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The Wild Oak Trail Experiment



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“There are lessons in life that can only be learned through fairly massive deviations from our normal, comfortable routines. These lessons alter our perspective on life and better equip us to deal with life’s unforeseen challenges. They can sharpen our optimism and generate a deeper appreciation for the simple things in life.”

— Jared Campbell on his second win at the Barkley Marathons, 2014.

I lost it.

Several times, I had massively deviated from my normal, and it had taken me places — some of them marvelous, stark and breathtakingly beautiful — that I would never have experienced had I not been running long on some remote mountain trail. More importantly, it had taken me out of my head; out of the thought traps and ruts that had kept me from seeing the wonder in the day to day, the miraculous, the sublime.

And it had also taken me to where I was now: stumbling around on the summit of Hankey Mountain in the George Washington National Forest in rural Virginia, alone in the dark, sometime between three and four in the wee hours, my dehydrated, glycogen-deprived brain struggling madly to figure out how in the Hell I had somehow lost my bearings.

Lost my lifeline.

Lost the trail.

Going into this race, The Wild Oak Trail 100, I had silently been a little bit concerned with staying on course. For this low-key, no-cost event that was unapologetic in its descriptions that included “no course markings” and “little aid,” the first of a quick laundry list of guidelines was:

1. If you are even the least bit worried or concerned about getting lost, don’t come.

But I figured I had time to nail down the forks and crossings of this 28+ mile looped trail. I had run in once through the night a few years before. I had plenty of friends who had run it, and friends who were planning to run it before the event — and during for that matter. Heck, I even had friends who had come out and run it through the night completely alone. Why worry? Also, if I got lost in the woods, that wouldn’t necessarily be so bad, provided I prepared for such. Wouldn’t be the first time. But that’s another story.

I went out a few weeks before the event and ran the loop through the night again with a group of trail-seasoned friends, noted the turns and crossings and landmarks, and then studied carefully every map I could find.

My confidence grew.

I wanted to participate in this event for several reasons, but the main one had to do with setting myself on a path toward better self-sufficiency in running on mountain trails and toward purposes beyond racing — vague though they were (even if my idea of racing was just against myself and the clock). I felt I wanted to be part of a paradigm shift I’d witnessed in a part of the running community — from racing to running primarily for other aims. I wanted to go beyond finish times and following streamers, to dig deeper to find a more personal challenge in a mountain run, to really understand what it is that makes us push ourselves in such a manner over punishing terrain beyond an arbitrary cut off. I needed to have a better idea of exactly what I was doing out on those mountain trails and why.

As it stood, I figured I ran to test my limits, to reboot and shake out what I needed and didn’t need, both on trails and off, to focus my thoughts, to improve my strength and stamina, both physical and mental, to conjure grit and to really know myself better. And, well, because it is fun! Few things bring me so much joy. But there was something more I was seeking that I had yet to fully understand.

A fat ass event, the course was simply consecutive loops on the Wild Oak Trail. It offered a more stripped-down, personal experience on trails than a conventional 100-miler, with little support and fanfare, no medal or buckle — if you finished, you get a jar of apple butter! I loved this! And well, it did have a rather generous cutoff. I could take my time if I wanted.

But it was in essence, still a race. Though I wasn’t going to beat anybody, I would still be racing against the clock somewhat, and trying to make the best time I could.

I vacillated in my perspective, having reservations about this run-simply-to-finish mentality I’d adopted, but then finding myself wanting all-the-more to pull away from a personal focus on finish time. I pondered how the old timers lamented how the running boom had watered down the athleticism and competitive spirit of events. Runners now just ran to participate, ran to finish, not to race, they said. Races used to be about pushing past the pain, they argued, giving it 110 percent! I get this. But did I do this? I used to. Though never a fast runner, I did push for speed.

But then, long hours on mountain trails opened my eyes to a whole new dimension. The more I ran, the more I realized there were myriads of reasons to run and to experience a race that had little to do with finish time. Maybe I simply switched the focus to other goals because I lacked the speed I once had. (Or never really had.) Were I faster, would I be competitive? Probably. Was my “enlightened” perspective just a fancy cop-out? I wasn’t sure.

One personal belief in this dilemma stood out: I believe humans are meant to run. There is good evidence we are designed for this, and ultimately, it appears to be very good for us. I don’t believe we are all meant to race. I was glad there had been a boom, glad so many were now running, and I figured there was room for all types of events, and that runners should be free to participate in events and to run for whatever reason they chose.

In preparing for the race, that thing I was in search of still eluded me, but intuitively I believed this experience would take me one step closer. There was an extraordinary spirit of adventure about this event. Maybe that had something to do with it.

“Trust the process” came to mind. It had been an old mantra, both on the trail and off, something I’d picked up a long time ago from adventurer Yossi Ghingsberg’s book ‘Back From Tuichi: the Harrowing Life-and-Death Story of Survival In The Amazon Rainforest” about his experience being stranded in an uncharted part of the Bolivian Amazon for three weeks. It had been the mantra that helped him survive. Though his experience nearly killed him, and he spent three months in the hospital recovering, it was an experience he ultimately was glad he’d had, and afterward, it set him on an existential quest.

I know that the differences in comparing this little mountain run to such a grand misadventure went far beyond apples and oranges, but there seemed a thread of similarity. Risk. Struggle. A strong reliance on instinct and logic for “survival.” Overcoming pain. Digging deep to find grit.

Yossi’s old mantra had gotten him through a lot, and it had gotten me through a lot as well. Now I remembered it on the summit of Hankey. The low points in long running events, for me it seemed, often tended to be the most meaningful. The summit wasn’t that large. The trail had to be around somewhere…

There was another reason I had wanted to experience this event. The generous 50-hour cutoff meant more rest time between loops, time to eat, restock and change clothes, but also time to sleep if one chose — and also, to reassess. While it would be possible to do the entire course without sleeping, sleeping at some point seemed advantageous. I wanted to learn how, when and how much sleep would be best for such a run, as that could help prep me for even longer distances where sleep would be an absolute necessity.

For these reasons, the race seemed a good fit for my purposes. Though I was signed up for four loops, which meant a good 29,000 feet of climbs over 12 mountains, and about 112–113 miles, I had the option to run just one, two, or three of the loops if I needed to shorten my bout. It was even strongly advised by the race staff that we runners assess as we go, to make certain we could handle another loop before we set out. I car-camped in the lot at the start/finish, and could just play it by ear. Much like staying on course, I had my doubts about doing all four loops, even from the start. Though seasoned on sticking it out at longer distances on rough terrain, I knew how incredibly challenging this trail was with its frequent, long, steep climbs. It lived up to its nickname: “The Hardrock of the East.” Mentally, would I even want to tackle those climbs loop after loop?

The weather was nice, highs of 74 in the day and lows of 44 at night. No rain, but also no moon. I made certain I took back-up lighting and batteries. There was but one water crossing on the entire course, the North river, and the water level was now low, so rock hopping was easy. Just the idea of maintaining completely dry feet at such a distance was inviting; from my past experiences, unheard of.

My friend Larry Huffman was running four loops, and had offered for me to join him on the first to make certain to stay the course. But he’s a faster runner than me, and I worried I’d hold him up. Luckily, this proved not to be the case, and out on the trail, we met up with more friends, Rob Tidwell and Bill Gentry and had a truly stellar first day; lots of smiles all around.

I wound up finishing the first loop two hours under my projected time. I changed clothes, grabbed food, rested, and headed out again with my new posse, give or take a few, and we met up with more runners during the night. Many stories and laughs were exchanged, and awesome running company always make for an awesome time on the trails.

Soon we were through the better part of the night and had another solid loop down. But upon rolling into the lot around 4 AM, I suddenly became cold and felt seriously ill.

I told Larry I thought I was done.

He suggested I go warm up in the car and rest and reassess. I tried this, but to no avail. I was having trouble getting warm and feeling far too rough. I told Mike, one of the two race volunteers, that I was calling it at two loops, and he noted my time.

Lots of climbing, meant lots of sweating, and this can be problematic for me at times. Because I had felt so warm, I had underdressed for the night, and had lost too much core heat. It was disappointing, but I knew I wasn’t in any condition to head out on another loop.

I put on some warmer layers and ran the lukewarm car heater for a while, then shut it down and crawled into my sleeping bag to see if I could force sleep. It wasn’t hard. I got warm fast then and slept soundly, awakening at last after some three and a half hours, a good, full sleep cycle, at least. It had a major impact on my cognition, body condition and mood.

When I finally stirred, it was a sunny 7:30 a.m., and the second wave of runners, the one-loopers who had the Saturday start, had crowded the start/finish area that our parking lot had become. I ventured out to ask the race director, Antoinette Landragin, if maybe some cars blocking the lot entrance could be moved so that I could head home.

It was a rare, beautiful, sparkly morning, and the sleep had managed to fix me up to a degree I hadn’t anticipated. I was feeling energized, if a bit crestfallen to be done, but ready enough for the 3-hour drive home.

The fresh, new runners all looked to be chomping at the bit as Antoinette took down their information. As I approached her, she introduced me as just having completed two loops. The new group seemed excited by this. I explained that I had been feeling sick but had slept it off, and was now feeling better.

“Then why don’t you come run another loop with us?” one fellow said. “Yes, said another.”

“You are already here.” It was true, I was already there. It was a fact I could not deny, and what was more, spoke deeply to me. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but there was something of the profound in it. Maybe it was the beauty of the day and the borrowed energy from the fresh recruits, but I knew then and there that I was not finished. Not by a long shot. I had run the first two loops in 19 hours, and there were still 26 hours left before the cut off. And there was no place else I wanted to be more than back on that trail.

“Ok!” I said emphatically. “Hurry up, go get changed!” they said.

Antoinette encouragingly asked if I did indeed want to join the group, and when I concurred, noted for the record that I was resuming.

By then, it was already 8 a.m., and by the time I got changed and restocked my water and supplies, the group had gone. I rolled out at 8:05, and though I was headed out solo, this was fine by me. It’s not that I had wanted to join the group necessarily — I knew they would be running faster than me, and had already figured I’d be on my own, but the lingering spirit of their invitation rally dispelled any sense of solitude. I was still mentally with them. Yet, there was no sign of them anywhere on the long beginning climb, and I soon realized I was truly on my own.

I powered up the first stretch, a seven-mile climb to Little Bald Knob for the third time. Never underestimate the rejuvenating powers of sleep, I pondered. Also, I noted, these climbs all seemed to get easier with repetition. Knowing what to expect made a difference, and I noted their “weaknesses.” The Little Bald climb, though long and steep in places, had breaks where it leveled off and was quite runnable. The second climb up Big Bald was tough and steeper, but had switchbacks which gave one a sense of progress, and the wood there was lovely, the elevation high enough for copious amounts of mountain laurel and wintergreen. And the third, well Hankey Mountain had a devil of a climb straight up the mountainside, but it was relatively short. Even the section known as the chin scraper did not last very long. And if one were to pause, and look back — and during the night maybe shut off the lamp — the beauty of starlight through the trees on that mountainside was something to behold.

Not wearing GPS, I noted the times I should be hitting certain landmarks and navigated accordingly. But I immediately noticed that running this course solo rather than with friends was a vastly different experience. For all of the solo race courses I had run, being on an unmarked course was different. Yes, I had just run through the loop twice, and though faintly, and not at all in some, the trail was blazed in most places.

But the idea that it was much easier now to stray off course forced me to pay closer attention to my surroundings, and I noticed so much more. Every contour of the trail, every copse of trees, every unusual rock formation, noted, noted, noted. Changes of direction, elevation, even smells through different sections took on new import and meaning. I found myself smelling for grass where I knew I’d be coming up on a clearing, noted landmarks in combinations, so that I would not mistake them for similar ones.

Now I was planning to do a solo loop through the night, and I felt I had to note everything on the course, had to prep for the mental fuzziness to come after two nights with only three-ish hours of sleep each — and possibly hallucinations that could complicate my navigating. Challenges lay ahead.

And yet, I realized, this was the experience I had been hoping for. This was the challenge that made it real.

Some deep, intuitive part of myself had switched on.

I was now fully awake.

Soon, I came upon the lead runner, Jesse Fuller, now on his fourth loop. So impressive, I thought. We ran together for a stretch, and talked. I was excited for him, he was running so strong and appeared to have such mental clarity. He mentioned that the first female had dropped when she realized he would beat her, which was unexpected.

Eventually he ran ahead, and soon I was solo again, and foraging for landmarks. I wanted to bank some time for that last loop, so I powered on and ran the loop hard. Jesse and I played tag a few times, and every time I saw him, it lit a fire under me to press harder.

About half way through the loop, I realized that in my rush to get back on the trail, I hadn’t packed a headlamp. Though likely I would make it back before dark, if this loop took longer than expected, the sun might set before I returned. It set a bit earlier on the ridges, and I’d noted on Friday, that it was easily dipping below the ridge line as early as 6:30 p.m.

Shit, I thought. What rooky mistake.

The Iron and Wine song “No Moon” that had been playing in my head on and off periodically the night before now came back to me and took on new meaning. I had no idea now if there were any runners behind me, and I did NOT want to get stuck in those woods without a light. But then, it wouldn’t be the first time. But that’s another story.

At the second aid drop, volunteer Mike Pfieger was there, and I expressed my concern about the early onset of darkness. He said he had a light I could use, and rummaged in the car for it. It is this type of simple kindness that goes so far when you are running a long race.

Grateful beyond words, I wore it around my neck like a talisman, it bouncing around at times as I bounced up and down the trail. I thought of my dog, and how often I’d throw a headlamp around her neck for our evening bouts, and how it bounced and jounced around with her puppy gallops. “Run like puppy,” my newer mantra, came into my head, and so I did.

I came into the finish of the solo day loop with over two hours to spare for the time I’d allotted myself, and well before sunset. But I was anxious to get prepped for the night loop and didn’t want to waste time. I returned Mike’s lamp and changed; added lots of layers for the slower pace at which I thought I would be moving.

Jesse had recently finished, and was now resting in a circle of camp chairs with some pacers who were readying for the night. We all congratulated him on a marvelous job. He noted to Antoinette then that since the first female had dropped, that technically made me “first female.” She agreed. It seemed silly to me. I’d been out here taking my time mostly, and had slept for several hours, and the last thing I’d been concerned with was my finish time or placement. I thought about all the races where I’d pressed so hard and gave it my all at the finish; flooring it down Boylston Street, running hard up Tiki torch-lined finishes deep in the night or early in the wee hours for 100-milers, to not much more than the sound of crickets. This might be the only time I would ever be “first” in a race, and I was truly touched that they would go to trouble of bringing notice to it. What was particularly amusing to me was that as I was now the only female finishing four loops, I could be first female and also last female. My efforts felt validated in a way that I had not expected, and it energized my last loop a bit. I think I finally understood the relevance of the race as opposed to the run. And maybe I had more of a racer mentality than I had been willing to admit to myself.

The last loop was all it promised to be and more — it taught me so much. It took longer but mostly because I gave myself longer. I didn’t want to make any mistakes. If I were to fall and injure myself now… if I were too focused on my speed I could easily get off course. Things had a better chance of going South after such little sleep and late-night states of mind. Extra time could help keep me safe, I reckoned.

I watched the clock, and for familiar landmarks when I thought to expect them. They all seemed to take far too long to come along. Finally, I stopped looking at my watch entirely and shifted my focus solely to the trail. “Trust where the trail leads; follow the trail alone,” I told myself over and over, honing my focus on this one thing. Every recognized stretch or landmark was like some small victory. Progress! I thought. Some of these were only smells. It was a curious thing; my senses were all so alive and on high alert.

But the noises, I mostly had to ignore. Particularly, at the sound of movement of anything larger than a squirrel off in the brush, I would simply avert my gaze and keep moving forward. For all of these noises, wildlife did not show itself with the exception of a little brown mouse on a tree trunk and a bobcat — whose hindquarters only I saw as it leapt across the trail and into the brush. I looked for him, but I couldn’t catch even the glow of eyes with my lamp — he was utterly gone in a flash, but for the crushing of leaves. Pretty exciting, though. Not a creature I’d seen in a long time.

Luckily, the long nap seemed to have staved off hallucinations, and I was able to follow the trail

easily for the most part. There were however places, particularly on the large, flat areas of the ridge tops, where it seemed to disappear almost entirely. I watched for overturned leaves and blazes. I typically ran these sections when I could see well enough, and at one of them, I tripped and fell hard, spraining my hand on a rock. At first, I thought it was broken as I couldn’t move it, and I cursed myself for pressing too hard when I should have been moving more carefully. I became cognizant of how a foot or ankle injury now would be a bad idea. “Slowly, carefully,” I told myself.

As the night moved on, I took comfort in a few things friends had sent me off with going into this event when I had first been nagged with self-doubt.

“Just remember who you are on the trails,” my friend Marwa had written me. She was right. I was different on the trails; surer of myself, more logical, more fully alert — and joyous. I was steeped in the moment. There was a great mental clarity brought on by necessity — much like in vertical climbing. Here, there was only the trail, pressing forward, and my navigation. I could afford attention for nothing else.

My colleague Patty, full of wisdom and good will, had promised me “You will be fine!” A simple proclamation that I hadn’t thought about much at the time, but now her voice became a light that vanquished the dark.

I listened to music in my head, though in the dead of night, the songs that had previously given me inspiration had sadly fallen flat, only to be replaced by The Grateful Dead’s “Uncle John’s Band,” a song of which I have never been particularly fond. Maybe it was its light-hearted nature that brought it to me now. I found myself listening to it over and over, and the absurdity of the act made me giggle. It’s a weird effect, but at some low point in the night on trails, I somehow manage to get outside myself and look on my experience bemusedly. I guess the whole point of following the silly song in my head was to remind myself that this trail experience should not weigh too heavily. There was nothing that trying out there, really. Nothing to fear. It was just the late-night state of mind that made it tricky to navigate.

I’m still humming it periodically.

When I finished climbing the heart-pounding, slippery-leafed section known as the chin scraper and finally summited Hankey, the 12th long climb of the run — during which I motivationally told myself I would never ever have to climb it again — it was the wee hours, but I knew that up here on the summit I could get a text through to my husband to let him know I was still alive and well. I stepped off the trail and tried to find a spot where I could get off my feet for a moment. I ferreted around a bit, and found a rock to sit on, pulled out my phone and texted. He was still awake and responded, thanking me for getting in touch. I can only imagine the worry I must cause him on these excursions. At least, I know how fretful I would be were the situation reversed. But he understands better than I why I do this, and constantly fed me words of love and encouragement. Even texted while I was out running, not knowing when or if I would get it. I do know how fortunate I am. I am reminded of that consistently. Being in contact with him now was a joy I simply cannot capture in words.

After a few minutes, I packed up and set out to find the trail, but it had somehow disappeared. Weird, I thought. I knew I wasn’t far off. And then I saw the sign post for it. Oh yes! And the descent right there next to it. Though it looked steeper now than I had remembered. But this had to be it. I hadn’t realized it, but somehow, I had gotten turned around. Such a silly mistake didn’t seem possible, but sleeplessness had eaten moth holes in my logic. My prefrontal cortex was all but shut off.

Down, I went…




Down, down, “Damn, this is steep. I remember making good time on this before,” down I went. “I must be really tired. But there are the blazes. Maybe this is the old section of trail? And I should be on the new construction that is not blazed?” The trail around Hankey had some new sections created to be more mountain-bike friendly, and these were not blazed.

I stopped about halfway down the mountain. It didn’t feel right. I broke out my maps, and found a note about the continuation on the far side of Hankey of the new trail work for the mountain bikers and the lack of blazes on this stretch. It also said the trail continued from the summit to the left of the sign. I believe I had gone to the right. No, I was second guessing. There were blazes. “This has got to be the trail.” I kept moving, and ran when I got to the bottom. Now, I became unsure again. “Shouldn’t I be climbing towards some switchbacks?”

I remembered them distinctly. “Where in the Hell are they now? Well, everything seems to be taking longer on this loop,” I reasoned. I stopped and looked around, and noticed the constellation Orion, bright in the sky, behind me. Behind me! I had seen it the whole way up the Hankey climb. I was facing the wrong direction. Crap.

Again, I couldn’t be sure. I hadn’t really been paying close attention to the sky. I could be mistaken. I continued. I wasn’t trusting my addled brain. I watched for any sign of landmarks along the trail. There was the sign post for Duncan Hollow which I’d remembered passing on my way up. But did that access the Wild Oak Trail more than once? I couldn’t be sure. It was possible. I was about to stop and check the map again when I noticed a tree that looked familiar — as I had stopped to pee behind it before the climb. “Noooo,” I thought. I checked, and sure enough, its base was surrounded by wet leaves. It took a whole series of context clues and then the firm proof of that “pee tree” to convince myself of my mistake and get me back on track. Wow.

I grew rather annoyed with myself then, for making such a silly mistake, particularly since I had been putting so much into navigating. Off I went to climb the last climb — again! Climbing that damned chin scraper again was my penance. Thirteen climbs. This was not your average 100-miler. At the top, I realized it was actually quite hard to find where the trail continued, but at last, I did find it, and was so damned grateful.

Later I learned that I was not the first to make this mistake, there had been others — yes, more than one runner — one even with a pacer who knew the trail well. Somehow, this made it a little easier to live with.

The rest of the loop went well and without incident. My feet would get sore sometimes, and then suddenly feel better, which was strange. I ran a great deal of it. It felt easier than fast hiking. My stomach churned for food and I choked down bites of date bars to quell it.

Dawn came on and the forest faded into view, looming large outside my little light bubble, breathtakingly primeval, with giant, near-black, hunter-green columns of trees surrounded by faint, silver-white fingers of light. It grew even lighter, and a faint mist enveloped the mountainside, the large, rugged pieces of time-worn rock growing from it nearly as tall as the trees in places.

A lone bird with a call I couldn’t identify awoke, and moved about the trees. I had run through here three times now in the past two days, but this was all new and different. This was like seeing Brigadoon, and something about it stole my breath and my heart.

An odd contentedness came over me, as if I had been running this trail for all my life, and now I wasn’t in a hurry to leave. But I pressed on with the fresh energy only dawn can bring, bounding down the rocky trail undulations, watching intently for that tell-tale switchback, then a sharp turn with an overlook sign that would soon lead me to the swinging bridge over the river — the sign I was near the trailhead.

At last, I ran to the bridge, but afterward, took my time and walked for a stretch along the river, it being now light enough to see the cliffs on the far side in the early light. My heart still falling with the sheer majesty I had not noticed before, I moved out onto the road, crossed it, and ran in the last stretch of trail into the finish.

Ten minutes after sunrise, I rolled into the lot. There was a small campfire, and the cheering handful of folks who made it all possible, including our RD Antoinette, and volunteers, Ed and Mike, and the race’s creator, ultra-running legend, Dennis Herr. I laughingly told them about my error on the last loop, warming my feet by the fire, and at last secured the prize for my weekend efforts, trials, tribulations and elations: a giant jar of McCutcheon’s apple butter!


Tripping Over Mountains



“Nobody trips over mountains. It is the small pebble that causes you to stumble. Pass all the pebbles in your path and you will find you have crossed the mountain.”

Author unknown



*This blog contains music links. (You will have to close each of them down when the track is done unless you want Youtube or Soundcloud to keep playing. It is imperfect, but best I could do for now.) Some of these are songs that I sang in my head while I was running out there alone and/or are here simply to express emotions I experienced during the trail trials that I cannot put into words.  I tried hard to place them chronologically as they occurred during the race, but some were recurring, and for me, MMT memories in general have a habit of looping back upon themselves anyway. With their aid, I did my best to express and preserve the experience. Hope you like’m. 


Would I be ready? Before the race, I toyed with the idea of dropping out. Yes, really. These were more than the usual thoughts of dropping that occur before any race. I wasn’t quite sure if I was mentally up for another long challenge just five weeks after Zion. Planning to run a couple of hundreds so close together was an experiment for a hundred newbie like me. Mostly I wanted to check my recuperation time.

A week out, I felt physically prepared,  but I hadn’t bargained for worrying about whether or not I was up for it mentally. I know what is so often said about hundreds to be true: 90 percent of it is mental. And I planned to run solo. Deep in the race, when the going got really tough, and I became discouraged–which was certain to happen any many given points, I would be on my own. I would have no pacer or crew to encourage me to continue. Also being alone for long spells on the trail, I knew doubts about myself, worries, regrets and any number of inner demons would have the opportunity to surface. Though there would be friends running and friends at aid stations, I was planning to mentally tackle the challenge of this experience on my own as much as possible. I chose to run alone.

Running long is always a crap shoot. That’s one of the things I love about it. No matter how many long races in which you’ve participated, there’s just no telling exactly how the next one will go. The truth is, it is always somewhat difficult. But in contemplating running solo, my imagination took hold and ran away with it,  and I likened it to one of my teenage outings, hiking in the woods for nights and days without food or water or even a trail to follow; climbing mountains and trying to sleep under the stars, but instead, lying awake and watching them move across the sky. This wasn’t that. This was a race full of many, well-stocked aid stations, with good friends to feed and light fires under me when I passed through. This was not really a solo experience.  And this was not roughing it. Not by a long shot.

Even if foul weather turns much of it into a slog, it is never all bad. In that length of race, you pass through so many states of body and mind, you can live a mini lifetime over the course of a day and a half. I knew all this, and yet I struggled in my resolution to run. I also knew it was definitely going to be a slog for some stretches. The forecast called for rain. Heavy at times. Again. As if we hadn’t all had enough. Running in rain is never that bad, but man, sometimes it is just so nice to sleep in on a Saturday when it is raining outside…And Duncan Hollow is always wet…That stretch on from Picnic Area Aid is never one…And then there’s Kerns mountain. Oh, Kerns. I imagined I would likely leave a layer of skin or worse up there on that ridge picking my way among the big rocks. And that was if I didn’t get lost. I argued with myself, back and forth, pros and cons. I knew the views would pale in comparison to the amazing views I had just experienced at Zion. MMT might prove anticlimactic. I even nearly convinced myself that it would be more responsible to stay home and work on the neglected yard. Nearly.


*       *        *


But something was calling me. The “something” in those mountains and their sometimes brutal, rock-strewn trails beckons as if it were a part of the self lost out there amid the greenery, and you have to fetch it back. It speaks to you and says that if life is but experience, then this is one not to be missed. I knew that be it adventure or ordeal, running MMT would prove to be an experience of a quality around which I could gauge the before and after. It would change me. Measurably. What else do I do that does this? The yard could wait.

I camped the night before. My husband generously drove me to the start and even set up my tent while I checked in and said my hellos to friends. It happened fast. We had dinner, and then went for a long walk. It was our 16th wedding anniversary, and we had a lovely time exploring the woods around the camp and hanging out together. He stayed until nightfall as we didn’t have a dog sitter and had to return. There was plenty of guilt felt on my part, spending our anniversary in prep for a race, but he said he didn’t mind. We had had a nice day together, and he said we could celebrate anytime. He understands better than I do why I must run. It was hard to see him go, but I knew I had to try and sleep. Three thirty would come early, and it would be my last sleep until afternoon Sunday.




Bib and puppy photos courtesy of Curt Seiss


I don’t have much mental clarity about the start. There was a party cluster of racers and friends and volunteers under the big tent in the dark, music playing. The coffee was gone by the time I arrived, so breakfast would wait. But there were hugs from good friends and greetings from ones I had not seen in a while. We were ready!  I wasn’t the nervous wreck I usually am before races. Perhaps I was still asleep.

Early in a race, I have blinders on. Full of adrenaline, it is hard to find a reasonable pace, especially amidst all of the others pressing forward. I tried to remember what the aid stations looked like from last year. Where was Moreland Gap? I remembered as I went. But when I got there, I didn’t stop. We climbed the road up the mountain a few miles, and when we arrived, turned sharply onto our first taste of single track. Everyone was pushing hard, and I let a lot of runners pass. Too early for this, I knew. I worked on finding my own pace. I don’t like starting a run in the dark, but they almost all start that way. It does make the dawn all the more sweet.

Whippoorwills called, and I ran purposefully into the idea of the dawn as much as to the next aid. I remembered running with much more strength and purpose the year before. I even led a group for a while, right into the dawn. I wasn’t moving like that now. Maybe I wasn’t fully recovered from Zion, I worried. Maybe I just needed breakfast.

Dawn broke in faint lines of pinks and blues off to my upper right over the ridge. I concentrated less then on the rocks, and more on the growing daylight. Finally I was able to shut off my lamp. I picked up the pace. It would get easier now. And soon there would be food. And maybe coffee.


Will fly down hill for coffee: photo courtesy of Samantha Pitts-Kiefer

The next stop was Edinburg Gap, around mile 12, where I did finally get some breakfast and coffee (in the form of a bottled Starbucks Frappachino. Thank you aid station volunteers!!!). Ah, and good friends were there! Nice to see so many smiling faces. I ate some melon and grabbed a half a bagel to carry and eat up the trail. The next stretch was a slow but easy climb up onto the west ridge–enough time to eat, though maybe a dense bagel hadn’t been the best choice, then to fall into a good, steady run along the ridge to Woodstock Tower. This takes us a good 20 miles into the race, and it feels good to run for some long stretches and make a dent in the mileage.

It was humid, and I was sucking down all my water and sweating profusely. By the time I got to Woodstock, (we were half a mil, oh wait, no) several hours had passed and I was feeling the burn of dehydration. Someone filled my water for me, and my good friends Gary and Zsuzsanna who were volunteering and crewing for other runners provided electrolytes and watermelon. So amazing to see them!  Nothing solo about this experience. (Yet.) I also ate a piece of potato dipped in salt and a quarter pbj and hit the trail. No time to waste. Off to Powell’s Fort.

Much of these stretches was uneventful. I talked briefly with other runners, but mostly kept to myself. My good friends, sisters Shelly and Jamie passed me, then I them, at several points, and we played tag with other runners, new friends and old.


At Elizabeth Furnace with Caroline Williams before the storm

Soon I rolled into Elizabeth Furnace at mile 33. I restocked supplies from my little drop bag, and noted it was about to pour. I tried to decide if I should don the little plastic poncho I’d tucked into my pack, but I was so warm and sweaty, I figured getting wet might do me good. I saw Zsuzsanna again — she was crewing and pacing our friend Quatro, and I told her if anybody could use the extra poncho I put in my drop bag, to please share it. I specifically brought extras with the intention to share them in an effort to repay a kindness I’d experienced at Zion, when my new friend, Jenni who was crewing her husband, provided me and several running friends with race-saving ponchos. Sometimes a small item is a big kindness, and in this case, it surely was. So happy I was to try and pass it on.


The rain hit hard. I let my hair down. I laughed like a maniac, and got soaked. But it felt great. I knew I wouldn’t get to change clothes for another 20 miles, but I had the magic poncho in my pack. Even wet, it would keep me quite warm in a pinch.

After a good climb, we had a nice runnable downhill in the mud and flowing trail-turned-stream into Shawl Gap. I remembered what the runners’ feet had looked like at Shawl after this downhill run in 2014. I was volunteering, and did a lot of blister fixing and foot repair. I knew this stretch with this rain could chew up my feet. Sixteen miles from Shawl until dry socks. I could manage. There was a stretch of road, and then a long climb. That would give’m a break.

Along this stretch, I met up with John, who was running what would be his 82nd hundred-miler (provided he finished it, he said). He had also run a marathon in every state. He makes it a point to never run hundreds less than two weeks apart. All my worries about not being fully recovered from Zion quickly fell away at that moment. We talked about the ones not to miss, about the more beautiful courses being more of a draw than the prestigious ones. He told me about Hardrock and the crony system that lets some people in, and keeps so many out. He had finished 93 miles of it before he threw in the towel. Sometimes, it just isn’t a good experience. He said Big Horn was one of his favorites. It was on my bucket list. He said he had also run the Arrowhead. This was also on my bucket list but from very long ago, long before I had even run a hundred. It was interesting to think about it again.  He had finished it 3 times, 3 for 6, he said, and that it draws the most interesting collection of participants of any of the ultras he’s done. Also he said that on the course, you will often see wolf tracks on top of runners’ tracks in the snow ahead. The wolves follow the runners, and then circle around, staying always unseen, but leaving a mark of their presence in the snow.  I think I decided then, that if I stayed in good health and kept running longer ultras, that I would have to tackle the Arrowhead.

We turned off the road and arrived at Veach Gap, where I topped off water and dumped trash. John fueled with two bottles of water he mixed with powdered maltodextrin, which he buys in bulk. Made sense. Most of us were just consuming much more expensive versions of it packaged nicely for endurance activities. And he apparently goes through a lot of it.


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MMT training run view: Feb. 2015


There is a long, long climb up from Veach.  I remembered the views here from many seasons past, had seen it in different colors, and now everything was green and new and full of life.

Then we ran south along the east ridge. I was on my own again, and trying hard to forget how long this stretch of ridge always feels. But I had good energy here, and made good time. Before I knew it, I was climbing down the side of the ridge toward Indian Grave, onto a long runnable downhill. Here, I really hammered down.

When I rolled into Indian Grave aid, I got some coffee, kalamata olives and grilled cheese from the stellar volunteers. Felt great to get some solid food, and coffee was just wonderful. I worried I was wasting too much time there, though, and was anxious to make the short stretch of road down to Habron, the big station where I would get a chance to change socks and out of any wet clothes, and to grab my second lamp for the long night ahead.

Along the road, I ran with John some more, and with Dan, whom I had met at a 50k a few months back. We pushed up the road into Habron, admiring the beauty of the green ridge ahead. I thought of the mountains at Zion, and spoke of them now. They had filled me with such a sense of awe, I worried I would never appreciate the eastern greenery the same way again. But it had its own beauty. Special. Unique.

At Habron, there was such a crowd of friends, I felt as if someone had thrown me a surprise party. Gary was there, grabbed my drop bag and quickly helped me out of my sopping, mud-crusted shoes and into some dry socks. My feet looked like prunes, but there were no blisters. I had slathered them with copious amounts of Waxelene, a Vaseline substitute made of beeswax, soybean and rosemary oil. It seemed to help keep them from absorbing too much water, and it keeps the blisters down. Dry socks, even in wet shoes, felt remarkably good. Gary was great at helping me remember every last detail–drop trash, pick up gels and light, grab a warm layer (which he advised to wait until I had finished the next climb before I put on), and then any food I wanted. My water was topped off, and I’d restocked gels and bolts. Still full from food at Indian Grave aid, I only drank a little soda. The coffee was working well, and I had several hours before nightfall. I was still making good time. Gary gave me a good push to send me on my way, and the crowd of friends cheered me on. It was here that I had such a feeling of complete and overwhelming love for everyone. I burst into song as I exited, giddy and silly, overcome with emotion and full of adrenaline and caffeine.

I should say here for the readers who do not know Gary, that he is 72, and has completed the MMT course 18 times. This year he was not running because a couple months out, he suffered a stroke. Gary being who he is, was making a lightning-fast and amazing recovery. He was even running again. And his presence at nearly every aid station lit a fire under me like nothing else. Having him take such good care of me at Habron, I reckoned, would easily see me though the night no matter what demons came.


*       *        *


I started the 2-mile climb to the ridge, and then into the night.

As I ran along the ridge, it grew dark, and I put on my extra layer and lamp when at last I couldn’t make out the trail without it. Then I made my way down the Stephens trail to Camp Roosevelt. Stretches were wet and there was a lot of loose rock. My left foot is recovering from a bout of capsulitis, and it was acting up now. I hoped it wouldn’t take me out of the race.  Eventually it felt better. Everything can change in the course of a hundred.

Much of the last sections of this trail look the same, you curve to the left down into a gully, cross a stream and climb a small hill, and this scene repeats many times until you feel like you are running in circles and it becomes hard to tell how close you are to the aid. I find it a little maddening even in the daylight. Now in the inky blackness, there were deer about, and I became jumpy at every cracking stick off in the brush. Dan caught up with me here, and I was glad for some company. We ran together for a stretch in brief conversation and then silence, and then split. It went by more quickly than I had expected.

Soon I rolled into Camp Roo, and was feeling peckish. My friend Erik was there, and we talked briefly before we were interrupted by more volunteers proffering drop bag and food and such. Erik is an amazing runner, and he has even improved by leaps and bounds over the recent year or so. When I saw him there, he looked different: thinner, stronger. It was inspiring to see him. I thought then about the transformations running long and often on trails in the mountains brings about in the body and the mind. I flashed back to years ago, when I first started running ultras, to a race briefing for the Mountain Masochist 50-mile trail race. It had been so crowded, I had been forced to sit up in the front of the room with the elite runners. I was struck at how they simply looked different. Chiseled and a bit weathered, so that it was hard to tell their ages. There was a wildness about them; a far off look in their eyes that to me suggested they had become part of the mountain trails they ran. Maybe it was just my overactive imagination. Or maybe I was seeing them as they truly are. Erik it seemed to me then, could have easily joined these ranks. He should have been running MMT, not me.

I was feeling a little unfocused, and easily spun around. I took my drop bag and restocked again. Another volunteer got me some vegetable soup that tasted like the best thing I’d ever eaten. It would have been good soup in any setting and circumstances.

Grateful and renewed, I rolled out quickly. I tried to remember what the Gap Creek station looked like, but drew a blank. I knew I had the Gap Creek trail or what used to be called Duncan Hollow, to look forward to running (or wallowing through) on this section. The trail is a stream bed. It is always very wet, and took a lot longer for me to navigate than I felt it should have. There’s a short uphill, just less than a mile, that takes you out of the mire, then a slightly longer downhill into Gap Creek aid. It was so good to hit that hill and finally get out of the water.

When I saw the station, I remembered it. There were lights strung somewhere in the back that give it a carnival feel, and you must cross the actual creek to get there. I think I just splashed right through. Not sure I had a choice. My memory is a bit fuzzy here. I do remember next, my friend Ed helping me change socks and shoes. Ah, fresh shoes!!! Thank you, Ed, for your kindness, your warmth, your lightheartedness and your sheer presence.

It was taking me a long time to change, and Ed began talking about the upcoming presidential elections. He was just making conversation, I know, which was pleasant and helpful, but it felt a little weird to me in that setting, in that state of mind. I work for a political paper where there is election buzz 24/7. I felt so inundated with it in daily life. I remember commenting to Ed that whatever the outcome, at least it was only for four years. He went silent. I felt then that I had shut him down with this statement, and was sorry for it. But the sleepiness and the trail banshees had begun to nibble at my brain. What did four years mean to me? What did they mean to Ed? Time felt so arbitrary. I remembered briefly a rather long, beer-fueled conversation about boat motors I’d had with a guy in a bar back in my 20’s. He had been thrilled that I would talk with him at length about something that was so dear to him. I knew nothing about boat motors. But. Beer. Ha. I had been purely interested in briefly sharing in his love and fascination of the subject. With our combined enthusiasm, it had turned into an interesting conversation. Like then, I knew now that our subject didn’t matter much. Humans are complex in their forms of communication. Though we bantered lightly, there were more important things on our minds than elections. I should have kept the conversation rolling.

Later on the trail again, I thought more about Ed. He appeared to be doing well in his fight with pancreatic cancer. He was putting up one hell of an amazing battle. He looked good. He had been trail running all through his treatments. Earlier that month he’d even run a 50k. He had marked the Duncan Hollow stretch of the course earlier, and had been volunteering all day and now long into the wee hours. Ed, you are my hero. The strength of ultra runners cannot be overstated.

I felt like these brief aid station meetings with friends were tiny miracles, balm for my aching spirit and fortifications for the soul searching I had ahead. We were so many worlds away from boat motors and elections and other things of import in daily life. In a few short hours on the trail, life had been stripped away to the bare bones, and I got to see the shining truth buried within each of us; what I saw were hearts of gold. If you have lost your faith in humanity, run an ultra.


                                                                       *       *        *


And then the journey continued and again there was only the trail, only the rocks, the water, the mud. The long, dark night. And I was growing tired.

Usually I am a strong night runner. I crack jokes a lot, especially when others get the crankies and the sleepies. But alone, I cast off the clown mask and let the baggage surface. It was at times cathartic, at times, unpleasant. But then, it had been my intention.

Inside my head, the night grew darker still. I am not quite sure what others experience as trail demons: maybe just hallucinations. I was having none of these yet. But irrational thoughts and powerful emotions were surfacing and plentiful. I was headed up the climb known as Jawbone onto Kerns Mountain. Oh, Kerns. As I climbed, the wind picked up, and I jumped and started at every unidentifiable noise. I grew a little annoyed with my own jumpiness. I thought of my family, at home asleep. My husband, who in my long and weary, young life has been the only one who has ever made me feel truly safe. My dog. She is a great trail companion and would be such good company right now. Although, she is even more afraid of the dark than I. She is a smart dog; smart and full of love. I longed for them both.


*       *        *


Oh, Kerns. I had seen it before in the dead of night as well as in the day. But I had never experienced it quite like this. Sleep deprivation can do strange things to the mind. Especially if you let it. I cursed those bloody, big rocks. I cursed the winding trail. I cursed the ceaseless wind. I cursed my lack of agility.  I remembered the ridge buried in fog last year; my good friend and pacer, Diane helping me stay on the convoluting trail. Now, as then, I wasn’t cold. I wasn’t lost. Or at least not in the sense that I was still following the trail. Lost meant something else. My mind unraveled a bit more, and I started to lose my sense of self. I held onto memories as if they were the only thing that separated me from the dark, the rocks. I thought about my mortality. When and how would I go?  I thought of my mother dying. A life cut short at fifty one. Fifty one. She had had a rare cancer; had no idea she was even sick. Had climbed mountains with that cancer inside of her without even knowing she had it–without knowing how alarmingly close she was coming to the end of her life. I cursed the self that had taken her presence for granted. I cursed the self that had dragged her up mountains unforgivingly. Cursed the self that had not valued her life, that had not valued my own life. Fifty one. Only five years from where I am now. What was five years from now for me? What did that mean? What is time? I heard again the sound of her death rattle. Her last breath. The sound of her voice. Songs she sang to me when I was but three years old.  The sadness in her voice. Her talking me down from mental cliffs, trying desperately to convince me that life was worth living. Mountains we’d ascended together. And mountains we’d descended, in the dark and in the rain. At last, I forgave the self I had cursed, blessed it and let it go with the wind.

I thought about the lonely wind spirit my dad used to tell me stories of when I was little. It lived off bark and moss, he said, and swept you up with it and carried you away, seeking a cure for its loneliness. Its victims always died of starvation and exposure. It remained alone.

I let go then and emptied my head of thoughts and memories. I became the lonely wind spirit. I tripped and cursed aloud. The sound of my voice was strange. It felt like I had been on Kerns forever. How long must I relive these experiences? Feel these feelings? I had never arrived, and I would never leave. I was part of it. What was I?  An abstraction?  A feedback loop created by my brain? Right now, I was but a memory to others, and this, this thing that had become a part of Kerns. There was only this moment reenacted. And continuing. I was Kerns for all eternity.

But I made peace with it. And I followed the streamers placed so lovingly by many golden-hearted friends. Eventually, the trail spilled out onto the road, and I knew it was but a short downhill stretch to the Visitor’s Center aid station. I had run this stretch in the dark but a month and a half before on a training run. Wow, my state of mind had been so different, then. The streamers ended abruptly as I ran hard down the road. I second guessed my faulty memory, and doubled back. Not all of the training runs followed the race course exactly, I pondered.  But when I got back to the turn, there was no where else to go. I’d lost about 20 minutes. Ah, well. Bonus miles, as they say.

I ran hard down the road into Visitor Center, feeling relieved to have escaped my little private Hell on Kerns. Now, it was as if it had never happened. I laughed and joked with the volunteers, restocked and drank more coffee, chatted with my friend John who had just finished the C&O 100. He had taken a break from ultras. Glad to hear he was back in action. He seemed happy. Nice to see everyone. Thoughts were now all on the climb up Bird Knob.


*       *        *


Off I went. 

It was a steep and muddy climb up to the base of the Bird Knob climb. Ha. I slipped and slid and scrambled, until I got to a big rock, which looked a bit like the start of the Bird Knob climb, when I saw a runner wandering around looking for the trail. It turned out to be AJ. We had never met in person, but knew each other online and via others. For now, he was a stranger. He was sure the climb started near the big rock, and was looking for a trail around it. I had remembered such also, but I was sure it must not be the correct rock. I continued up the Orange-blazed trial, on the right. It had to be correct. There weren’t any visible streamers here, but there also weren’t any other choices. He followed. Then, I had to make a pit stop, and he moved ahead. Another runner joined us, and I let him move a head also, taking my time on the climb. I hadn’t expected to be climbing Bird Knob in the dark, but there were still several hours until dawn.

The climb was short, and afterward there is a short stretch of winding, flat trail along the big, shelf-like rocks to our right. You could see for miles from these rocks, and now I watched the distant fire stream of orange, sodium-vapor lights go by as I moved along in the dark.

The trail spilled out onto the ant road, named I’d guessed for the giant, car-sized ant mounds that flanked the moss-covered road. It is otherworldly in daylight or dark. Again, I had expected to cover this territory in daylight. I walked and ran off and on and watched for signs of the Bird Knob aid station I knew would come soon. I could make out the lights of a tower far in the distance. After what seemed like twice as long as it should have been, there was Bird Knob aid, smack in the middle of the road behind a gate. There was a small fire going off to the left, and I ran to it. A volunteer rushed over, making certain I didn’t fall in the fire. I was no where near that unsteady. He called me by name, either from my bib or from memory, and introduced himself as Larry. This was first we had actually met, but we knew each other. I soon had another cup of vegetable soup in me, and very glad for it, and was headed off down the road. There is a sharp left turn back onto trail from the road, and I was glad to have remembered this and confirmed with the volunteers, that that is what I should be watching for. It was well marked with many reflective streamers, but had I been barreling down the road and not looking for it, I could easily have missed it. Many runners did.


*       *        *


Here, I encountered a group of mountain whippoorwills playing along the road. Calling to each other, flying in twos, their eyes glowing like amber jewels in my headlamp light. They were so strange and beautiful. It felt then like we were all playing on the mountain in the night.  I turned onto the trail to climb up to the ridge. I had it in my head that all the big climbs were done, and passed this along to the runners behind me. Maybe they were shorter climbs, but there were many yet to come. Ultra amnesia, I call it. Not unlike forgetting the pain of childbirth, we forget the rough sections, forget the pain. It’s a self-preservation tactic hardwired into our biology.  Then, suddenly we were switchbacking down the hill (five switchbacks I remember) and dawn was coming on. I would like to have seen it from the other side of the ridge. But now, I had but a short stretch to Picnic aid. And that meant breakfast.

I crossed a couple of fairly deep (as in over the knee for my short body) streams before rolling into Picnic Area. I was getting cold, and didn’t care much for it. But I knew if I kept moving all would be well. At Picnic, there was a fire, but I avoided it, as I worried I would stay too long in an effort to try and get warm. Better to warm on the trail, I reasoned. I grabbed a couple of french toast sticks and a dollar pancake. (Last year there had been real french toast, alas. But hey, hot breakfast in the woods!  I wasn’t complaining!) I saw Gary again, there with his son Keith, who was wrapped in a blanket. I said hello to them both. Keith is speedy, and I had assumed when I saw him there that he must have finished the course and come back. There were but sixteen miles from here to the finish. I did’t know it, but he had slept several hours and was there to run the last stretch with Quatro and Gary and Sophie. I would have loved to have joined them. I asked if the next section was very muddy, and he said, yes down by 211, probably puzzling at why I was asking if the section that is always muddy is still muddy, and not knowing that I had assumed he had just been through there.

Off I went again. I ran what I could of the next section, muddy indeed, almost lost a shoe, and ran into runner friends Sophie and Annie. They greeted me with, “Wow, you are doing great!” which lifted my spirits. They are amazing runners. It meant a lot coming from them. It was great to see so many familiar faces. I couldn’t remember what the next 16 miles held. My thoughts were too fuzzy. I knew there was a climb up a creek bed somewhere, and another climb up Jawbone, only you go back down the other side of the ridge rather than up again to Kerns. I was having trouble staying focused and trouble staying warm. It was sunny, but very windy, and I was wet. I put on my little windbreaker, a thin hat and gloves. Sleep deprived, all I could think about was how ridiculous I must look, and didn’t want to roll across the finish like this. Good grief. The course here is tough. There are some short but steep climbs that stretch your calves and leave you breathless. And that climb I had remembered up the now not-so-dry creek bed. Ugh. But I was smelling the barn, now. I knew this was some of the last mileage.

I had begun to hallucinate, and I noted how strange it was that I hadn’t experienced this during the night, but rather that it was occurring now in the daylight. They were all simple and benign: downed trees looked like suspension bridges, stumps looked like people.

The trail eventually spilled out onto the road, and I remembered running this section last year, headed into the Gap Creek aid station for the second time. I wasn’t feeling as spry this year. I ran from tree to tree, taking only short breaks when I had to. Zsuzsanna and Annie, I believe, rolled up in a 4×4, and they stopped to see how I fared. I told Zsuzsanna I was hallucinating, and feared I must have appeared a little pathetic. She said encouragingly that the aid station was not far ahead, and we all continued on, me plodding along, watching their white vehicle move down the road into the distance until it disappeared from view. I knew I was close. But I wasn’t feeling so hot. I would hate to have to drop at the last station, but now I contemplated it. I had given it a good go.

When I got to the station, I must have appeared a little unhinged. The volunteers brought me my drop bag, and I emptied the contents of my pack into it. I had been carrying a lot of discarded items, and now I realized just how much extra weight was in the pack. Trash, wet layers, hats and head lamps. I couldn’t get the drop bag closed, and a volunteer took over. I went over and got some food. Two quarters of a  grilled turkey and cheese sandwich. My stomach balked, but the food helped. I was flagging, but the volunteers encouraged me. I had reached 96.8 miles. It was then that I recognized and took to heart the fact that hundred-milers are not usually only one hundred miles. I still had some seven miles to go, and part of that was climbing Jawbone. Could I do this? I could try.

I took my time picking my way back up Jawbone. The climb is mostly just long and steep in some places, but not technical. It warmed me, and my stomach settled. I took off my gloves and hat and jacket. My brain settled and sharpened. I began to remember the course from there; began calculating my finishing time,  depending on how quickly I could cover the next five miles. If I were feeling better, I could run it hard, at least the section that was road. But the trail down from the ridge was mostly big rocks, and took a bit of time. I would fall a half hour short of my finish goal. I could deal with a half hour. I was just happy I was going to finish at that point. I smiled for the first time in a couple of hours. When I got to the road, I told myself to run it at a good steady pace, something I could keep up without breaks. I remembered there were six bridges, and I counted them down, running from bridge to bridge. I had not seen another runner for some time. I was entirely alone from the last aid station, alone but for one other runner on the section before that, and entirely alone on the section before. And I was still alone now. I pushed, only breaking to walk on the uphills, and when I saw the turn into the camp, my adrenaline returned. I pressed up the final hill, and turned onto the finishing trail, floored it and promptly tripped over a root, flying head first across the ground. Annie was there and saw me wipe out. “Please tell me this isn’t the first time you’ve fallen today?” I laughed. It had been the only fall I took on the entire course. Well, the only physical fall. I ran hard down over the hill, then, running on what felt like someone else’s legs. I passed a young guy with poles and congratulated him, continuing down to the stream, greeting people as I went and trucking along  as fast as I could manage around the field and up to the finish.

My husband, Curt was there shouting to me, and I ran hard toward the sound of his voice, across the line, greeted Kevin, the RD, who was making sure each of the finishers was in good shape, and not about to pass out or worse, and then ran to Curt for a hug.


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Here’s the thing everybody who runs hundreds knows, but that I had never before experienced so profoundly: no two hundred-mile races are ever the same. In fact, they differ so dramatically at times, it seems odd to call another running of the same course by the same name. Indeed, since most aren’t even exactly 100 miles, we probably shouldn’t even call them hundred-milers. Maybe we should call them personal trail experiences, and each choose our own name for our own experience. Since this had been a profound trail experience for me,  I chose to call it my circular trail causality experience, my CTCE.  Even after, I kept sinking deeper into that feeling of uniqueness of each life experience. I was here now and would never be again. No matter how many times I run the MMT trails or the MMT100, it is always a new experience. Always unique. We are never in the same place twice. And yet, when again on those trails, it feels as if I have never left; as if the mountains follow their own deep time and that part of what we experience there remains, and is somehow reenacted and continuing.





Sights Set on Zion


Do you ever look back on an experience and simply cannot believe it turned out as it did? It is as if your fears or your pre-imagined version of it produced just as powerful an effect in mind and memory as the actual experience, and so traces of it remain even after the event has transpired. This sometimes happens for me, and it did with Zion.

I felt this race was doomed to turn out badly for me in some way. I had had bad premonitions before it. More than this, I had had actual warnings. I knew the weather had the potential to sour and make conditions — as the race directors had implied — um, unmanageable. I knew that there would be dangers of a variety of which I was unaccustomed. I dreamt of falling, not fearing the landing so much as the wide open space, that…that void. Falling into that vastness of open sky.

The imagined Zion loomed.

Zion is a name given to many things, the hill in Jerusalem upon which was built the City of David, its another name for Israel, a utopia, a heaven. I am not a religious person. For me it was a name for a race I wanted to run, and a pretty tourist destination to which I had never been. But I have a strong liking for things that are old. In them I find an aspect of the sacred. The name Zion is old indeed, and I couldn’t help but be drawn to this.

I read that the National Park had come to be called Zion in 1918, that before it had been called Mukuntuweap, a Paiute word meaning “straight canyon” (so straight forward), and that the change had its roots in ethnocentrism. The park director thought the native word would discourage visitors, so they adopted the name the Mormons gave it. When I first saw it, I thought the Mormons had chosen well. Those sheer walls, those soaring cliffs, that awe-inspiring beauty at every glance and angle. Surely this was about as close as one could come to an earthly idea of Heaven. It produced in me a strong emotional reaction.  But I craved the cool, the rational, that practicality of thought demonstrated by the Paiute in their naming.

Zion for me was also a moment in time. I would be then as well as there. In my addled, pre-race head, I reached for it as if it were something bright and shining, yet also cold and unwelcoming, something pure and real beyond the imagination. It was itself the imagined void.

Like its cliff walls, Zion loomed.


I cannot explain why some races are like this for me. The last race I felt this way about was the Terrapin Mtn. 50k in 2011. It was for some reason unknown to me, something special, and so it was with Zion. Perhaps it is something of the mystery conjured, of not really knowing what I was in for.

Approaching my Zion experience, many things happened. I trained. I readied. The logistics fell in place. My husband and I would make a mini vacation of the trip and set a day or two before and after the race to hike and explore. Plane tickets procured, reservations set, gear and drop bags packed, etc., the preliminaries were uneventful.

Then came the email. The race directors said rain was likely. Rain in southern Utah has a unique effect on the ground, they explained. The clay mud is sticky, yet slippery. Deferment to the 2017 race was offered.  Some took it. Mostly the 100k runners, but not the 100-mile runners, I was told later. We are a special lot, I think. “Bring it on,” I challenged the rain gods. Then, I wrote to the ultra runners I know who knew about Utah mud. What would they recommend?  They gave me the facts and laid out the scenarios and flip flopped a bit in their advice. But it painted a clearer picture, and it wasn’t pretty.

Then another email came from the directors with contingency plans should we decide to run and the rain should happen. The would monitor the conditions at key points on the course and reroute and/or shorten it if necessary. It was enough. I decided.

“Bring it on,” again I challenged. The rain gods must have heard me.

In my head, the void grew. Again I dreamt I fell into the open sky. Only this time I landed hard.

Pre-race anxiety it a bitch. But at least I knew to expect it, and that like a kidney stone, it would eventually pass. And usually, at least for me, the worse the anxiety, the better the race experience. Chock it up to weird fluctuations in brain chemistry, I guess. I tried to go about my business as if I weren’t thinking about being swallowed by an enormous void. “Nothing to see here, move along… Keep calm and carry on…”

At last we arrived at that landscape of unforgiving beauty that is Zion. My husband is the best in helping me down off these mental cliffs. We had such fun exploring the park before the race. Trails were hiked and run, tourists tolerated, canyons explored, formations photographed, naked feet dipped in clear icy pools. Anxiety ebbed.

Night before the race, in a quiet lodge, to the gentle burbling of the Virgin river and in the shadow of the one hundred and fifty million year old,  water-etched sandstone walls, I slept like a rock.


Morning view from the lodge window.


Race day happened.


I drifted through the morning motions without much thought from pillow to start. The darkness was warm, the strangers friendly. The smell of wood smoke brought on memories of endless camps, of tent living and hippy gatherings. I relaxed and chatted with the strangers, made acquaintances.

Then in the darkness we began to move across the dusty, undulating valley floor in a snaky glow of LEDs,  approaching the faint black shadow of our first mesa. I tried hard to keep my footfalls soft. “Like water on stone,” I thought, and pictured the small, unassuming, now creek-sized Virgin river that had cut through the canyon.  “Two hundred million years of this and I could form my own canyon,” I reasoned. Then suddenly we were at the mesa, and up the trail we went, climbing out of the darkness and into the dawn.


A shot from the 2015 climb up the Flying Monkey Trail

“This trail looked much worse in the video,” I said to no one in particular. A couple of women I was trailing who were chatting laughed, “That’s just what I was thinking!” said one. She was in the Navy–said the best thing about it was getting to see the world. Only sadly most of the world is water. We all laughed some more, a bit giddy, fresh and ready for hours of running. I skipped the helpful rope added to one steep section and scrambled up with hands and feet in the dust. Glad I hadn’t looked down. When I saw that spot coming down the trail later, I made no hesitation in grabbing for the rope. For the most part, the course footing was safe. But now and again we edged close to precipitous drops. One had to be careful.

This section was known as the Flying Monkey Trail, supposedly named for the use of apes in testing cockpit escape systems in fighter jets on the mesa during the 1950’s. I wondered if any of the test apes had dreamt beforehand of flying into that void. Hopefully they had all survived. Or then again maybe it was better if they hadn’t. I cannot imagine the psychologically devastating effects those tests had on the survivors. Poor creatures. Or maybe there was something instinctually natural in the experience of flight for all primates, who for eons moved so freely about the forest canopy, something freeing. But the sheer speed… I shook the thoughts from my head and dug in, focusing instead on the climb.

Up on the mesa we hit our first aid station and then just more sandy, undulating road, though more rutted than the one on the valley floor.  The road twisted and turned among scrub pines, pinyons and boulders. There were bits and even large pieces of petrified wood scattered about, and tracks of some bovine variety on the road. It was other-worldly for me. I tried on a solid pace that I thought seemed reasonable, but soon found myself huffing and puffing, never considering we were running above 5000 feet. Though we had but 6 miles to go up here, it seemed to take a while. I warmed up and removed layers. Eventually, we hit the aid station again, and made our way back down the mesa. From this direction, the views were amazing. The valley stretched for miles in all directions, framed by more mesas, some of which I mused we would climb later in the day. Going down, the steepness of the trail became more apparent, and it was hard to push the pace. I made my way down gingerly. On similar terrain in other races I would have pushed harder in order to make time, but the drop offs here were too daunting.

Nearly 2000 feet of descent later, we were moving across the valley floor again along the hilly BMX road to the next climb.

I thought about race courses back East in Virginia, and how they differed from this. Much of this course was more runnable than the rocky, technical trails to which I had grown accustomed. And though I had been on steeper, longer climbs back home, there wasn’t much sustained running at elevation as there was here on the mesas. Back home, there were stunning views from those highly eroded Appalachian, Blue Ridge and Massanutten ridge lines. But here, you could much better see the evidence of time on the landscape, and for many more miles in all directions–a goodly portion of the course at once, even. What would seem like it should have been daunting to me was instead invigorating and liberating–to witness all of that distance and time.

The landscape kept changing, and I fell in love with the geography to a degree that I had not anticipated. I questioned every other runner about the surroundings with the enthusiasm of a 6-year-old, but being new to the area as much as I, most of them just shrugged. I began to daydream of having my own personal geologist to run with–someone to answer all of my questions (of course he was dashing and had a dry wit and may have sounded a bit like Sir David Attenborough).  Funny things running long will do to the mind.

One of the next sections was through rounded hills of what appeared to be chunky, black basalt surrounded by sagey greenery punctuated by red and yellow wildflowers. It reminded me of pictures I’d seen of the Irish landscape. Something about the igneous formations piqued my interest more so even than the eroded sandstone layers, and that interest lingered. Later my husband began to count how many times I casually threw out the word basalt. Admittedly I wanted to take a column or two of it home with me. I had never seen it before, but something about it felt so familiar.

For the second climb, rather than single track, we reached the Guacamole mesa via a steep road. It proved runnable, and I was grateful to be feeling so strong on the uphills–a new development for me (ah, those good hill repeats! thanks, coach!).

On the top of the mesa was a sea of rounded mounds of weathered sandstone called slickrock–which turns out is not really slick, but still not so easily traversed. It reminded me of another place I had been–Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia, but those rocks were at sea level and comprised of 415-million-year-old Devonian granite. That was a world away and another time. Though I didn’t really know much about this surface at the time, I had the impression that this was once a sea bed evidenced by the rounded pebbles scattered everywhere, and what looked like water marks and rounded holes in the stone. I marveled at the thought of the sea level being some 5-6000 feet higher.

Later I read that in the middle Triassic (that’s 235-247 million years ago when we think the world looked like this), the sea bed that later became western Utah was forced upward along the Wasach and Hurricane fault lines. Then the area had become sand dunes (these dunes are what formed Zion Natl. Park) and later during the Jurassic, became a flood plain.  That hardened and this rock surface was known as the Chinle Formation, a conglomerate called Shinarump. A lot more happened in the millions of years that followed. The land rose and fell, the area became a shallow lake. Eventually it eroded back to that layer that was created during the Triassic, and into those hard sandstone mounds and little quartzite pebbles and loose sand that we were running on.  Those little quartzite pebbles visible everywhere that had been deposited during the Triassic and later survived the erosion dated back to 500-1000 million years ago. Damn. Old pebbles.

There were all kinds of geological goodies up here, including more petrified wood left over from when a forest grew after the sea was forced up and became highland, then later flood plain. And there were even dinosaur fossils. Wished I had had time to look. After the race, I wanted to visit Gooseberry, (the next mesa we ran that was similar to Guac, but more spectacular) with my husband, but the weather conditions made it inaccessible. Like so many places, I realized, had I not been running long, I would never have seen it.

Here on this petrified golf course of sandstone slickrock, I met up with a merry band of runners from northern California, Jesse, John and Chuck. Jesse and his wife Jenni I had met the day before at the race expo, and now he remembered me. We unintentionally matched pace and I kept falling in and out with them. They were clearly trail-running pals, ribbing one and other, and telling lively stories of past runs. Eventually they asked me if I wanted to join up with them. Sure, why not? They were proving stellar company. I felt like I had already known them forever.  I was in.


On both the Guacamole and Gooseberry mesas we were following mountain bike trails that were marked by white dots painted intermittently on the rock . We navigated the pathless, meandering course over the rocks carefully–marker to marker, pink flag to streamer, to white dot to rock stack. At one point on Gooseberry we got off trail and met up with runners coming from another direction and we all had to stop and figure out which way to go on the course. No body wanted to run the loop again. The weather had been a bit humid, but pretty great up until then. Now the rain was visibly headed in and tensions grew. We all reasoned through and found our way back to the aid station in good time. The team work of strangers can be a beautiful thing.


I borrowed Jesse’s photos of us on Gooseberry trying to figure out which way to go. Note the rain in the distance, and then below.




Back at the Guacamole aid station, the Cali crew took off quickly, and John gave me a yell they were headed out. I was having issues filling my water, and had to leave later. (I’m going to design a new water bladder. Somebody needs to! None of them open and close easily.) Coming down the road (I like to fly down the hills and make some time), I passed them. It had been humid up on the mesa, and I was soaked with sweat. Now, the wind was picking up so I let out my matted braid to dry my hair out. A storm was moving in and the wind was lifting dust up off the road in clouds. I put my hair up and pulled my buff up over my face.

The road weaved through pasture here and barbed wire, fenced-in fields of cacti and huge, squarish boulders that looked to me like they had tumbled off the edge of the mesa. Tumble weeds rolled across the road under the fences. Then back through the sage and black basalt hills we weaved, and up a small but steep climb, back onto the road that lead into the Dalton Wash aid station (this time, at mile 30.5) The merry band from Cali caught up with me on the road here, and we rolled in together. It was clear to me from here that I had become part of their team, and would likely be sticking with them. No closer friendships are made than those formed on the trail, I am convinced. Especially when conditions get rough and thoughts turn from racing to survival.


Jesse in the back, Chuck center, me on the right (John in the front, just off camera)

We were making good time. From here, we crossed the valley floor again. The road was more hilly than our last valley crossing and we took our time, anticipating the climb to come up the Gooseberry mesa. Though only around 1600 feet, it is particularly steep. There were a couple sets of ropes to help with the steepest sections, and I didn’t hesitate to make use of them. For me, this climb called for short breaks here and there to get the heart rate down. These proved both good and bad at giving me a nice pause to check out the view, both breathtaking and a little terrifying. There was a good view of the Moenkopie formation here, another Triassic formation of red and pink and white striped layers of eroded sandstone with plenty of undulations and skirting.

I was feeling pretty good, so I lead the charge for a few stretches. I love climbs. John and Chuck had the aid of poles and Jesse had the edge of being the youngest in the group and also having the most positive disposition of anyone I believe I have ever met–next to his wife, Jenni so I did my best to contribute when my energy was good. John ran the course last year, and it seemed he remembered everything in great detail–a serious boon, and Chuck spent a great deal of his mental energy calculating and recalculating our finish time based on the time it was taking us to finish each section and the mileage accumulation marked by aid stations. None of us were wearing mileage trackers and we all had a good laugh about it. I typically do calculations like this too when I am running, but I was using all of my mental energy (and probably glycogen) to get up the mesa at this point.

At the immediate top of of the Gooseberry mesa climb, we rolled into the Goosebump aid station. We would pass through here three times–provided all went as planned. (Jesse noted later that it was aptly named–as it was always freezing there.) The wind whipped over the mesa ledge here, and the station had a little fire going. We all grabbed some dry or warmer layers, grabbed food and huddled briefly around the fire. I can’t remember now if it had started raining then. The rain had started to fall off and on, but only lightly, so I never really noticed when it was there or not. It made for cooler temps, kept the sun off my translucent, northern-gened skin, and didn’t create a hazard in such small amounts, so I was grateful for it. So far, so good.

We had a good 12-mile loop on the Gooseberry mesa to follow–complete with a little out-and-back to a point where we had to punch our number bibs to prove we’d been there. The topography here was much like the Guacamole mesa, but the drops were so steep, and the path close to some of them. I was beginning to get used to it a little.


There were plenty of other runners out on the mesa and mountain bikers as well. A few others joined our group for stretches, including Taka, from Kyoto. He told me a little about running there. The heavy humidity, the beautiful temples. His eyes lit up when he talked about it. There were so many places I wished I could run. It was great to be able to share others’ experiences, even only in imagination.

The loop was long, but the point was just stunning!  It reminded me a little of the rocky outcroppings on the eastern trails, but times a thousand.  The sheer vastness, the open and flat valley floor 2000 feet below that stretched for miles and miles. I tried to photograph it, but could not come close to capturing that vastness. Here’s someone’s mountain biking video of it that shows a little of the approach and the view in each direction. And us…


Yutaka, Dani, John, Chuck and Jesse on Gooseberry Point


We still had some mileage to lay down from here, so we pressed on. When we hit the Goosebump station again, we were nearly half way and still making good time. Taka split off from us here, and now it was just four of us again on what felt like a long stretch but only 6 miles out to Grafton Mesa. The rain was starting off and on again, and the going was slow as we used up the last of our sunlight.

We came into the Grafton mesa aid station around 8pm. I had no idea what we were in for next. Navigating the meandering trails at Grafton after dark was a bear, and I realized that had I been traveling alone at this point, I might still be there trying to find my way out of the rocks and prickly cacti. Here Chuck– and therefore the group–picked up a pacer, James, so our little posse grew again and now had a renewing boost of energy. Chuck and John took turns leading and kept us on track, down the steep climb in the dark to the cemetery aid station. My stomach had been holding up pretty well despite all of the sugary gels I’d been feeding it, but now at mile 58, in the middle of the night, it began to get a little queasy. The volunteers gave me some broth and rice and it hit the spot. Stellar volunteers at every station!  God bless them, out there taking risks with us in the foul weather!  Then we moved quickly as possible back up the steep trail, our last climb, to the top of the mesa, and round that maze of rocks, scrub pines and cacti back to the Grafton mesa aid.

We wasted little time there, and not long after we rolled out, I heard a sound off to the left out across the inky blackness that I knew at some point became nothing but open air and a long drop to the valley–something that sounded faintly like a train. And all it once it hit me. “The rain is coming!” I hollered, and we all scrambled to suit up in little windbreakers. It began to pour, and the road instantly turned as slick as black ice. Now I worried. I turned to John: “Geezus, how are we going to get off the the mesa?” He said we would find out when we reached the aid station. I was putting the cart before the horse. First we had to get back to Goosebump. Just off the the slick road in a tiny parking area, we soon found Jesse’s wife Jenni, their kids and their friend Laura, who were all crewing for Jesse and the boys. The roads were so hazardous, they weren’t able to meet them at Grafton, so they had been waiting up the hill along the road in a section that was just a bit more navigable. They had been having adventures of their own just trying to find access to the runners, driving on the slick roads and helping others out of jams. I can’t say enough kind things about Jenni. If there are angels on earth, surely she is one. By far one of the sweetest, kindest, most giving, loving, happy, energetic and fun people I have ever met–and all who know her contest to this–she now broke out some clear plastic ponchos and hand warmers for all of us, just when I was beginning to think that we were doomed to hypothermia from the combination of being soaked to the skin and having to move glacially over the slick mud. The ponchos were just enough to keep us warm. I didn’t even need gloves or hand warmers. I really think mine saved me.

I found myself leading here for a stretch–just trying to find a firm trail with traction through the mud. In the wee hours of the morning, I tend to find my best energy. When all others are flagging, I’m often hitting  a second wind. Dunno why. Typically, I’m an early to bed, early riser. I was determined now to set a good pace through the mud and get us back to Goosebump aid (provided there was anyone left there when we arrived). It was hard to know what to expect in these conditions, but I felt the directors wouldn’t leave us stranded. A few big-tired 4-wheelers passed us, and we had to move to the side of the road. This instantly got us into the sticky mud that weighted our shoes. It was frustrating. But we shook it off, and confined to the crinkly oases created by our little poncho bubbles, we trudged on in relative silence.

Eventually, we rolled into the station. The good news was the rain had done less damage here, and the trail was navigable. I lead the charge down the mesa, determined to press us on. Throughout we’d all been looking out for one and other. When someone’s energy would flag, we’d offer encouragement. We reminded each other to drink water often. We took turns taking the lead, and now at last it was mine. John offered me his poles, and when I declined (I’m a klutz with poles), said “I was afraid you’d say that.”  It made me laugh. I felt sturdy and clear-headed and set what I felt was a safe and steady pace down the mesa, enjoying the little rope section, and honestly feeling ready to run the whole way back.

The valley floor was muddy, but not as bad as it had been on the mesa. We moved steadily then on toward the last aid station, Virgin Desert, where we were to run three short loops and then bring her home. The rain came off and on and the road conditions got worse then better then worse again. We talked about what we were going to do at the station as if it were an anticipated vacation: meeting crew, getting warm food, dry socks, etc. All the creature comforts. With the mud and rain, it took a long time to cover 7.5 miles, and when we finally arrived, everything was wet from the rain. I changed socks and some layers, dropped my trash and picked up some gels.  Just then, the director announced that we had been ordered off the trails because of the hazardous conditions. An alternate route mentioned before the race in an email would become a shortened but official finish. We had to forgo the loops and instead follow the road out and then onto the highway for several miles to the finish. The course was shortened for most of the field by about 15 miles. It was disappointing, but with the hazardous conditions, it only made sense.

We trudged along the highway in the rain as the dawn came on, deciding at some point that since the race had been a team effort,  we should all finish together. No one would honor my idea to sprint, though. I think my feet were in better shape than others.’ So we came across the muddy, rainy finish line linked arm in arm and then squeezed in for a group hug. There is simply nothing quite like finding trail family so far from home.



Later, I was emailing with one of the directors, and he wrote about some of the problems they’d had. He also mentioned something else that hit home for me, so I asked if I could share his words:

“It’s funny the races that are the most memorable are when something crazy happens, usually weather! Last year we had 6 inches of fresh snow on our  Grand Canyon race in mid May! We all remember it!  Bryce had one of the most intense lightning storms and people still talk about it! Zion will go down  as one of the most extreme ever! Crew stuck in the mud…getting the aid station transport vehicle stuck in a ravine, etc.”  — Matt Anderson

The race directors had handled the challenges in a smart and stellar fashion, and despite the perils, we all came out safely. Though it was a little disappointing to miss a small section of the course, we would-be 100-mile finishers still buckled and qualified for Western States.  They modified the stats on Ultrasignup a few times because of the divided field, and at one point I landed as first female for the 100 mile “alt” group. “Never before, and never again,” I laughed to myself. Only in such a fluke set of circumstances could that happen. Now, I’m ranked as #2. All-in-all, they are just numbers and after this experience, one could see how very arbitrary they really are. Exploring such an amazing place, and making such good friends of the trail-running variety were experiences beyond compare.


Cool detail: the Zion 100 buckles are each unique and include items found along the course. The one I chose has petrified wood.














Rocks on the Road

Photo by Diane Behm

Photo by Diane Behm

I knew to expect them.

The MMT course is not an easy one, with over 16,000 feet of ascension over 103.7 miles, and the weather conditions (approaching 90 F and humid on race day, followed by an afternoon deluge and off and on showers throughout the night) made it even more interesting. But the hardest part for me was yet to come a few days later from an offhanded comment containing the word “crazy.”

If you run ultras, you hear it often enough. Usually it is easy to shrug off. This time, though, it bit deep. I thought I knew myself. I thought I knew who I was and who I am a bit better. Thicker skin, I thought I had.

My 3rd 100-mile race, and 15th ultra, MMT was to date, the toughest by far. I had been so proud of finishing under the grueling conditions, for sticking it out, for stomaching the heat and all of its extra trials: the blisters, the chafing, the cramping, nausea and dehydration. I am no heat runner. Heat has always been a problem for me. But I stayed strong. I stayed positive. My movement over the rocks, if not fast, was at least steady. And my good friends and all of the wonderful, wonderful runners and volunteers, made the experience a sheer joy.

One of the best things about ultras, (I will say again), is ultra runners. A most compassionate, gritty and resilient bunch, to me they demonstrate the best of the best traits when it comes to human character. I am proud to share trails and trials with all of them.

We all run for many different reasons. A lot of us have undergone or are attempting to overcome hardships greater than a mere race in the woods. The running helps. It builds fortitude. On many levels, it helps in the procuration of grace.

For a few stretches this weekend, I shared the trail with a runner battling Parkinson’s disease. He described the rapid decline in his running abilities;  his frustration when his muscles refused to respond to his brain’s command. He worried he would not make it to the end. But his determination was a thing of great beauty to behold. I tried to show it to him. Though he had his doubts, I never had any doubt he would finish the race that weekend. (Of course, he did finish, and he finished strong.)

A lot of runners, like me,  ran for Tom Green, a good friend to many and a bit of a local hero for his ultra fetes. (Tom had been gravely injured in a tree trimming accident not long before the race, and is making a slow but steady recovery.)

The ultra community showed its true colors in banding together on several occasions to help Tom and his family–financially and with well-wishing videos and photos. So many of us were reminded in the wee hours on the trail that Tom would likely give anything to be sharing our experience. Especially when the going got tough, we ran with him in mind.

Like for many, running–especially running long on mountain trails–has saved my life.

It has made me spiritually, mentally, emotionally and physically stronger with each new experience, and has given me a sense of belonging and purpose I had never imagined I could have. It has taken me to places and to states of mind where I have experienced the beauty and awe of our world and our existence to a degree I would never have arrived at in any other circumstance.

Unfortunately, this is not something that is easily related to those who have not also experienced it first-hand. After all of my weekend’s trials and elations, successfully wrestling rocks and heat and inner demons to see the beauty of the sunrise and appreciate the miracle that is a wildflower, here I was a few days later emotionally faltering at some silly, offhanded comment.

I know there will always be people who don’t understand ultra. But sometimes they are not the ones you would expect. I try not to have too many expectations of people with this regard, but sometimes they still disappoint. I know that is my problem, not theirs.

In truth, I have been fighting the stigma of mental illness for nearly all of my life. There are decades of harsh judgement, hurtful words and ill sentiment to work through, and it seems I still harbor some sensitivity around that word “crazy.”

It can be difficult to overcome stigma. It is one the longest runs I will ever undertake. I hope someday to finish, and to finish it in one piece–perhaps will a little help from my friends.

Grin and Bear it: Grindstone Success


“If you’re going to be a bear, be a grizzly!” my friend Jim had written to me after I’d run my first starter 100. He said he was quoting his friend Doug.

“Run Grindstone” he’d meant. On this subject, his voice was added to many, but his rang out the loudest.

I noted silently that he once told me that he had fallen asleep in the midst of running up a hill on that race.

How’d he think I was up for it?

True, I love running through the night, and had expressed this often. And Grindstone is a night hundred, with a 6PM start and for a slowpoke like me, that meant two nights of running.

“You have to run Grindstone!” I had heard more than once from well-meaning runners who had clearly experienced it first-hand. I could see the sparkle, that far-away look in their eyes when they said it; a hint of a memory of something unfathomably spectacular. Or at least life-changingly memorable. And I knew that somehow, some day soon,

I would.

I fretted. I lacked confidence. Maybe night running was my forte, but I didn’t know if I was capable of being a grizzly, as Jim had put it. I called him. “Do you really think I can do this?”

“Sure, why not?”

“How do you train for it?”

I asked because I live in a city on the Piedmont. I run sidewalks and gently rolling trails. At times, I feel as though I’ve been put out to pasture. I missed the mountains, the rocks, the pines and oaks and mountain flora I grew up with.

That summer I began running up flights of stairs. Eventually I found my way back to the mountains to train.

Between the race cancellation in 2013 due to the government shutdown, and an ankle injury that put me out of commission that Spring (just a few weeks before the MMT), I had trained for three 100s by the time Grindstone 2014 rolled around and had yet to run one of them. I was getting a bit antsy. But I knew I would be slow, and had no idea how I’d cope with the two-night sleep deprivation. I was certain it was going to be interesting.

Someday I would love to race, but for now, the plan was but to finish, and the strategy was simple: aid station to station, and between that, mountain to mountain, climb to climb. I felt I had prepared well enough for the climbs, and could handle the late nights. Or at least the first one. I worried that by the second, I would be wondering off the trail. I asked around for a pacer, but those who had offered earlier had been snapped up by others, and now I was on my own. (Just before the race, I managed to secure one, but due to a glitch in the live updates that said I had DNFd at mile 65, she’d gone home.)

But a lot had changed since Jim’s initial “be a grizzly” charge, and I found I now knew a LOT of people planning to run. It was a regular party in the works. This got me excited, and reassured me with the notion that I would not be alone out there. It felt a little strange to be stoked about company. Running had clearly changed for me.

I thought back to my earlier loner days of trail running. Even before that, I had enjoyed plenty of alone time in the mountains. As a teen I would hike the fire and old tram roads near my home in PA, and camp under the stars on rocky outcroppings. I would see how far I could travel without food or water or with only the moon for light.

But I no longer possessed this fearlessness. Company was indeed welcome!

We started on a Friday at 6PM in a warm drizzle. The elements were going to add interest, it seemed. I started off conservatively, but kept the pace steady enough to stay warm, chatting with other runners, and remaining calm.

I still had plenty of supplies by the first aid station, so I thanked the volunteer there and kept moving. We were moving steadily up a dirt road then onto some trail as the light faded. I found myself switching my light off and on for different sections depending on the tree cover.

As night grew on, the rain grew heavier, and I flashed back to one of my teen night hikes where I had gotten lost in the dark in the rain.  When I finally found my way out of the woods and onto the road home, it was so dark, I couldn’t see to follow it. I kept wondering off into the ditch. At one point, I came upon some deer and startled them. They were all around, and winded loudly. I fell into a crouch. That pitch darkness was so frightening, it had taken me what felt like an eternity to get home that night.

Having the group to run with now, a well-marked trail and a light felt much more comfortable. It’s all relative, I reckoned.

I knew Elliott was going to be a tough climb, but I hadn’t expected it to be so enjoyable. It was still drizzling, but had also grown quite foggy. Since we were on the fire road and moving slowly, I shut off my lamp to conserve. I could see well enough by the faint light of those far ahead, and those not too far behind. The silhouettes of the runners above against their own halos of light in the fog were beautiful, and I focused on them as I moved steadily up the road. At the summit, the wind picked up, and it began to pour. We all dashed to the punch on the fire tower fence that proved we had summited, and rushed back down the road, seeking the tree cover of the North Mountain trail. The scree was as I remembered it from the summer training run, only this time wet with rain and heavy in leaves. I took my time on it, and was grateful for the shelter from the wind by the tree cover and mountainside.

I rolled into the Dry Branch aid station in plenty of time, but was dismayed to find they had run out of water. It was humid, and I had been sucking mine down without concern. Now I would have to conserve. Clearly I was not alone. There was such a large number of runners this year, I could only imagine how hard it was for the volunteers to keep up with the demands.

From here, I moved over Crawford mountain pretty steadily and rolled strong into the Dowell’s. Draft aid station.  The rain had long stopped and most of my clothing was dry now, but I decided to change out of my top layers to make certain I was dry to the skin. It was still warm, but I donned something with sleeves as I thought I might need them later as the night rolled in.

It stayed pleasant, and much of the sections were runnable in the next leg, so I made good time. Over Hankey mountain, on my way up to the Lookout aid station, I met up with my friend Diane. We ran to the station, and I woofed a couple quarters of grilled cheese, the first real food I took in since Friday afternoon. It tasted like the best food I had ever eaten in my life.

I was beginning to feel that wonderful buzz of running at night and was so grateful for the volunteers and their amazing food. Though there was plenty of buffer before the cut offs, I was trying hard not to waste any time at the stations, so rolled out soon with Diane and headed off to the North River Gap aid station where I knew I would spend more time changing and eating.  I was not looking forward to that rocky technical stretch on the Wild Oak trail just above North River, but it didn’t seem half as bad as I remembered. I think I was much more tired when on it last, a training run just a few weeks before, as then it had been much later in the night.

Diane was making much better time than me on the technical descents, and I soon lost sight of her. I was glad to see the tell tale bridge before the station and could soon hear the many voices in the distance. Rolling swiftly down the road, I took in the lights of North River Gap. It looked like a carnival. I was greeted by a friend and amazing runner, Jenny Nichols, who found my drop bag and helped me change socks and shoes. She took good care of me, stocked me up and sped me on my way, giving me explicit instructions go grab some food and eat it on the climb out of the station. I grabbed three quarters of a quesadilla  and woofed it as I climbed.

The climb up Little Bald is no joke. Over 7 miles or so. I took my time and paid attention to my heart beat. I was alone for a while, but passed a few people. Much of it is a blur. Then on one particularly steep section that spills out onto a road, I passed a man who called out with a complement of something to the effect of if I kept that pace I was going to do well. He said with authority the climb was a tough one. He asked my name.



“Daniele” I said.

“I’m Gary”

“Oh! Gary, of course!” I said. I knew Gary Knipling, or at least of him. Now in his 7th decade of life with 30 years of ultra running under his belt, he’s a bit of a local legend. We had never spoken before. He looked to be about 50 to me. He was climbing up onto the road and I was a few feet in front when I saw a runner come barreling down the road toward us.

“Runner!” I hollered back at Gary. It turned out to be Jeff Browning, the first runner, on his way back already. It was inspiring. I paused, turned and listened on as he and Gary chatted briefly. I noted the respect in Jeff’s tone, and thought about what it meant to be part of a community of such wonderful people.

I climbed alone for a while, passing and being passed by lots of friendly faces, some of whom I knew well and some whom I did not, I soon discovered I had forgotten to top off my water at North River Gap. Bad mistake. I rationed, and kept moving, now more conservatively. No water also meant no fuel, and psychologically, it was a big blow. I decided to concentrate on watching for signs of dawn. I sipped what water I had when parched enough to keep my tongue wet, and when completely out, eyed the dewy leaves on the forest floor. Well, in a pinch, I thought. I’ll be at the Little Bald station at some point.

Soon I could see the faintest traces of first light and my eyes welled. I remembered a fragment from a song I had written years and years ago. It became a mantra now, and I sang it in my head as I finished the climb up Little Bald.

The sky filled

brimming over with the endless light of dawn

and truth stretched to all horizons

as far as the eye could see

history burned in shimmering silence

as we forged in the rising sun

and all that remained was here and now

and in here and now we climbed

I don’t know how it came to be this way

something once lost to us had returned

but then life is best taken as mystery

and in living that mystery we learned

to climb out of the dust

and into the sky

out of the darkness

and into the light

out of our dreams

and into the living

out of the madness

blessed with second sight

At the top of Little Bald, I looked out from the west side of the mountain onto the blue edges of cloud cover over the trees. It was breathtaking. The birds woke up.

The trail spilled onto a road that passed through some meadows, and here I happened upon Gary again, this time, stopped and sipping orange juice.

“How you doing?” he asked.

“Ok,”  I said. “Been out of water for a couple of hours, so I’m anxious to get to the station.”

He handed me his OJ insisting I take several gulps as he still had water. It was too hard to turn it down. Words cannot describe the taste of that juice. I had died and gone to heaven. I thanked him profusely, and he said it was only 2 and a half miles to the station from there, and mostly down hill. I trotted along. He caught up. We walked/ran together for a while off and on after that.

Not long after, I came up on him again, and he generously fed me some of his sweet tea.  Geez, I thought. What a fine stash of magical elixirs he’s carrying. I need to learn how to pack better. I simply could not have been more grateful for his kindness.

I thought I caught sight of Diane up in the distance, and did my best to push the pace into the station. Sure enough, it was her and I called out. I restocked, refilled my water, drank a swig of soda and a lot of water, woofed a breakfast burrito and a few mini zucchini muffins. It was very tasty but afterward I felt like I’d eaten a bucket of cement. I knew I’d need it, and was most grateful, though.

Gary sat for a while at the station, and Diane and I rolled out together, on our way up to Reddish Knob, our last summit before the turnaround.  We continued to run together off and on, and split up again for a while.

Not long after, Gary caught up to me. We climbed up Reddish together, and tried hard to run as much of it as we could. I had trouble matching Gary’s pace. Luckily every runner we passed stopped to greet him. He really did know everyone, and I felt so honored to be in his company.

I had been to the top of Reddish before, but it had been so foggy then, I couldn’t see the view. Now it was absolutely breathtaking. Every direction, were rolling mountains covered in colorful foliage. The long clusters of cumulus above cast shadowy stripes on the earth below.

View from Reddish

View from Reddish

I tried too soak it all in, but knew I couldn’t stay long. I pulled out my phone, hoping to catch enough signal here to msg my husband to let him know I was still alive. I had one bar–enough to send a quick “almost halfway” “love you!” msg. and to snap a couple of shots of the mountains. Gary asked for my phone and quickly posed me along the guard rail.

Gary Knipling

Gary Knipling

“Put your arms up like this, ” he said. I obliged, then we switched, and quickly headed down, caught up with Diane, and headed for the Briary Branch turn around.


The three of us had a blast running together. We pushed hard, and I struggled to keep up with them on the descending road. I was having knee pain and it was holding me back.

Gary stopped off at the pacer pick up, and Diane and I headed up to the turn around. At the station, I topped off water, grabbed some tater tots, and ate them so quickly I got hiccups. We were passed by dirt bikers on some trail race through these sections, and there was a bit of dust in the air. But it made for a lively scene and we joked about sticking our thumbs out and hitching a ride.

Diane and I ran together for a while then, split, then fell back in together, then apart, and repeated the pattern. At Little Bald station again, she changed her shoes, and we grabbed some quesadillas. We searched the meadows for a flashlight she’d lost earlier, but no dice. We were soon descending Little Bald, and enjoying the spectacular views and scenery, and I tried hard to stay with her as she lead strongly down the technical descents.

I ate some mate-laced Pro Bar energy chews, and they gave me a serious kick: just what I needed to manage the descents. We barreled into the North River Gap station around 2:30PM, and I sat down to change my socks. I had a nasty blister on one heal that I was going to ignore, but a fellow doing foot work there noticed and offered to fix it for me. I agreed and he and Bob Gaylord soon had me taped up and promised it would stop smarting as soon as my feet hit the trail. He was right.

Diane and I saw Jack Anderson at the station, and soon after he joined us on the trail. I was still bumped up from the energy chews, and felt so energetic on the flat stretches of road on the meadows up toward Lookout Mountain that I ran some sprints. Diane looked at me like I was crazy, but the stretch felt so good, I convinced her to give it a try.
We made really good time into Lookout, stopped briefly to eat some pancakes, but didn’t stay long.  With the passing of every station we accrued more and more time.

Diane lead the charge into Dowell’s and the three of us ran strong into the station. Once there, I realized I had another bad blister on the other heal, and  needed to have it fixed. This time was not so pleasant as it was large and very sore. I shouted and cursed like a sailor, feeling wimpy but grateful for the loving attention of Bob and Mary and the gang. Dunno what I would have done without those guys. They really saved my feet and my spirits!

It had still been light as we rolled into Dowell’s but night was coming on fast, and we knew the forecast was for cold and wind. I was still feeling warm from the run, and didn’t want to overlayer, so pondered my choices carefully. I grabbed a fleece vest and a pair of gloves. I should have added more layers.

Diane had rolled out because she was getting cold, and Jack who still had more blister work to be done, said he would catch up, so I started out alone. Sleep deprivation hit me fast and hard then. I wound through the valley following the trail markers, missing the company I’d lost so recently. It seemed eons ago. Things became very surreal and I lost all sense of linear time. I looked for familiar spots on the course, but it all looked new. The beginning of the race seemed like so long ago, and I had trouble differentiating it from summertime training runs. I heard sounds and voices, but couldn’t quite tell if they were real or imagined. Stumps and leaves began to appear as other things. I kept telling myself to just keep moving and to focus on the trail streamers.

As I began the slow climb up Crawford, the temperature dropped dramatically and the wind picked up. I put my windbreaker hood up and pulled my bandana over my face. On the trail ahead, I could just make out some lights. It turned out to be Diane!  I was never more happy to see her. We plodded along together then, and a couple soon passed us looking energetic and warm. It was a little deflating. I had to make a pit stop, and when I caught up, it turned out to be the couple trying hard to put up their hoods in the howling wind. I stopped to see if I could help, but they said they were fine. I could see Diane in the distance, so I made my way back toward her.  The wind was cutting right through my clothes and I began to feel sick with the cold.

We plodded on in silence. Much of the way was too technical to travel with any speed, and we were very cold. I lost all sense of place and direction, but just kept following Diane and the trail, looking for markers and anything that looked familiar. Diane was looking for the tell tale switchback to give some sense that we were nearing the top of Crawford. It took forever, but finally there it was. I cheered, trying to keep the mood up.  The wind was so terrible, all I could do was hope that there would be a little more shelter later on the North Mtn. trail.

The flatter, grassy stretches up top were better. We walked and trotted intermittently. But the descents that followed were loose dirt and steep. And endless it seemed. I remembered going down these so fast the two summers before, but now my knee was on fire and it was all I could do to protect it. I gritted my teeth and picked carefully down.

Suddenly we were at Dry Branch. I looked for something warm. Anything. They had chicken noodle soup. I don’t normally eat chicken, but gave it a shot. It was very salty, but it tasted fine, and I was soo grateful. My stomach was not doing so well, and I wasn’t sure if this would help or hinder. By now, I was just so anxious to keep moving. We still had Elliott, and I didn’t know if I could even manage that North Mtn. trail, I was so cold. But I couldn’t stop at mile 88.

We pressed on. The only sections of the North Mtn trail I could remember then were the loose scree and the mud from the springs on the wind sheltered section near the road. So in my head,  I focused on mud and scree.  I never thought I would be so anxious to reach that rough section, but I simply had no sense of place or progress. We passed a lot of people. Everyone looked like zombies to me, they were picking along so slowly over the rocks. Diane was as well. She was getting tripped up now, and slowed to a stop several times. I offered to take the lead. I moved in front, and we pressed through a group of people. A woman commented on how fast I was taking it, but I was definitely moving at a crawl. Sounding a little desperate, she asked if I knew how far until the road. I told her not far, but that it it will seem farther than it is.

“Just look for big patches of soft mud. You’ll know then that the road is coming up soon,” I said. She thanked me graciously for this. I thought about how just having something to watch for that gives you a sense of place and progress makes so much difference, even if you have far to go.

We passed more people still, and it felt good to be traveling with a bigger group. We made it to the side of the mountain that was more sheltered from the wind, and this gave me a sense of where we were. I watched for that mud from the springs. Soon after, I saw the road, and yelled back to the group.

There were a couple of guys sitting on the road just resting and taking in the stars. They were so bright here. I looked up at Orion and the Pleiades.  It felt warmer without the wind, and I would have liked to have lingered longer, but my stomach was really bad. I knew I had to keep moving.

We started the descent down the Elliott fire road, and met up with Enrique Rubio and his pacer. He’d locked up his IT band on the Little Bald descent and couldn’t bend his knee. I couldn’t believe how far he’d come with just his pacer to lean on and a big stick for a crutch. Some 40 miles! Such strength, determination and positivity, he showed. My heart went out to him. I wanted to say so and wish him well, but just then became very sick.  I moved over to the side of the road and fell into dry heaves. I tried hard to puke, but there was nothing in my stomach.

I could hear Diane offering Enrique the use of her poles. I did my best to finish heaving, but it seemed to take forever. She stayed with me, and finally I felt better, and we all continued the slow descent down Elliott. I promised myself before the race that if possible, I would run at least part of that descent. Though it seemed impossible now, I gave it a shot. I trotted a bit. Not so bad, and started and stopped again, but soon gave it up completely for the knee. After an eternity, it was over and desperate to make time, I lead the way on the winding little trail toward Falls Hollow. I could remember very little of it, and felt annoyed at that. I asked Diane what to watch for. She seemed to remember every last detail and told me we’d cross a creek and then hit the road. Sure enough, soon we were at the rocky creek bed where we met a runner just standing in the creek bed looking confused. He seemed to have lost the trail. I sympathized. In this state of mind, it was extremely hard to find the way and to stay focused. Diane showed him the way, and we moved on down the road.

I was so cold now, all I could think about was the hot shower I’d get later. I was worried about hypothermia. There were still about 7 or 8 miles to go, but I felt like we were almost finished. I tried to stay warm. I breathed into my bandana and concentrated on the warmth of my breath. Now I recognized the course again from two summers before. It went fast and soon we were at Falls Hollow. There was a huge crowd of people there this time. Diane stopped for food, but my stomach would not have it, and all I could think about was warmth. I held my hands up to a Coleman lantern. Benski Hawkins was there, and offered me one of her layers, cautiously, explaining she’d once given away clothing at that aid station never to see it again. I took her vest promising, I’d return it asap.

Diane wasn’t ready to go, but I had to move. She told me to run on, so I moved onward. There was a good climb, and I pressed up it fast, but sadly it did little to warm me. I tried compartmentalizing the cold. I visualized it compressed in a small container while I remained outside of it. I thought about the Buddhist monks who could control their body temperature, and tried to will myself warmer.

I was alone on the last 5 miles now. There seemed to be runners everywhere, but I felt a sense of isolation. I was on a road that went up a hill, and joined another at the top. I watched the runners moving along the top, their lights bobbing slowly, along with their reflective tags. Here I saw a strange pattern of movement, and realized it must be Enrique leaning into his pacer, his lifted foot reflecting back just above the others. I felt such a sense of joy that he was going to finish. It lit a fire under me and I forged ahead.

Soon I was navigating some really rocky trail again, and I passed a few people only to have to make a pit stop. Just after, Diane caught up with me. It was so great to see her!  I was so anxious to finish now, and we could do it together! She had done trail work around the camp so she had a great sense of where we were and where to go, and she set a good pace. I did my best to keep up, and once we got moving I started to feel better. Soon we were around the showers, and headed toward the dam!  I checked the time, and realized that if we pressed a bit, we could roll in before 34 hours so she could beat her 100-mile PR.

I asked if she wanted to try to run once we got on the dam. She said she would try. We made the tricky climb to the top of the dam, and then trotted, then ran. I lost her somewhere along the road, and stopped and waited. When I saw she was running, I kept going. I followed the streamers, and sprinted up the finish, high-fiving, then half hugging Clark, almost missing to cross the chip line. A smiling woman handed me my buckle and tech shirt, and I stared at it in disbelief as Diane was coming up. I remember saying ” That was fun! I can’t believe it,” and Clark laughing and reminding me to go hug the totem pole. Diane and I took pics of each other hugging the pole, and then my phone, as if on cue, promptly died.


Diane Behm


I wanted to stay and watch as others came in, but the cold was taking a serious toll, so I trotted to my tent and quickly changed into some layers, grabbed my bag and made the quarter mile walk to the showers. I stayed in the warm water as long as I could. It helped but the effects didn’t last. I dried and dressed, and made my way back to the finish. But it was too cold for me to stick around. I wanted to call my husband, but didn’t want to have to wait outside any longer for the phone to charge, and decided I’d try and sleep for an hour, then recharge and call. I was so cold in the tent, even in my sleeping bag and layers, I wasn’t sure what to do. I contemplated finding someone there with a car to let me sit in it for a while. I dreamed maybe my husband would show up, or that dawn would come soon. I shook with cold and nearly cried.

Then I heard the tent zipper, and someone grabbed my foot. I looked up to see my husband, several giant bouquets of flowers in his hand, looking concerned.

“Are you ok? Did you finish?”

“Yes,” I said grinning and grabbing him. We laughed and hugged and clung for warmth.

I’d never been so happy. In my delirium, it was as if I had dreamed him into being there.

He’d driven through the night with plans to fill my tent full of flowers. But I came in 3 hours earlier than I’d expected. He was a little disappointed I’d beaten him and ruined his surprise, but from my perspective, his timing couldn’t have been more perfect.


On what feeds the spirit: on running the C&O 100…


or 101.7? or 105? buckle

The race info claimed the distance to be 101.7, but on race day, Garmins were recording longer distances, and at the finish, the RD said the distance was close to 105.
One thing is for certain: in the end, at least for me, the actual distance didn’t really matter. It is as they say, all about the journey.

By the end of 2012, I had learned to apply one of life’s most important lessons: that in any endeavor, friends–in this case especially of the ultra running variety–are essential. Somehow, they found me. And so it came to be that I started running less often by myself, and more often with these good friends–some of them seasoned toughies. They are jewels–crazy diamonds. They are family. Like good friends do, they inspire by example, and they encourage. They, um, convinced me that I should try for this distance. Always keen on a new adventure, it seemed a realistic bet. A starter “100.” Nice’n flat. Virtually no technical trail. Close to home on a surface my feet already knew. 3 months to train. I had only to sign up, run long, plan, and work up the nerve.

Our start/finish line was a conveniently positioned rotted log on the edge of a field near a pavilion on a hillside in a camp called Manadokin, several feet above the Potomac river, just north of Harper’s Ferry, WV.
From here, we bounded down over the hill, switchbacking through the woods on a newly laid path to the river. The last portion of this was a gully so vertical it required the aid of a rope to get back up, but over-all the whole decent to the river was short, and took about 10 minutes to traverse. (Going back up was a different story, and we did that at the half way point as well as the finish.) From there, it was tow path. Tow path. Tow path. Tow path ad infinitum, it seemed at times. But we knew what to expect in that regard.

The rain held off, and the weather was good, around 40F at the start and climbing to around 70 Saturday afternoon, then dropping back down into the 40s again at night.
It is a newly organized race, and knowing that that meant a crap shoot when it comes to aid, I packed all but the kitchen sink in my drop bags, and carried half a gallon of water, 1300 calories, electrolytes and first aid on my back at all times. This proved a wise move. Though the stations proved well-stocked, and the volunteers stellar in their enthusiasm and helpfulness, there were some long stretches between aid stations, including one particularly long stretch where an only partially manned station ran out of water when the sun was at apogee and the temps were at there highest. This proved problematic for some runners, but was a short-lived problem, and many volunteers quickly rushed to man the station, and by the second quarter of the race, had found it a better location, and restocked it well.

I knew but one other person racing, my friend Tom, and he was too speedy for me to run with, so I had figured I was in for running most of the race alone. Typically I race alone, but for this distance, I thought some company might be a benefit, and hoped to maybe find a pacer later on or at least make some friends along the way.
At first I ran with a group in tight formation. We joked and talked about the course, shared names and tidbits of our lives and race experiences. Many of the names escape me now, but there was a Jim and a Paul and John, and a couple of Marys later on.
Then we fractioned, falling into smaller groups organized by pace, and I ran mostly with John, who turned out to be a neighbor–living but 3 miles away from me and right along one of my regular running routes. He and his wife, like my husband and me, are musicians and we had a lot to talk about. We quickly made friends and wound up running together for around 60 miles.

John and Dani arrive at Brunswick aid station at mile 40. Photo by Jim Roche

John and Dani arrive at Brunswick aid station at mile 40. Photo by Jim Roche

It was like a party at times, with the fractioned groups falling in together then drifting apart again, passing each other, and we all had a fine time catching up as we went along.

At the half way, I climbed the hill to the camp where we started, with plans to change clothes, eat, and call my husband. I was making good time, and arrived earlier than I expected. As I climbed the final portion of the hill, I saw Tammy, an amazing runner I knew from the Reston Runners club, and from the JFK. She was there to pace a friend, and to log in some miles in her training for Badwater.
And then another surprise, my dear, dear husband showed up with hugs and kisses and a jeep full of good food. He arrived almost exactly when I did, his timing perfect as usual. He helped me change clothes, and fed me well. I would have never thought I could be lured out of a race, but I was so overjoyed to see him, I wanted to stay. He kindly refused to take me with him, and sent me back out to finish.

From the half, John and I continued to run together for a while, but as night was coming on, he was having stomach issues, and not feeling so hot. And being a night runner, I was just getting a second wind.
Around that time, mile 60+ something, at an aid station, Tammy showed up, offering pacing services to anybody as her friend had had to drop out, so from there, I ran with Tammy. An experienced pacer and seasoned ultra runner, she was extremely accommodating, and soon had me in stitches with crazy tales of the trail. The last 40-some miles are a bit of a blur. I ran strong at first, but my walk breaks grew longer and longer. The temperature dropped rapidly after midnight, and my good pacer made certain I donned more layers, changed my shoes and ate enough calories. My stomach grew squeamish, and I stuck mostly to gels and water, occasionally choking down some fresh fruit or a quarter pbj.
The trail was dark despite the moon, and would have been desolate for long stretches had Tammy not been there. At one point, we saw the headless body of a rabbit, freshly killed, on the trail, and pondered what had eaten it. Then we made jokes and stories about it for miles.
She kept with some silly bathroom stories to keep me focused, light-hearted and smiling. She played a trick on an old running friend at an aid station to conjure laughs from the volunteers.
At mile 90ish, I called my husband with an eta. It was a rough time. There were runners at the aid station who didn’t look like they would carry on. It was cold, and I was feeling it now. One of my gloves had gone missing from my drop bag, and my other pair were over 10 miles back. Tammy gave me hers.
We pressed on, and she told me about many of the things she had learned from the 13 100-milers she had under her belt, about what it takes to be a good pacer or a good aid station volunteer, about training for Badwater and running Western States, about being stocked by a cougar on a training run, and about her mountaineering husband falling off a mountain. The miles ticked off. The night grew colder. Dawn came. I watched it grow lighter until I could take off my head lamp. I hallucinated, seeing furniture and statues in the forest. Once a log became a bronze ram, beautiful and shining. My mind drifted.

“…Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: – Do I wake or sleep?”
— “Ode to a Nightingale”
John Keats
I laughed at myself, and ate another gel.

When we rounded the bend into Harper’s Ferry, you could see the road, and just then my husband drove by. He saw us, and waved, pulled off up ahead, and ran down the trail. I still had miles to go, but it was so good to see him. We stopped for a picture, and he left to drive a few minutes to the finish, while Tammy and I would still be running–mostly walking by then as my blisters2blister1left foot had blistered up pretty badly–to the finish.

Tammy planned to take me as far as the hill, but she refused to climb it. She’d run Western States, but refused this hill? I laughed. We made jokes about the 100-miler plus tough mudder hill challenge at the end. She would instead, run back to the last aid station to pace another runner in to the end. It made for a good 50 miles worth of pacing duties. I was so grateful for her help, I didn’t know how to properly thank her. She said she usually has people do her laundry. In a final gut-busting laugh, I raced up the hill to be greeted by the RD, buckle in hand, smiling finishers and volunteers, my friend Tom’s family, and my beaming husband.


After enlightenment, the laundry.
–Zen proverb

According to the race recap, 101 had registered to run and 90 toed the line at the start. 49 made it to the finish line. It took me 25 hours and 24 minutes. (I had estimated it would take me somewhere between 23 and 26 hours, but I was aiming for 101.7 miles.) I came in 18th over-all, and 6th for the women. My friend Tom took 4th place.

North Face, PRs, DNFs, and looking forward


The hard knocks and growing pains of a poor running year; it brings to mind for me, somewhat melodramatically, the cold, unforgiving north face of K2.

Ah, I looked back at 2010,  what a great running year!  In the Spring I PRd at Boston, and by Fall ran two 50-milers two weeks a part, one of them my fastest 50 ever, and all year ran fast and strong.  When the new year rolled around, I was ready to tackle 2011 with a renewed confidence. But 2011 proved a rather rough running year. I trained diligently, but noticed little gains other than a little weight, and instead felt the drag of constant fatigue. I raced, but not so well as the year before, ran some enjoyable races:  a mountainous 50k early in the year, another Boston, but this year more slowly, 36 miles of a 200-mile relay, and a slow all-night 50 miler in the summer. Everything seemed just a bit less energized than in 2010, and then in November, I even experienced my first DNF.  The race, a mountainous 50-miler, started alright, but I was feeling seriously low on energy, and was barely making the cutoffs. I had to make a critical decision to pull out half way, rather than continue lest something be really wrong, and I’d end up stuck for a long time in the mountains or worse. I made the best of it. Even inwardly applauded my courage at hanging it up for safety. I met other runners–some plenty more seasoned than myself–who just weren’t having a good race day either. We swapped stories, went to the finish and saw the winners come in. Outwardly, I was feeling alright about it. DNF is par for the course when the number of races goes up,  especially long distances, but part of me was still having trouble dealing with it. That night, I cried myself to sleep.

I wanted to write about it, but every time I tried, I couldn’t muster the courage. I felt so much shame around it. Though I knew it was  unrealistic, even childish, and something I needed to get over, I faltered.  I tried to look at the bigger picture, reminded myself not everyone is able to run, let alone run in the mountains, and I would even get to do that another day. Running is such a lovely gift. DNF teaches that it should never be taken for granted. I assessed the year: there were good experiences that year, for sure, delightful new races and adventures, and the trying experience of running and acclimating during the summer heat wave. I tried to put a positive spin on it all, but the over-all assessment showed me falling short in nearly all my efforts.  Fortunately, in the Fall, I studied intensively and received my RRCA coaching certification. The experience was invaluable. I was able to nail down a number of  patterns in my training that might likely have soured my year, and it enabled me to help others to a degree I could not have before. One of the very best parts of running for me is being able to share the joy of it. I can’t help but get excited when I find out a friend has taken it up, or someone I know decides to run a marathon. Heck, in such instances, I can hardly contain myself. I must drive everybody crazy with enthusiasm.  So more knowledge and confidence to help others was a major victory for the year.

But I still felt the DNF like a black eye.

“Did Nothing Fatal” some call it.

I bathed it in positivity.

D-ownright N-othing less than F-abulous, I dubbed it.

“DNF is par for the course in any ultra runner’s history,” I once wrote  before I had ever experienced it, and now reminded myself, “because so many things have to come together to make a race that distance possible. Weather conditions and your health being the biggest, but also even tiny things can blow a race when you are going long: a blister can become a disturbing mess, a small sprain can become a major injury. Even a little chafing over a long enough period of time can take you out of a race, or at least reduce the experience to misery.  When longer periods of time are involved, even tiny impedances wear like water on stone.”

To make the matter worse, my attempts to write about it proved more sorry than the actual DNF. I started, but never finished:

“I attempted my second MMTR on Saturday, and had some elusive low energy issues–was moving far too slowly and had no energy, though I was fueling well from what I could gather.  I ended up dropping out of the race half way through and got my first DNF. I made all of the cut–off times and could have continued through the second half of the race, but knew I would be slower and not make the final cut off time, and worried something might be seriously wrong, so I made a hard decision to drop. I went through some strong negative emotions, shame, disappointment, and sadness, But it was a valuable experience–in fact I may have learned more from this race than any other so far. It was a good lesson that even if things don’t go as well as you had hoped or as you had planned, there is still so much to learn and positive things to experience. I made some new friends, got the perspective of others who had to drop out for various reasons–some of them far more seasoned and wise, and got to go to the finish early and congratulate the elites as they came in.  And I still got a long run in the beautiful mountains and came out of it without injury.
I hope you never have to drop out of a race, but if sometime you do, please remember there is no shame in it. You will go on to race another day. Just thought I would share this as a reminder that there is a gift in every running experience–sometimes especially the failures. ”

Afterward, though I believed what I had written, I realized my heart wasn’t fully in it. How could I tell others there is no shame in it when I still felt ashamed?  I decided to wait. I simply had to get over the ill emotions first. That took longer than I expected. December is a rest month for me, and I didn’t race again until March. And then I ran a miserable marathon–managing to get sick with a virus and finish more slowly than I had ever raced in my life. But for some reason, I was able laugh this one off. In the process of overcoming the DNF, I had  been trying to remind myself that running really had never been about racing for me. Racing was a new activity. I had run long before I had ever raced. And I could enjoy running without ever racing again. Maybe.

Then, jeez, what was I smoking???  I chased the thought with an announcement of a racing plan for 2012 to top all previous years, doubling up on 50 milers, securing my first 100, setting myself on a fast-track toward a big dream race like UTMB in a few years. And then I ran the horrible marathon. Right after my DNF. And then the April 50-miler I had signed up for and on which I was wait listed, turned out to be a no-go. I was the last one to be bumped up from the wait list. It didn’t happen. Then the 100 miler filled up early. All of my newly laid plans came crashing around my ears. Apparently I had not learned the DNF lesson well enough. Mamma said their’d be running years like this.  I was beginning to think I would never race again. But I had signed up for the North Face Endurance Challenge 50 miler in June. Should I run it? Maybe I should quit racing for a while. I’m no elite. Why do I care? Weather was looking rough. Might be 90 degrees. Ouch. Oh, what the hell.  The year already looked shot. I really needed a good race. I might as well give it a go. The pre-race anxiety grew to a fever pitch. Another DNF would not be good. I decided to go slowly, and just run to finish. And ah, it was so good to be racing again! The race turned out to be a beautiful gift. Heavy storms the night before made the weather lovely, but the course a serious mud bath. I slipped and slid through the muddy places, played on the short hills and loops, scrambling up, slaloming down, passing along my perma-grin to oncoming runners, and for not rushing, managed to finish 9th in my age group. (I usually manage the top third.) Not great, but not terrible. I made some new friends, and saw some old ones. It  brought back my confidence, and I was reminded of the most important reason to do it. Races are fun.  Still, I learned that for now,  the primary reason I race is not for fun. Part of me has to do it. Something down deep is struggling to make itself known, and racing is helping it surface. DNF shame really had to do with something other than the race I didn’t finish. This eventual realization was the gift of the DNF.  I still need badly to develop a sense of self worth. And though racing helps, it is the means, not the end; a surrogate for something more substantial: a practice that is more fulfilling and real that serves others that I have yet to find. I dream of starting a race in the third world. Somewhere where it will have a lot of impact to help transform individual lives and shape developing nations. For now, I will learn to coach. I will learn from the RDs I know. Perhaps one day I will realize these dreams. Perhaps others will take their place.

Running is a tremendous vehicle, especially for self realization. Most often it is all about the journey. But I hope that if I stick it out for long enough, I will get to where I am going.