"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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
It is a curious working of the mind when impending doom is registered in what feels like a nansecond. One minute I was running along on single track trail, and in the next I was flying through the air, outstretched horizontally, much like I image Superman would do it. But my rendition of Superman was short-lived. My mind registered the rock waiting to greet me. I instinctively turned my head to the right and braced for the inevitable impact.
I laid on the ground, head and shoulder sending out rapid-fire distress signals. From the resounding crack of my head hitting the rock, I prepared myself for a bloody mess. My head throbbed, my nose and left eye suggesting a poor outcome if pain was any indicator. Simultaneously, my shoulder screamed out in protest from such a brutal and unexpected encounter with terra firma.
Tears birthed from the combination of frustration and pain welled up. Glancing back down the trail, I saw a group of runners approaching. A rush of catecholamines permitted me to rise to my feet. Hands to face, I was shocked to find little blood on my fingers. The runners confirmed there was but scant blood on the side of my nose. As I had no recourse but to follow them up the mountain, I felt my forehead swelling, head throbbing and legs turn rubbery as my brain tried to communicate with them. I did not notice the blood seeping through the tape on my knee (which, incidentally, later won me the prestigious Best Blood Award).
Just four miles into the 35-mile 20th running of the Promise Land 50K++, the fall seemed only to exacerbate my pent-up frustrations. "What next?!?! Heart issues. Iron deficiency. Wonkly, painful knees. Old and getting slower by the day. Passed out on the floor 21 hours after a Covid vaccine last week and feeling weak and unmotivated all this week. I'm just a good for nothing bag of bones! This is ridiculous. I'm done with this. I hate this. I have been racing through four decades of my like. Why am I even still trying? This is stupid!"
As I moved forward along the course, I thought back to a post by Susan Donnelly, a woman who has completed more than 100 100-mile races. She wrote of a hard fall in a race, one that could have been race ending. But she did not allow it to be. She got up, dealt with the new reality from the impact, and continued on. "Find a way," I told myself. "Just find a way."
I kept moving as my headache kept growing. As the swelling around my eye and over my eyebrow made my vision fuzzy, the conversation between me, myself, and I continued. I tried hard to be positive but was amazed at how many people passed me. I spoke to no one save a few words here and there. I needed to save every thought to counter an inner conversation to quit at the 12-mile Sunset Meadows aid station. Who could blame me since I was likely concussed, feeling wobbly and off-kilter? But no, I must find a way. I must find my why.
The morning after
My why and my way were wrapped up in a little girl named Addyson. She is my six-year old granddaughter who would be waiting for me at the finish. In fact, it was planned to have her run in with me. Before the race, she told me their class at school was learning about perseverance: to keep going when it gets hard. To not quit." So, how could I quit now? What kind of example would that set? She would be so disappointed. I had to get to that aid station and start down the long descent on the "Dark Side" of the course. There would be little opportunity for me to bag the race and be transported out. Forcing myself onto the Dark Side would protect my wimpy self from making a bad decision that I would surely regret in the aftermath.
And so I kept making progress. I was tentative, very tentative. The rocks seemed to have multiplied compared to earlier years when I would run with wild abandon, not considering the "what if" consequences of a misplaced step or toe catch on a rock. I continuously blinked to clear the vision in my left eye. When I did have clear trail or gravel road to run, my legs did not protest loudly. It gave me a sense of accomplishment to move steadily. That was surprising given the limited number of quad-pounding long runs in the recent past. Still, it was not uncommon for runners to come from behind and pass me. I don't actually recall passing anyone back. That was depressing.
The night before the race, I took refuge in the back of our camo-clad, license-plated "HUNTNJEP. It is tradition that hundreds camp in the open field to make the 5:30 AM start easier to make. I was exhausted from work, eyes strained, and not feeling sociable. Even before darkness settled in, I eased into my sleeping bag, contacts out, glasses on, and picked up where I left off. "Out and Back: A Runner's Story of Survival Against all Odds" is the true story of Hillary Allen. Allen is a world-class mountain skyrunner who catapulted off a knife edge during a race, breaking tens of bones but miraculously surviving. However, the road back to running and racing was miraculous as well. Her words came to mind each time I saw the back of another runner in front of me.
You are more than a result. You are enough, just as you are.
I desperately needed that reminder. Did it matter to anyone but me that I am slow? Do people have less respect for me when bested by so many, including other sexagenarian woman? Is it enough that I entered the fray and continued to put one foot in front of the other? I intellectually knew the truth in her statements. It was now imperative that I internalize them if I was to cross the finish line content rather than angry and embarrassed.
Despite being passed by so many, my fear of missing a cutoff and being pulled from the race was laid to rest with about fifteen miles to go. My time would not be impressive, but I would finish within the allotted time. Or at least, that is what my muddled brain calculated. My focus needed to be on covering the distance despite the ever-worsening disconnect between my brain and my body. My kinesthetic sense was being put to the test. Stumbling was common place. And with the last several hundred yards of rocky, crappy trail, I again found myself sprawled out, half on the trail and half off. My bloody knee ripped open again, palms scraped and ring finger jammed. All I wanted to do was hit the last three miles of descent on gravel road leading to the finish. It would be safer.
It was starting to rain as I ran the road, drawing closer to the finish. The thought of seeing Addyson and completing my journey kept my pace steady howbeit conservative. There was no reason to take chances at this point and under these circumstances. A finish would be a finish in anyone's books.
And there she was. Addyson, cloaked in a fuzzy white sweatshirt and black sweatpants was waiting for me a half-mile from the finish. She fell in by my side, jumping and swirling as much as her effortless forward running. Approaching the finish, race director, David Horton, announced our approach over the loudspeaker. Addy responded to the cheers of the many lining the finish shoot with a wave to the adoring crowd. I smiled, thankful to share the moment, thankful to have persevered and set an example for the young one--and myself.
This is a tale of two races. One for me. One for her. Both 100ks (and a little more) but both very different kind of races.
Dec. 7, 2019 was a test. It was something I had to do. Alone. I had only started one race since completing my 20th Mountain Masochist race in Nov. 2017. I failed miserably seeking an 11th finish at the incredibly challenging Hellgate 100K in December of 2018. In those two years, an injury post-MMTR kept me from running. Caring for a dying father-in-law in our home added to stress. When I did begin to run, it was like going nowhere fast. I felt like my engine was equipped with a governor set at the lowest speed possible. Then in February of this year, I was nearly killedwhen a piece of equipment fell on me, breaking my shoulder in three places, gashing my arm, and dealing a non-fatal blow to my head.
When a screening cardiac CT test came back positive for heart disease, late July of 2019 found me sharing my story with a cardiologist. That Friday visit landed me on the cath table first thing Monday morning, waking up from that procedure with a stent in the left anterior descending coronary artery. So then it was cardiac rehab and a new opportunity to chase fitness.
After weeks of hard work, I was pleasantly surprised that I could often run up hills without walking. Whoa. I hadn't been able to do that in a very long time. Trips to the mountains began to fill my calendar and dreams of completing more ultras spawned in the muddy muck of making fitness gains. The Devil Dog races up near DC came at a good time with two options; 100k or 100 miles. I felt I displayed considerable self control when I checked the 100K box as my re-entry into raceworld. So it was set. December 7 would be my test. My confidence builder - assuming I was not asking my heart to do more than it was capable.
So while the Devil Dog 100K would be my race, the Hellgate 100K (more like 66.6 miles) would be her race. "Her" is Hannah Quigg, younger sister of two of the original Shindigglers, Sarah and Abby. Hence, Hannah is a Shindiggler Jr.. Hannah had completed a number of 50Ks and a 50 miler in her young life as a college student. Being the have-no-fear type, she wandered into my office one day to ask if Hellgate was a good idea. "If Horton will let you in, go for it" I replied. Thus began 1 a.m. start training runs to know what it was like to run through the night and see the sun come up. Complicated training runs involving hopscotching cars at the start and end of the run and shuttling back and forth were included in our training itineraries. On race day, Hannah would run. I would crew one week after my test race.
The two races are as different as night and day. Devil Dog is run almost entirely on single track; the terrain quite runnable though there are rocky and rooty sections. A 23-mile loop is followed by two 19-ish mile loops. Run in the Prince William National Forest, it is hardly remote. Sirens and motorcycle vrooms can often be heard. Still, creekside running is idyllic and the open forest pleasant enough. Though there are some rolling hills, no mountain peaks rear their ugly heads. Instead, the trail beckons the contestant to actually run, or at least saunter. The trail is far removed from her sinister cousin, Hellgate.
Hellgate fights you from the start, delivering one after another bare-fisted punches until you are black, blue, and bleeding. Relentless, miles-long climbs on gravel roads, punishing descents, off camber-technical trail, and rocks hidden by mounds of leaves dominate the course, all in a sleep-deprived state given the one minute after midnight start. It is not a race for the tender-hearted. Suffering is inevitable though the extent of pain and misery is up for grabs. Weather conditions are most often brutal, adding to the challenge of staying the course and crossing the finish line.
What follows is a comparison of our experiences in the context of each third of the race. As you will see, my race would prove calmer, perhaps even wimpy and insignificant by comparison. Hannah's race, on the other hand, was nothing less than epic.
Devil Dog: I rolled out of bed around 5 a.m. Taking advantage of a cabin stay less than 150 yards from the start line was more than convenient. My normal pre-race prep was accomplished without fanfare or conversation. No idle chatter. No nervous jitters. Just preparation that had become mechanical after years of racing. My goal was to be steady and solid, explore the dynamics of endurance as the miles piled up, and complete the 62-mile distance without mishap. It was only a test, albeit an important one.
I had probably voiced but a few scant sentences since arriving the evening before. I did not know anyone and chose to stay to myself. The same proved true at the start and for the first 18 miles. Even with 200 runners responding to the start gun, I quietly found a comfortable spot in the long conga line dancing its way along the twisty, turny single track. The pace was easy though there was little opportunity to slow down or speed up given the narrowness of the trail. Once dawn broke, the hardwood forest was bathed in sunlight, making the dry but wintry temps bearable. I was alone with my thoughts, though surrounded by many runners.
Finally, at around mile 18, I could finally breath in the crisp and welcomed air of solitude. Gliding along the trails, I was happy and content, marveling that with all the actual running, my legs had yet to protest. Miles between the two aid stations seemed long and yet, the start/finish line with it's well-stocked aid station eventually came into view. The first 23 miles were completed in 4:56. Not speedy, yet not too embarrassing-especially for a 62-year old grandma. I sat for a moment in the well-equipped pavilion, changed socks that just didn't feel "right," restocked, and headed off again for round two. I sauntered without suffering.
Hellgate: The weather predictions for Hellgate were horrible --and accurate. Temps in the 30s, rain, freezing rain, icy roads, and Blue Ridge Parkway closures. Milling around in the darkness at the start, Hannah seemed to embrace the challenge. She was dressed appropriately, carried options for more warmth in her pack, and had prior training run experience to know what lay in her future. As rain fell, we sent her off among the crowd as the dial on race director David Horton's watch struck 12:01 a.m.. Hannah was smiling as her journey began.
I, along with Shindiggler Jr, Makena Bonheim, drove up the long, steep mountain to the first access point for crews. The rain was falling harder and temps had dropped. Still, in very good time, our runner with bib number 112, ran into the soft glow of the aid station lights. She was wet but not terribly cold, the strenuous climb upping her body temp. Now she was faced with technical, wet, slippery, rock-strewn trail, followed by miles climbing on gravel road before reaching the next aid station. Without crew access there, about 8 or 9 miles, predominately up, stood between her and the aid station moved down two miles off the parkway. Another six miles from there would have to be conquered before seeing her crew at Jennings Creek. Still, Hannah smiled as she turned her back on us and ran further into the dark and dreary night.
With hours before intersecting with our runner was possible, Makena and I parked at Jennings Creek and created a make-shift bed in the back of my Jeep Cherokee. I felt guilty fading off into slumber while the rain beat down on the roof with increasing intensity. What a night to be tromping through the woods! As the very first hints of dawn appeared, here came Hannah.
Looking much like a drowned puppy, she surrendered to our tugging and pulling in an effort to get her warm and dry. Still, she told us about hooking up with Darin Dunham, a guy who was going for his 17th finish in as many years. The time passed quickly but the fact remained; Hannah was freezing cold, her hands so numb as to be worthless. It's no doubt her positive attitude helped her complete her first third (plus a few miles) in as good of shape as any.
Devil Dog: I began the second loop, looking forward to more solitude, more time for personal reflection, and uninterrupted time to assess and make any necessary running, fluid, and/or nutrition adjustments. But the most carefully laid plans often go awry. Unexpectedly, I found myself falling in
step with a guy who commented on the Hellgate socks I was wearing, and his newly found side kick, a woman attempting her first 100 mile finish. He had finished Hellgate last year as the final race in the Beast Series. Nate, Jennifer and I began a pleasant conversation on a variety of topics that lasted for miles and miles. When Nate finally matched pace with a runner who was slightly faster, Jennifer and I dove headlong into significant topics. As a mom of three, a GYN oncologist surgeon, an author, and CEO of a non-profit living in Beverly Hills, we had a lot to discuss! Together we ran, hiked a few hills, and sucked most of the oxygen from the forest's atmosphere by our constant chatter. As we ended our first 42 miles, we were delighted to have shared a bit shy of six hours together.
Hellgate: When we left Hannah in the pouring down rain at the Jennings Creek aid station (about 29 miles), we would not be able to see her again until Bearwallow Aid Station, supposedly 42 miles into the race but likely more like 46. After a harrowing drive up a mountain road that already held captive two aid station vehicles in its icy clutches, we refreshed ourselves with a Burger King breakfast. I again felt twangs of guilt sitting in dry, warm comfort while eating a nice hot meal. We could only surmise the extent of Hannah's suffering. Despite her great attitude last we saw her, suffering would surely be inevitable.
Makena and I chatted with other crews around a compact campfire lit by the aid station (AS) workers.As we waited, the rain began to abate around 9:30 or 10 a.m., blue skies occasionally teasing everyone before being covered again by clouds. At about 11:30 a.m. Hannah made a slow approach to the tent. Gone was her smile and effervescent self. Somewhere along the Devil Trail that she had just traversed, a demon must have snagged her soul. She was weary and worn. Tired and downtrodden. Her expression clearly denoted doubt and trepidation. "How am I going to do twenty more miles?" was the unspoken question.
While she nibbled at a portion of a grilled hamburger, we decided Makena would pace her the last 20 miles. Hannah needed the emotional support that only a best friend could offer. As I watched them make their way up the mountain, I could not help compare what lay ahead in their last third of the race compared to what I faced a week prior.
Devil Dog: It was a little shy of 4 p.m. when I finished my second lap. With 19 miles remaining, I inwardly predicted another six hours until I could hit the showers and crawl into my bunk. With the sun descending on the horizon and crystal clear skies, an impending big chill threatened. After downing broth and a grilled cheese sandwich, I made sure I had my waist light, an extra battery, and a backup light before venturing from the well-stocked aid station. I was alone again, Jennifer heading out before me, spurred on by the fact that she had three more loops to complete for the 100-mile distance.
Unlike the stampede of the first loop, there was no need to keep pace with other runners because there were no runners around. Occasionally, I would pass someone or someone would pass me. However, most of the time it was without comment, save the ever-popular "Good job." Sections I had twice covered earlier in the day seemed to grow in length, landmarks growing increasingly difficult to identify.
I soon pulled my jacket from my pack, snugged up the zipper on my top, and turned on my light. The dusky evening hours had given in to the darkness, and the darkness to falling temps. Though I now ran and hiked intermittently, I felt I was making steady progress, howbeit slowly. I embraced the darkness and the solitude that came with it. I passed the first aid station, thanking them for their tireless work. Then it was more of the same until after what seemed like an eternity, I arrived at the 55.5 mile mark and the second aid station. Hot broth hit the spot now that the temps had fallen into the low 20s. I asked for help to change the battery on my main light, confident that the new battery would light the rest of the way. Then off I went, looking forward to clicking off the final miles of this race.
I was hiking quickly now for the most part, having lost interest in actual running. On a particularly technical section, I unexpectedly found myself in the dark. The new battery decided to give up the ghost. I flicked on the back up light. It's beam blinked and then quickly died. "What?!?! You gotta be kidding me!" Since the first battery for the main light was not dead when I changed it out, I fumbled around and put it back in the light, praying there was enough juice left for the remaining 45 minutes to an hour of the journey. I was relieved when it's light pierced the darkness, but dismayed when almost immediately, it flashed three short bursts, a warning that the battery was about to run out. My prayers became fervent, asking God to miraculously let the light shine on. I tried running by orange-hued moonlight, but under tree cover and on rocky single track, it was very difficult. My pace certainly quickened, and out loud prayers ascended each time the light blinked it's warning signal.
Finally, I crossed the final bridge, managed the last hill, drawn to the top by the finish banner. Without fanfare, I announced to the workers that my three loops were complete. The timing chip was removed from my shoe, and I was handed an award. My time was 16:08. I was the 9th woman and 37th out of the eventual 93 finishers. My race ended as unremarkably as it had begun. Though I grew weary, the suffer-meter never really pegged. I had accomplished what I intended: 62 miles covered without any major mishaps. I walked to the cabin, got showered, and took my place in my bunk. I had finished, but honestly, it didn't feel like much of an accomplishment.
Hellgate: By stark contrast, Hannah and Makena had a very different last third. A tough climb marked the beginning, miles of relentless single-track followed. They ran when they could run and hiked when necessary. I walked a half mile down the trail to meet them as they approached the Bobblits Gap aid station. Hannah looked whipped but happier than before. With 15 miles to go, I
helped her restock her pack, reminded her of what was coming up, and sent the two of them on their way. They now faced the infamous Forever section, an arguable eight miles of up, down, and all round trail. I predicted they would be on the move for two hours before meeting them at the last aid station.
Sure enough, they emerged from the trail at precisely two hours. Hannah looked much more upbeat, although she was a bit wobbly as I sent her off on the final six miles. "3 up. 3 down." I felt like an emotional mama, tearing up as we both realized the enormity of what was soon to be accomplished. There was no doubt Hannah Quigg was going to finish.
And finish she did. With nothing left in the tank, she gingerly ran up the incline to the finish. She was totally spent. She had been on her swollen, battered feet for 17 hours and 9 minutes, enduring horrendous conditions, and overcoming the desire to stop the suffering prematurely. Her mother, sister Abby, and Makena and I looked on as she ran into the congratulatory arms of race director David Horton. At the age of 22, she had accomplished what few even dare to imagine. She was an official Hellgate finisher.
Devil Dog was my race and Hellgate hers. Both served a purpose. Both instructed. But hers is the race to loudly applaud. Congratulations, Hannah, on the massive accomplishment! This TrailMama is so proud of you!
