This year the process of managing the JFK details became a swirl of chatter in my head as I struggled to maintain my own motivation for the event. I had been battling a neuroma pain since February, and was frustrated by my own inability to train comfortably for the event. I was relegated to running no more than twice a week, with top mileage of 25 miles one week in September. In October, 2 days before the Baltimore Marathon, I twisted my ankle on my morning run. I ran a painful Baltimore through neuroma and ankle pain, and seriously questioned the wisdom of running the JFK.
Wisdom aside, I really had no choice but to run it, and finish it. I had completed the previous 7 events and had only 3 to go before I could be included in the "Streakers" section of the official JFK handbook. Runners have an interesting logic, one rarely understood by family or coworkers.
By November 23, my ankle was mostly healed, my cortisone injection was working miracles, and I felt ready to go for JFK #8. I slept well the night before, having worked through most of my JFK anxieties in the '90s. Race day I felt strong, healthy and experienced. Usually I like to include words like "prepared" and "fit" to that race-day list, but I knew enough to be satisfied with being able to line up with my team mates at the start.
I began the day in my usual conservative manner- walking up slight inclines and jogging down little hills. Midway up the 2 mile climb to the Appalachian trail I noticed there were only a handful of runners behind me- a surprising discovery since I'm usually running somewhere in the middle of the pack. KC Guevara and I decided it was because all the back-of-the-packers had started at 5am. Yeah, that was it. By the time we veered off the road toward the trail, the blinking lights of the sweeper police car were blinding me, and I waved a thanks to the officer, indicating that he'd finished his work. All the runners were off his road.
Approaching the Appalachian trail, I knew I could make up some time. Rocks, roots and leaves were my forté, and "Passing on your left!" was my calling card. I pranced on to the AT- but two steps later found myself hopping on one foot, squinching my face and grabbing my leg. I'd done it again- I'd crunched that ankle. Being a connoisseur of sorts of ankle injuries, I felt I might be able to walk this one off, and resume my mountain-goat antics down the trail a bit. I tried to walk, but the ankle talked back, "You fool! What makes you think you're so special? I gave you Baltimore, you give me JFK!" I refused to even engage in such a banter and hobbled down the trail, wincing with each step. After a few minutes I felt I'd given it enough time, and tried a light jog. "Hah! Not so fast, chickie!" the ankle chuckled, and I resorted to my impatient walk.
After 4-5 miles I discovered I could jog if the trail was rock-free and not tilted down hill. I could feel my ankle swelling, but had no interest in peeking at it for fear of hearing even more back-talk. KC stuck with me, claiming it was "a good pace for her" (they always say that before they leave you) and her company was wonderful. By the time we reached Cramptons Gap at mile 9 our crew was visibly worried. My 15 year old son Stephen, and KC's fiancé Jason cheered loudly, clearly relieved to see us. "What happened? We thought maybe we'd missed you!" were their words of comfort. They fed us and filled our water bottles. I asked if anyone had an ankle brace and my dear friend Harry replied, "What color?" Delighted, I said, "Any color!" and he said- Oh, no, sorry. Don't have one. I do love Harry, who has supported me through countless marathons and ultramarathons, but at that moment I was quite ready to trade him in for a real friend.
We continued down the road, re-hydrated and well-fed with potatoes and oranges. Only 7 more miles, I told myself. And then I'd be off that mountain. I endured the next 2 hours over rocks and roots with growing frustration. My right ankle hurt too much to be able to jog on the rocks, and I kept twisting my left ankle when I attempted to hop off the rocks. I hobbled through the trail at my snail's pace, wondering for the first time in my JFK history, if I would have trouble making the time cut-off.
By the time we made it to Weaverton, mile 16, I was the happiest I'd been all day. I was OFF that awful mountain, and my ankle was able to let me jog on the flat road section up to the crew stop. At Weaverton I took at cup of soup from Ellen, sat on a chair, and had Karen tape a budding blister on my foot. Stephen fed me clementines and potatoes, informed me of the whereabouts of all my friends, and told me he'd see me in a couple miles. A few hugs from cheering crew, a kiss from my Stephen, and KC and I were on our way.
The C&O was a blessed change for me, and I felt ready to face the 26 miles ahead. KC and I began visiting more- I learned of her life plans and life questions. We commiserated about husbands (fiancé's count) and encouraged each other when we felt tired.
Stephen and Jason managed to find every possible access to the trail, and met us every 2-3 miles. They hauled our bags to the trail, peeled our clementines, salted our potatoes and refilled our water bottles. "Mom, you're going to need to pick up the pace a little. You're going 14 minute miles and you really need to be doing 12 minute miles if you're going to make the next time cut off. Think catching people." The only people I was catching at that point were the kids walking backward on the trail with their cub scout troops.
After a while, when we were obviously going too slowly, Stephen would run backward on the trail to find us, and run back to the aid station with me. His story was always the same, "Al is only 15 minutes ahead of you. You can catch him if you pick up the pace a little." By about mile 27, KC began to pull ahead of me and I began to shuffle even slower. My ankle was becoming more and more immobile with each step, and I could feel every muscle in my legs starting to freeze up.
By mile 38, I was toast. Runners were passing me by the droves, and Stephen was running more and more with me. I no longer stopped at the aid stations- Stephen jogged alongside me with food and drink, feeding and watering me as we traveled along. "Mom, I don't think you're drinking enough. Don't you want a little more? How about some soup?" I didn't feel much like a mom at that point, and I most certainly did not feel like a runner.
As the sun began to set and my muscles lost all elasticity. I finally made it off the Canal and on to the last 8 miles of road, happily donning my reflective vest as I trudged up the first hill. The only runners I saw were those who were passing me at a walk as I shuffled stiff-legged down the street.
Squinting in the dusk, I saw two familiar figures running toward me- it was Stephen and my older son, Jesse! They had both ditched their drivers and jogged back to find me barely mobile and a tad bit discouraged at mile 43. Just then, things started looking up- I was not only a mere 7 miles from the finish, but I had my own two body guards flanking me, keeping me entertained and encouraged. I knew it would be a full 2 hours before I reached the finish, but I also knew I would reach it.
And those boys dragged me in. They hopped and cheered at the mile markers. They ran backwards and tried to get me to catch them (not a chance) and they jogged holding my hands trying to get me to speed up (no chance). They ran ahead to get me my cup of water or soup, and they kept up an uncharacteristic chatter for two teenage boys. They told endless stories about their day, and about the other runners they saw. They beamed when they spoke of having breakfast with the other crew at the church or when they described sneaking into the secret aid stations. Stephen was excited that he'd run over 15 miles that day- a full 12 miles longer than he'd ever run before. They were like Labrador puppies: an unending source of youthful energy and entertainment. They were just what the doctor ordered.
Crossing the finish line in between my two boys was an indescribable joy. It was the hardest JFK I'd endured, by far, and the sweetest 7 miles of pain I'd ever known. Most of the Reston Runners had finished, showered, eaten, and gotten home by the time I finished in 11 hours and 45 minutes (a hefty 15 minutes before the time cut-off), but I couldn't have been prouder of my victory, our victory.
Once home, finally able to ice my swollen and purple ankle, I wondered what would ever cause someone to do such a thing. These ultramarathons are time consuming, costly, they hurt during and after, and recovery can be a long and uncertain process. Moreover, I wondered, why would so many Reston Runners get sucked into this awful event.
But then, at breakfast the next day, I remembered. We do this because we are doing it together. Runners bond with other runners as they sail or suffer through their race. Crew and runners work in tandem for a successful outcome, and any event in which we share in each other's success and struggle creates a connection that is difficult to replicate.
My ankle has since returned to its former shape and color, and the memories of jagged mountains and excruciatingly slow miles have faded. But the fellowship of the many runners and crew who were a part of my day has become a part of my JFK experience, and the reason I will return again next year. And thank you Stephen and Jesse. You may be frustrating and bull headed at times, but you sure do know how to take care of your mother when she needs you.