drops should one slip off. On and on we pushed, hope exploding with every step.  If I ran, she ran, somehow convincing those beat-up legs to obey the command. Never once did she protest, complain, or falter. I was utterly amazed, overwhelmed so much by the emotion of it all that the tears welling up in my eyes blurred my vision.

After 100 miles

With less than a mile to go, I glanced up to see a string of about eight runners ahead. Whoa! After being passed by only one runner and his pacer in the last fourteen miles, were we really catching this many people? Caymen and I exchanged knowing smiles as we continued to pound out the waning steps of the race, making definitive passes each time. Now, all that remained was a quarter mile. The finish banner came into view. The applause and cheers of our friends and gathered crowd exploded. Caymen crossed the final timing pad as the clock hit 33:36:22. It was over. Caymen’s relentless forward progress rewarded her with a big shiny buckle and her very first 100 mile finish.

Though 40 years separate our ages, I will be forever grateful for the time spent adventuring in the forest with Caymen. Her courage and inner strength were contagious. I felt a new freedom in my own running, buried deep and forgotten in the last two or three years of frustrating effort.

So thank you, Caymen, for reawakening in me a spirit of hope, perseverance, and never say die attitude. I owe you.

When good results disappoint

"If you don't find something you can fix, I will be greatly disappointed," I stated matter-of-factly to my cardiologist. And I was serious. Dead serious. I was laying in my hospital bed waiting to be wheeled into the cath lab to get a clear picture of what was happening--or not happening--inside those skinny little coronary arteries. If he did not find something to stent, like he did five years ago, my symptoms would have no chance of being validated.

I will spare you all the details, but my running has really taken a dive over the last few months. The group of women I run with can be chatting it up having a great time, only to unintentionally pull away and leave me eating their dust. I try to keep up but it's like my engine is throttled back by a governor, heart rate zooming upwards to no avail. I simply can't go. I feel my chest tighten and throat close. I have to walk. I hate being the anchor. Lately, I make excuses to why I can not join them on those long Saturday runs to avoid holding them back and embarrassing myself.

So I run alone. That way, I can control the pace. But alas, I have no get up and go. That same tightness comes and goes, resolved by walking but with sub-zero energy. I makes me wonder if my genetically-produced coronary artery disease is misbehaving again. Surely, I don't want to keel over up in the mountains but my symptoms beg the question if I should even be there. Friends encourage me to call my cardiologist. Perhaps I should. But what if nothing is wrong? I am more terrified of that than an occluded vessel.

Then again, I've been under a lot of stress with a work situation. And, I am 67 and not at the pinnacle of fitness. Maybe this is all par for the course. I certainly do not want to be a hypochondriac worry-wart. Just suck it up, I tell myself. You're fine. Nothing is going to happen. It's all in your head.

That said, I did make that office visit last week and had my third cardiac cath this morning. I cannot begin to tell you how much I wanted there to be a blockage because that kind of problem can be addressed without much difficulty. But no, with the sedation being quite light, I was able to see the dye coursing through the arteries. The stent in the LAD was wide open and though there were a handful of areas with 20-30% blockages, those pose no real problems.

My problem, therefore, becomes how I deal with this good news that I perceive as bad news. Should I assume all my symptoms are figments of the imagination? Am I not tough enough? Am I a wus? Am I relegated to "has-been" status with no good running days ahead? I cannot begin to tell you how much I detest this situation!

So what to do? Perhaps this is an opportunity to force myself into gratefulness knowing that the likelihood of a catastrophic cardiac event is slim. I can look forward to the end of May when I walk out of my office for the final time, leaving the frustration and stress behind. Having more control of my time, I can start over again, building back a consistent and strong aerobic base. Maybe I can teach myself to ignore my symptoms based on the reality of what those cine films revealed. And perhaps the added pharmaceutical approach to address a potential microvasculature issue will be effective.

So here I am at my keyboard figuring out my next move. I think I will contemplate life a little longer, be sad for a few more moments that there are no easy answers, and then go for a run.

Gratitude for step after step

On a whim, I signed up for a race that was a mere seven days away. A 6-hour timed race, it sounded so, well, short--at least compared to a 24-hour race. And why not? On race day I would be a month out from a 24-hour event and two weeks shy of a 25-mile mountain race. Even though my weekly mileage could hardly be called "training," a pavement run through a park seemed like a swell idea for the Saturday after Thanksgiving.

Not wanting to make the 1:45 drive in the wee hours, an inexpensive hotel room the night before was the perfect way to relax with the Hallmark channel broadcasting predictable yet soul-soothing Christmas movies. I felt wonderfully relaxed and at ease, sleeping better than expected.

Lest you think this a typical race report, that is not my intent. That said, the facts are simple. It was a chilly 27 degrees at the start, never breaking 42 through race's end. The course was a 1.34 blacktopped ramble through an idyllic community park: playgrounds, duck pond, Little Leauge field, large pool, and even a rideable miniature train and track. The field of competitors was small (about 40) but there was an ever-increasing number of citizens walking dogs, exercising, and enjoying the holiday scenes set up
around the park.

My goal was as simple as the facts: keep moving for the duration, run smart, and be grateful for what I could do rather than what I used to be able to do. Oh, and one other thing: smile.

Given my training (or lack thereof), I knew my legs would take a pounding. Therefore, I was smart in being mindful of maintaining form with small, almost shuffling steps, shoulders back, and hips rotated slightly forward. My pace was guarded and conservative, chatting freely with friends on the first several laps. After that, I primarily ran solo, taking in the views, greeting puppies and people along the way. And yes, I smiled. A lot.

At the two-hour mark, I had covered a little over 11 miles. Could I maintain that pace for another four hours? So far, it felt fairly easy and the time short. I tried not to focus on a mileage goal but have to admit that a 50K in six hours would certainly be a nice accomplishment.

Within two more hours, 21 miles had been covered. I was a bit concerned when the lap keeper inquisitively asked on one of my passes through the start-finish, "What lap are you on?" My heart dropped along with any confidence I had that my laps were being accurately recorded. Oh well. I still had my Coros watch which has proved in the past to be fairly accurate. I continued on with the goal of being steady, smart, and smiling.

As time slipped away, I was pleasantly surprised that covering 31 miles was within reach. However, there could be no lolly-gagging. Pushing on the last couple of laps before time ran out, my heart rate rose along with the determination to finish well. Helen, a good friend caught me on the last lap, asking if I was in the lead. I honestly did not know. There was another girl who had passed me on one lap but I passed her back on the last lap. I had no idea where she was. But it was a choice to not allow myself to become distracted with that which I could not control. The only thing I could control was doing my best to the very end.

Helen pulled away a time or two, leaving me to catch up. Even on the final downhill to the finish, my freight train breathing was proof of how hard I was trying to get and stay even with her. We crossed the imaginary line between the cones shoulder to shoulder. It was 5:58 and change. Because I had promised myself to be in motion the entire time, I continued to walk until my watch struck 6:00. My mileage? 31.15.

I smiled and was pleased.

Awarded third place for the women, I added a cool plaque, medal, and running store gift certificate to my takeaways. But with results still not posted, I am unsure of the official standings and a little leery of their accuracy. Nevertheless, I can honestly say, "I really don't care." 

I am grateful for what I could do. By my watch, I covered 31.15 miles in six hours. I did my best with what I had to work with. I made smart decisions in terms of pace, hydration, and calories. I never had a slump, amazed at how quickly the time went by. I remained positive the whole race and actually enjoyed the process of putting one foot in front of the other.

It was a good day and I am better for it.

Still learning lessons after all those miles

 In the aftermath of my third 24-hour race, I am recoiling a bit. The phrase, "There is dignity in completion," written by ultrarunning great and philosopher, Sabrina Little, is running a circuitous route through my gray matter. I am bothered by it--and somewhat embarrassed--that I stopped approximately two hours and five minutes short of the 24-hour mark. Why? Why did I decide to bag the effort with time remaining on the clock? It's complicated but at the same time quite simple.

Sabrina also put digital pen to paper to say "Patience is the virtue of remaining in difficulty." If I understand that concept correctly, there is an embedded implication that not choosing to remain in the difficulty is a sign of impatience, a not-so-virtuous marker of sub-optimal character. So yikes. It's a little disconcerting to contemplate the extent of my failing. Here's the backstory.

With no pressure-producing cut-off designations, the timed races (eg. 24 hrs) hold a certain appeal as I get older and much, much slower. There is no possibility of being forced to stop at an aid station because of failure to arrive on time. And in fact, there is no expectation by race management of traversing an established number of miles. Rather, each runner gets to select their own pace and distance covered.

I went into this race with less than optimal training. In fact, I'm not sure my preparation (or lack thereof) even qualifies as training. The demands of my day job leave me chronically exhausted, spending 10-13 hours, sometimes more, seldom less, daily away from home. Understanding that lack of time is often an excuse, it is an unfortunate reality that impacts my desire and physical stamina.

Nonetheless, I was looking forward to a weekend away from my normal routine. I took a vacation day on either side of the weekend to revel in alone time. And of course, I would have plenty of solo time to reflect on significant (and not so significant) contemplations on Saturday and into Sunday as I circled the prescribed 2.25-mile loop over and over again.

By 8:00 AM Saturday I was on the way, along with 91 other participants in this inaugural event: the Greensprings 24 HR. Even with low miles coming into the race, the first several laps felt easy. It was rather surprising how quickly I was engulfed in a bubble of solitude, racers spreading out and friend groups chatting among themselves. I was content to be silent, gliding along smooth, wide trails dotted with planked footbridges constructed with seamless approaches and exits. 

The day warmed quickly into the mid-80s. With the exception of the 200-yard approach to and from the electronic timing pad, the course meandered through the forest, the tree canopy allowing only dappled sunlight to reach my shoulders. Along one arm of the rectangular-ish, clockwise course, houses could be seen not far from the course. How lucky those homeowners were living so close to these well-maintained trails! Then it was a right turn onto a short stretch before another right turn onto more of the same: sweet, wide trail and planked footbridges across low laying areas, this stretch sans houses.

 Once the trail hit a paved path, we took another turn to the right before merging onto a massive 20-foot wide elevated wooden bridge that disappeared around a corner some 400 yards ahead. We turned right again, before reaching the bridge's end. Now, a swamp appeared on either side, leading to another bridge, this one long, narrow, and winding. The runner was awarded with sweeping views of trees punctuating the surface, birds soaring overhead, and a cacophony of croaking and chirping. It was another right turn after the bridge and a mere football field length of trail before a turn to the left, climbing the only hill on the course, around a huge evergreen, and across the field to cross the timing mat.

As the day gave way to dusk, I was content to run some, walk some, counting steps to keep my mind occupied and feet moving. Two young women, always running side-by-side and looking effortless as they laughed their way down the trail, passed me like I was standing still. (In fact, they passed me ten times all together.) Nonetheless, they were kind and encouraging to this 66-year old runner, the three of us enjoying these brief but predictable interchanges. (For fear of a spoiler alert, they ended up with a little over 100 miles in the 24 hour period.)

As the clock struck midnight at the16-hour mark, smaller numbers of runners maintained their 2.25-mile trek. The race organization, in an effort to encourage participants of any experience level to tackle the course, had advertised special awards for significant milestones: 50 miles, 100K, 75 miles, and 100 miles. If the dwindling number of tents in the open field were any indication, more than a few runners chose to retire from their efforts, pleased with meeting personal goals.

Sometime in the wee hours, I found myself fighting the urge to close my eyes and give in to the serious head-bobbing and sleep-walking stagger. The remedy was to talk to God--out loud--about all sorts of things. Prayers of thanksgiving, protection and salvation for family and friends, and for wisdom and guidance escaped my lips and rose to the heavens. It was the personal revival I desperately needed.

Despite the uplift of spirit, my feet kept me grounded. I could feel significant blisters. But more than that, my orthopedically-impaired feet felt as though someone had taken a hammer to them. Additionally, the O'Dark 0400 hour brought on a disturbing sensation. A sharp, transient, but recurring twinge in my left chest ushered in some concern and prompted continued prayers for wisdom and good sense. Having heart disease, a stent for a partially occluded coronary artery, and an implanted loop recorder, there was reason to be suspect. The sharp pain was not new. I had felt it a few times in the last couple months. However, it was never really associated with other foreboding symptoms of shortness of breath, arm pain, and the proverbial elephant sitting on the chest. My theory was that the loop recorder implanted three years ago had migrated from its original position and was somehow responsible for what I was feeling. At least, that's where the pain seemed to be located. Still, I wasn't sure and didn't want to be stupid. It was a predicament that required deep thinking.

Unfortunately, the full moon that lit up the night failed to light up a clear solution as I continued my now long walk in the woods. Rather, I was conflicted, calculating the time of day and miles to go. I was over 50 miles and had eclipsed 100K as well. Should I stop now? No. I would continue. The least amount of miles I would accept was 75 come hell or high water. Less seemed too wimpy. The sharp pain continued to come and go but wasn't getting worse. Perhaps it was a good thing that my aching feet called out louder.

With decision made, I trudged on. Three well-placed benches coaxed me to spend an occasional half minute with feet off the ground. It was sweet but short-lived relief. Though I would get no where fast if I stayed longer, I relished my solitude in the darkness and the ever-present hoot owls sounding out their night-time songs. When I finally crossed the line marking 75.3 miles, the emotional struggle was as real as the physical. I hit my goal established when the mystery chest pain reared it's ugly head but fell short of the 85-90 mile mark I had secretly established prior to the race. What to do?

I was undoubtedly conflicted. I analyzed the positions of the other women with the timing guy. I was in 4th place with no chance of catching 3rd should I continue and no chance of 5th catching me even if I stopped. I had already gone further than any women north of 40 yrs old. I was in 10th position overall. Maybe it wasn't a bad idea to stop. Or was it? Should I even care about my position in the race if I was just seeing how far I could go? Was I making a providentially prudent decision based on wisdom and sound judgement or one that merely removed me from my temporary suffering?

I eased into my chair near the sole aid station and drew in a deep breath. There was no twinging in my chest as I sat but my feet were incredibly painful. Glancing at the clock, even at a snail's pace I could end with at least 80 miles by the 24-hour mark. My mind was reeling. I didn't want to risk a heart attack, as improbable as I thought it to be. Shoot. Even David Horton, ultrarunning legend and now cyclist, recently had enough sense to get himself to the hospital when he had chest pain while riding his bike, though shortness of breath and heaviness accompanied his pain.Turns out, he was having a heart attack and ended up buying himself a stent. So, there was that to consider. It took me another five minutes to decide I would call it a day, smiling when I posed for my 75 mile award.

Let me be honest. I felt no dignity of completion. I choose to live no longer in my difficulty. I was not patient enough to take one more step followed by multiple more steps until the clock told me to stop.

We are often rewarded clarity in retrospect. I'm still waiting for that moment. But for now, I am leaning toward the conclusion that I should have continued until time ran out. Surely, for as much pain as my feet gave me, they would not have fallen off or been permanently injured had I continued. And, I honestly believe that the twinges in my chest were related to the position of the inserted device rather than an indication of ischemia and impending doom.

So what do I do now? Recovery has been very easy which makes me doubt my decision all the more. But there are no do-overs. The only option now is to accept my decision, understand it, and work on becoming more virtuous, willing to be patient enough to remain in difficulty.

Let there be dignity in completion next time around.

100 miles and a buckle

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!

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.

A view from the front (seat)

It was in November 2021 that Rachel Tillas took her first steps into the world of ultrarunning by competing in the MMTR 50. But it started in July of 2021 when Belinda, Rachel's mom, messaged to tell me Rachel had converted from the 400m distance run so quickly in high school to a marathon. But more importantly, as one of Rachel's high school coaches, Belinda thought I should know that Rachel had mentioned trying Hellgate one day. My response? "Alrighty then. She needs to start going with me to the mountains. This makes me happy."

And to the mountains we went. I was the tour guide and Rachel my companion. She was bright and mature, contributing to great conversations despite the almost 40 year age difference. But soon enough, I did her no favors by asking her to join me on no more than a handful of other runs. I consistently held her young, spry self back. I was too slow to be any good to her. With colleagues at the hospital who ran fast, strong and long, I found myself beneficially replaced by those who could aid in her development way beyond what I could offer. So, the last time we were together in the mountains was a week before Masochist when I met her along the course to provide aid during the training run and help her navigate the course. I also assisted her family in crewing during the race but no running on my part was required.

Skip ahead to the fall of 2022.  As a welcome break after completing her Family Nurse Practitioner and Doctor of Nursing Practice degrees, she and her husband, Jordan, headed for the hills. Literally. They spent four months out in the big mountains of Colorado, Utah, Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, Washington, California, and Arizona. She ran while Jordan worked remotely. Miles piled up as her body toughened to the rigors of training. She even set an unsupported female FKT for the Zion Crossing. To say she was ready for Hellgate, returning to Virginia just a week or so prior, would be a gross understatement. I said as much to race director, David Horton, when her application to this year's race was submitted. Rachel deserved a shot. She was awarded a bib.

Belinda and Rachel at the start

Rachel leaves nothing to chance, that's for sure. I should not have been surprised to see her race plan when it arrived in my inbox. Two packs were to be used, swapped out at each crew access point. We were instructed to place 5 gels and two bottles with a single Nunn tablet each for one aid station. Eight gels and 2 bottles with two Nunn tablet each at another. The details were precise for each aid station. Plus, estimated times of arrival within a ten minute window and estimated splits were all neatly recorded. Nothing was left to the imagination.It made me a little nervous.

I sat with Belinda and Rachel during the entertaining race briefing Friday night, which, incidentally, was anything but brief. Shortly thereafter, we packed up and headed to the start several hours before most. Strategically parking to enable a quick get-a-way to claim a premium parking spot at the crowded Petites Gap aid station, we chatted to pass the time, Rachel anxious for the start. When the time finally came and after the national anthem was sung by the make-shift choir of individuals clad in tights and running shoes, 138 competitors, each with their own agenda, sprinted (or shuffled) off into the night. The race was on.

Belinda and I waited for Rachel to emerge from the darkness and into the flickering light of the 8-mile aid station. The moisture falling in the form of drops surprised us. Rain had not been predominant in the forecast. However, the weather app anticipated the precipitation to cease in 29 minutes. That prediction would prove blatantly false throughout the night. Nevertheless, Rachel arrived reporting a strong start and feeling good. She was the 12th woman to make it to the gap at Petites. We quickly swapped packs following our specific instructions before she ran away from us. Off we went to wait for her to complete the next 15 miles.

My view from the front seat of the car was ideal. I was warm, dry, and could see every runner who approached. We once again readied the pack per Rachel's instructions and settled in, wondering if and when the aid station would be set up. (The Petite's Gap folks had to break down that station before positioning themselves at Headforemost Mountain, the place where we now waited.) As runners came through, we paid particular attention to the women. The first came through and then the second, third, fourth, and fifth. And there was Rachel, now the sixth woman. Again, the exchange was brief, perhaps 30 seconds including a quick pee behind a parked car. She looked good.

Off we raced to Aid Station 5: Jennings Creek. A cheerful campfire sent sparks high into the sky, crew members huddled around and engaged in small talk. A colorful unicorn surrounded by Christmas lights created a festive atmosphere despite the dank and dark night. We witnessed the dance of headlight beams descending the sweeping switchbacks above. We counted the bouncing ponytails entering and exiting the aid station. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Again, Rachel was Number 6. I had told her she needed to do only two things in the first 46 miles, one of which was get to Jennings Creek in the dark. She did. I had managed that feat only once or twice in my ten Hellgate finishes but never as soon as her. Rachel's first half of the race was proving impressive. Very impressive.

Though she had to keep moving quickly to continue on on her mission, Belinda and I felt no compulsion to risk rushing through the thick fog plaguing some roads on which we traveled. Rachel had 17 tough miles to run out of the darkness and into the light before reaching us at the busy Bearwallow aid station. We had less miles than that to drive. Still, crewing a fast runner provided us the opportunity to arrive before many of the other crews to claim a front-row parking spot with a panoramic view from the front seat. Belinda's husband (Mike) met us there and she joined him in the front seat of his vehicle. That meant I had the car to myself. I wondered how the young runner might be feeling, becoming nostalgic of my previous runs on this more than challenging course. I envisioned her pushing the pace on the gravel and grassy downhills. But how would she feel about the leaf-covered, rock-strewn, ankle-busting, off-camber Devil Trail? That section could make or break her. I prayed it would not be the latter as she covered those hellish miles for the first time ever.

As dawn broke and the rain backed off, I left the front seat in exchange for a campfire-front seat to
await Rachel's arrival. Again, as women began to filter through we counted heads. One. Two. Three.
Four. Five. Six...and close behind seven. Sixth-place Rachel did not look chipper as she glanced over her shoulder to see how close number seven was to her heels. "That was so long and hard," she moaned. The wind had gone out of her sails, legs rendered tired and unresponsive. Still, as her Mom and Dad got her situated with the pack exchange, she reached for a small brownie, the first morsel of non-gel food to enter her mouth. Locking eyes, I spoke. "Rachel, remember. Don't be stupid. Do what you are supposed to do when you are supposed to do it, and how you are supposed to do it. Things can get better but you need to be patient. Work through it." She nodded and started the tough next climb. I fought back tears as I spoke, empathizing with her. Too many times I left that same aid station wondering how I could ever cover the next 20 miles. Those emotions can become overwhelming, the task seemingly impossible. Again I breathed a silent prayer for her to regain confidence and strength.

It's a family thing

With the next aid station closed to crews due to a mud slide on the Blue Ridge Parkway, we arrived at the Day Creek Aid Station - the last of the race - and once again settled in for her to complete another 14 miles. As had become our practice, we strategically positioned the car so we could see every approaching runner, readying ourselves to spring into action with the arrival of our favorite gal. By this time, Jordan, Rachel's husband, along with her sister and months-old "Baby Bear" had arrived. It was fun to chat and catch up while we waited. In time, the familiar count began as female runners passed by. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Would Rachel be the next one to emerge from the trail?

We noticed positions among the top five women had shifted compared to the Bearwallow aid station. But yes, here she came, identified by black tights, black shirt, and the black pack. Her face was a mix between sullen and mad. She was behind her predicted arrival time and not happy. I know that feeling so well. The only thing she wanted was to be DONE! No small talk. No stopping. No words. Not even a glance sideways. Without breaking stride, she peeled off the pack, Jordan handing her the prepared red one. I immediately decided against uttering a single word. That would only irritate the wound created from 13 long and hard hours on the trail. Instead, I snapped a picture or two and watched her push forward on mission to end the misery. "And we came for that?" Hannah, the sister, jokingly quarried once Rachel was out
of earshot. The group's tension broke at the thought of this ten-second non-encounter.

Now we rushed toward the finish, having to drive over three times more miles than she had to run. Creating a family viewing area just feet from the finish line, Belinda cuddled Baby Bear, Mike took a position at the last turn into the finish, and Hannah and Jordan settled into their camp chairs. Meanwhile, I chatted with friends about upcoming adventures. Then the count began. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. After the fifth woman completed her journey, I shifted to a spot leading to the finish shoot where I could see her come around the bend. Finally, I motioned to the family. "There she is! There she is!" I hoped beyond hope that she would be smiling. I did not want her to feel defeated because she would miss her projected time by a smidge less than 14 minutes.

I took pictures as she ran up the slight incline to the painted line in the grass. I was pleased. A faint smile graced her face. I felt a tremendous sense of relief. Anger, frustration, and pain gave way to the joy and dignity of completion. Though she suffered, it did not defeat her. She never gave up. Her stubborn determination awarded her with a sixth place finish in her first race over 50 miles in a time only possible in my wildest dreams.

Though I had pangs of sorrow and remorse, memories of a better me, and a wisp of a compulsion to enter Hellgate once again to battle the miles, my view from the front seat proved to be simply wonderful.

Like this kind of writing? Check out the book options by Rebekah Trittipoe..

A walk in the park and a pink finish line

By the time I finish most races, I've figured out at least the first paragraph of my post-race story. This was one of the few where the story twisted in a big way by the time I finished the 3.5 hour drive home. But let's start at the beginning.

With cut-offs harder to make and the felt-pressure to train oppressive, my first foray into timed racing occurred in May of this year. With no threat of being pulled from a race because I was too slow, my mantra became "Run a little, walk a lot." I was relatively happy doing that for about 22 hours and 50 minutes, stopping shy of 24 hours since I had miraculously clinched second place and would likely not have been able to complete another loop in the remaining time to add it to my total. So when my friends, Rick and Michelle Gray from TN, shortly thereafter invited me to run the last edition of the Buffalo Mountain Endurance Run, I signed up immediately.

Knowing from experience that a lot of ground can still be covered by a pedestrian pace, my nominal training deceased even further. Long days at work, plenty of gardening chores, and a desire to be a "normal" grandma reduced my running to a mere 20ish miles some weeks to maybe 35ish miles for an exceptional week. Not exactly the kind of time-on-feet that leads to championship performances. Still, after 30 years of training under pressure, I wanted relief. A curiosity developed to see how much I could do on how little. 

Waking up Saturday morning--race morning--I noticed a little nasal stuffiness, not a surprising find since my granddaughter has had a running case of the sniffles and a cough for some time now. But no worries. I headed out to the old Methodist camp where I would engage with the 1.25 mile loop over and over again. I watched as the 36 hour runners, having started an hour earlier, came and went, many walking every step. It had not occurred to me that most in the 36 hour race had no intention of actually being out there for 36 hours. Rather, they wanted enough time to accomplish a goal without being stressed out by napping for several hours or coming and going at will. Others, however, looked like they were on a mission, hunting down that elusive line between possible and impossible.

Those of us in the 24 hour race began our quest an hour after the long-haulers took their first steps. The course was a 400 yard downhill run on blacktop, a hilly gravel and grass loop around a small lake (complete with a trio of very vocal geese), another 100 yards of blacktop before a short section of gravel and 50 yards of "trail." Then it was more blacktop, a short gravel loop running through a pool bathhouse (with heated restrooms and running water!), finishing with a climb back to the start at the top of the hill and across the timing mats. Spigoted coolers sat outside the lodge for self-service fluid refills, while food lay spread out across a round table just inside the building. It was a convenient set-up.

It did not take very long to identify where I should walk and where I should run. It was a gorgeous day to be traveling along on foot and being a part of the inchworm of humans making steady forward progress. For a little while, I chatted with Sarah Lowell, a talented 60-yr old runner I had met years ago. Then there was Rob Apple, an ultrarunning legend with over 800 ultras to his name. On the short trail section I met Joyce Ong, a 72- year old woman shuffling along with her arm in a sling. She raced every weekend in October at timed events for 12 hours, 48 hours, 96 hours, and this race's 36 hours. Two weeks ago she fell and broke her clavicle in 2 places. "I'm just grateful to be out here," she offered.

Though I witnessed most runners talking and laughing within their groups, I never stayed with another for any length of time. It's not because I didn't want to, although I did feel a certain pressure to run when she ran or walk when he walked. The relative solo nature of my race occurred because I stopped to refill  a bottle or sit for moment when my companion did not, or visa versa. I simply was not in sync with anyone for any length of time to enjoy hours on end of unbridled conversation.

Throughout the hours, I reminded myself to be like Joyce, appreciating the ability to waddle on for long periods of time. When my mind went fuzzy on several occasions, I turned on my Super Sleuth mode to find a reason why: Was it a matter of calories? More caffeine needed? Do I just need five minutes in a chair and a chance to pierce toe blisters and reset my internal clock? When my groin protested on yet another downhill run, I analyzed my gait and found a more comfortable position. And when those walk/run spots identified early on in the race became nearly all walk and no run, I accepted it as par for the course-literally. Problems came but all were resolved, at least in part.

I tried hard not to think about the actual number of hours to which I had committed. 24 hours is a really long time. A lot of life transpires within that period of time as the earth spins on its axis. But why had it not occurred to me that had I signed up for 36 hours, it would have given me the margin to go longer and slower to claim a 100 mile buckle, of which I have so few? I could have even rested for several hours and still made the distance. But then again, I reasoned, the thought of going beyond 24 hours when I was at 18 was repulsive. Did I really NEED a cool belt buckle, the ultimate sign of ultra accomplishment? Good decision, right? RIGHT?!?!

As time progressed, I noticed I was becoming increasingly more congested. I resorted to mostly mouth breathing, as my nostrils plugged up. My thoughts went to Addy, my sniffly granddaughter who I had carried off to school before leaving for the race. I probably picked up something from her. Nothing more than a common head cold. No big deal.

With a surprising absence of sleep-deprived hallucinations during the waning hours of nighttime, I made the decision to make 80 miles my race goal. Hence, when the clock hit 23:10, I decided I was done. Through. El Fin. Even the fact that Sarah, a woman in my age group, was still going and would beat me, did not deter me from sinking into a chair to snuggle into a blanket, hands and fingers ridiculously swollen, body now trembling. Yes, I felt a twinge of guilt at losing my competitive drive, knowing we were at the same spot on the same lap when I stopped. (She ended up running 2 more laps to gain the women's 24-hour win at 82.5 miles. I came in second woman and fourth overall at 80 miles.) Still, I guess choosing to "race" in those last 50 minutes was not something I wanted to do bad enough. For that, I admit to pangs of whimpiness.

I was back at Rick and Michelle's house by 0800, the end of the 24-hr race. My friends and I chatted before they left for church and I started scrubbing away at the slime and sweat. But not even the steam in the shower could open up my clogged head. My head ached as I slipped between the sheets and attempted to sleep. But sleep is hard when one cannot breath.

After a few hours of restlessness, I headed the car back toward home. Feeling increasingly more listless, I made a stop at a Taco Bell, taking a 10-minute nap there. Then it was a stop at Walmart to purchase a boatload of daytime and nighttime antihistamines and decongestants, my credentials checked by a cashier to make sure I was old enough for the purchase. (That was amusing.) Additional stops occurred to get rid of race-accumulated fluids and slough off the deep-down lethargy overtaking my being. It was a relief to pull into the driveway in one piece.

I spent Sunday night on the couch to avoid transferring whatever crud I was dealing with to Gary. I had no energy the next morning, which is really not that unexpected given 80 miles on the body. But this was different. I asked my boss if I could work remotely for the day. She agreed, but those meetings were painful, my mind cloudy and muddled. With a Thursday flight to Arkansas for a speaking engagement, Gary suggested I put to use a Covid testing kit to good use "just in case."

Two little pink lines immediately showed up on the test strip. Shoot! After nearly three years of avoiding the C infection, that virus was giving me a run for the money. But where did I get it? Did Addy give it to me? Nope. She tested negative. Did I get it at work? Possibly. At least one co-worker was confirmed to have it at the time of this writing. But does it matter? Not really. My flight has been canceled. My key-note will be delivered virtually. 

I had no idea my race would end with a pink finish line. But it did.