Admittedly, running fifty miles seems a peculiar compulsion by any stretch of the imagination. And yet, there I found myself, piloting my (sort of) trusty Saab to Hagerstown, Maryland along with my good friends and "crew" for the event, Melissa Sarchett and Jessica Swanson. It was Friday, November 21, 2008 - the day before the 46th Annual JFK Memorial 50 Mile run from Boonsboro to Williamsport, Maryland. As we made our way north, through the bustling, late afternoon traffic of Washington D.C. and into the bucolic, rolling hills of Western Maryland, I felt an odd mix of excitement and creeping dread as I thought about what the next day would bring. The dashboard temperature indicator had plunged with a Dow Jones-like rapidity as the day wore on, and stood in the low thirties when we pulled into the parking lot of the Sheraton Hotel in Hagerstown, where the small expo and package pickup for the JFK were being held. Snow loomed in the gathering dreariness of a thick cloud cover and as we exited the car and made our way into the hotel, a brisk wind took delight blowing up through untucked shirts and down through loose collars, exposing previously warm torsos to the chill, late autumn temperatures. The next day - race day - was forecast to be even colder.
The "expo" was a low-key affair. I picked up my number and t-shirt, quickly perused the half-dozen or so vendors set up in the hotel ballroom and we were back in the car and headed for our hotel across town. By the time we arrived the snow had begun, and though it didn't stick or come down for long, I was transfixed, as only a snow-deprived Southerner could be by the softly descending flakes. I found myself wanting to run around the hotel parking lot like some deranged sanitarium escapee trying to catch snow on my tongue. Knowing that Melissa and Jess were native Midwesterners, had seen more snow than they cared to recall and would no doubt disavow any association with me if I were to do this, I suppressed the urge.
We hastily unpacked in the room, located a locally-owned Italian restaurant on-line (Melissa refused to eat at Fazoli's, which was right next door - much to her credit), and made reservations for later that evening. It would be the traditional pre-run spaghetti dinner for me, thank you very much. On the way to the restaurant we stopped off at a grocery store to gather provisions for the next day's event. We spent thirty minutes patrolling the aisles, loading the cart with enough food to likely feed the entire field of 2,000 runners. We bought a loaf of bread, peanut butter and jelly, pre-made egg salad and tuna salad sandwiches, blueberry pie, cheese, crackers, apples, bananas, peanuts, Little Debbies - yes, Little Debbies. Ultra runners have often been called the "bottom feeders" of the athletic world for the hap hazard and frenetic way in which they ingest calories. "Ultra marathon man" Dean Karnazes has famously eaten pizzas and cheesecakes on his all-night runs and to my way of thinking that is probably the only sane reason to run such a distance. I intended to take full advantage of this opportunity to eat whatever the heck I felt like eating - and lots of it. Knowing that Melissa and Jess would be colder than I would the next day, they purchased a blanket as well.
We loaded it all into the car and headed to the Italian place. Here, we ordered massive plates of pasta and combed over the Reston Runner's JFK participant's guide. The Reston Runners is a running group based out of Reston, Maryland which yearly supports a number of their members running this race. They have a tremendously helpful website and a link therein to all things JFK. On the link there are easy to follow, turn by turn directions from the start in Boonsboro to the finish in Williamsport, with all stops in between. Luckily I stumbled onto this little gem during my obsessive and months-long internet search for anything related to this 50 mile run and ultra-marathoning in general. The directions on the Reston Runners site probably saved the day for Melissa and Jess as there was little to no useful information regarding navigation on the official JFK website. I honestly don't know how any crew member could have found their way from point to point without this information, so I was very thankful to have discovered it. And so, over red wine for the ladies and a German pilsner for me, (between the spaghetti and German beer, my meal took on a distinctive Axis Powers theme - a small portion of nigiri would have completed it well), we plotted our race day strategy for when and where along the route they would meet me to provide food, Gatorade and water and extra/dry clothes. Beyond that, we decided which segments each of them would run with me for purposes of pacing and morale.
We finished dinner and made our way back to the hotel where we unloaded groceries and made last minute preparations for the big day. We were asleep by 11 with a 5:00 am wake-up waiting for us the next morning. *****
The John F. Kennedy 50 Mile run was first held in the spring of 1963 as part of then President Kennedy's efforts to emphasize physical fitness, especially within the armed forces community. It was one of many such events held across the country that year. From the official JFK website, the following information sheds light on the original spirit of the event: When Kennedy was assassinated in November of 1963, most of these events were never held again. The one here in Washington County, MD changed it's name from the JFK 50 Mile Challenge to the JFK 50 Mile Memorial in 1964. The JFK 50 Mile in Washington County, MD is the only original JFK 50 Mile Challenge event to be held every year for the last 45 years. Although open to the public, the JFK 50 Mile is in spirit a military race. It always has been and always will be. In 1963, the initial inspiration behind the event came from then President John F. Kennedy challenging his military officers to meet the requirements that Teddy Roosevelt had set for his own military officers at the dawn of the 20th Century. That Roosevelt requirement was for all military officers to be able to cover 50 miles on foot in 20 hours to maintain their commissions. When word got out about the "Kennedy Challenge", non-commissioned military personnel also wanted to take the test themselves as did certain robust members of the civilian population. - JFK50Mile.org
I initially read about this run in an early spring Runner's World issue which explored the eccentric world of ultra marathons. JFK was one of the runs highlighted in that article and it immediately caught my attention, both due to its proximity to my home in South Carolina and because of its historical context. I was also intrigued by the route, with the first 16 miles or so taking place on the Appalachian Trail, followed by 26 miles on the historic C&O Towpath and the final eight miles on rolling, Western Maryland blacktop. I liked the thought of running a 50 miler in three distinct segments - it made this Herculean task seem somehow more doable and interesting than simply running 50 miles on flat, mind-numbing, unchanging terrain.
Thinking that this sounded "neat" and possessing little in the way clear judgment, I began formulating plans to do it. Registration did not begin until July 1st, so I had plenty of time to put together a training regimen and to begin floating the idea to friends and family who accepted the news with a mixture of excitement (Melissa and other "running" friends) and blank stares (most everybody else). I always found the responses of the non-runners particularly amusing. Some of them offered up encouragement and expressions of sincere amazement. Most of them, however, just stared blankly, pausing in awkward silence, as if I had just shared with them in hushed, guilt-laden whispers, a long-repressed sexual attraction to miniature poodles. Oddly, a few even seemed to hold a mild contempt for such an endeavor, and of course there were the inevitable lame jokes - "I wouldn't run unless somebody was chasing me!" or "Heck, I get tired just driving that far!" I took it all in and found only motivation in both the positive and maybe even more so, the not-so-positive responses.
I used a modified version of the Runner's World ultra plan from that issue - a 22 week plan which began on June 25 and took me up through the final two taper weeks just before the November 22 JFK. It was a training plan that called for a total of 517 miles of training runs with three weekly runs and heavy cross-training on my road bike and in spin classes. I was completely energized by this goal and threw myself into training even before the program officially began on June 25. And so, when July 1st rolled around, I crossed beyond the point of no return when I mailed in the registration form along with the requisite $130 entry fee. *****
Back in Hagerstown on the morning of the run, we had alarm clock troubles. I can thank a restless night of tossing and turning for perhaps saving me from sleeping right through the starting gun. Perennially stricken with a gross ineptitude in all things electronic, and suffering most acutely, it seems, on nights preceding significant life events, I had inadvertently left the alarm on my Blackberry set to "weekdays only." Being Saturday, it never did go off. Owing to luck or perhaps Devine intervention, my eyes flashed open in a panic and I was immediately overtaken by that "oh shit" feeling. I gave a hopeful glance at my watch and to my infinite relief it was only 5:05 a.m.- just five minutes behind schedule! Within minutes there was a din of activity in the room with everybody dressing for the day and Melissa making coffee and oatmeal for all of us. Jess, in her role of official crew photographer, was busily snapping pictures to document the day's events. I walked down to warm up the car a few minutes before we left and when I exited the hotel I was taken aback by the icy, winter air. The mercury had dipped to around 19 degrees overnight and it was shockingly, achingly cold. I scampered to the car and hit the seat warmer buttons as quickly as I could. The "crew" made it downstairs and Melissa took the wheel so I could eat my oatmeal on the way to Boonsboro.
We made the twenty minute drive to the Boonsboro High School gymnasium where the pre-race briefing was being given by race officials. There was an air of anticipation in the gym as people milled about, stretching and absorbing the last few precious moments of room-temperature warmth before the time came to venture outside for a really, really long day in the elements. During the briefing, the emcee asked for JFK veterans to stand. I was surprised and a little daunted at the percentage of people who stood - JFK "virgins" seemed to be few and far between. In fact, as the day progressed, almost everyone I spoke with was a veteran of at least one, but in most cases many ultra marathons.
There was a different feel to this event than any regulation marathon I had ever done before. Marathon running has undergone a tremendous spike in popularity in recent years, and there is typically a festive, almost carnival-like atmosphere at most 26.2 mile events. They tend to be liberally sprinkled with "first timers", and typically there is an associated half-marathon or shorter distance race on the same day. Some runners dress in flamboyant costumes - I saw one group running the 2007 Cooper River Bridge Run, a 10k race in Charleston, dressed as a bowling ball and pins (with the bowling ball attempting to catch the pins). Oftentimes there are bands and vendors and local celebrities present to offer words of encouragement at the starting line and massage therapists available at the finish (not to mention beer trucks). Most marathon or shorter distance events are geared toward making sure everybody has fun. The JFK was decidedly different. Everything from the low key expo, to the bone-chilling cold, to the grim, determined looks on the veteran's faces told me that on this run there would be no coddling from race course or the race officials. This would not be a "feel good" run. There would be no appearance by marching bands or local dignitaries and there was most certainly no sign of bowling ball costumes. There was a distinctive lack of whimsy to this event. This race was going to be spartan and raw and - there is no other way to put it - fucking hard.
Following the briefing, everybody (1,800 + runners plus support crew) began the long, slow shuffle out of the gym through two exterior doors. Stifling a mild case of claustrophobia-driven panic, I did my best to focus on the run ahead and relax. On the way out we passed a (literally) half-crazed woman kneeling in the middle of the floor, wild-eyed and shouting urgent yet incoherent instructions to her poor crew and trying to organize an extensive array of running crap (clothing, water battles, etc) scattered liberally in a ten foot radius around her on the gym floor. For some reason this had a calming effect on me - "at least", I thought to myself, "I'm in better emotional shape than that basket case!"
As we continued our slow shuffle out of the gym, I took the opportunity to do a last-minute check of my clothing and equipment. I was dressed in black running tights, black short-sleeve and long-sleeve wicking shirts, a bright yellow running jacket, black fleece vest, a black stocking cap, gloves and North Face trail running shoes. (Melissa and Jess took to calling me "Big Tuna" during the run because I looked like a bumble bee with the yellow and black "ensemble" - and bumble bee is a brand of tuna - follow the thought process?). The plan was to wear the trail shoes on the A.T. and switch to my trusty Mizuno Wave Riders 10's for the remainder of the run. This was my fourth pair of red and white Wave Rider 10's. I loved these shoes and knew that this would be my last race in this model as Mizuno had replaced the 10's with an updated version. I had about a hundred miles on this particular pair and had broken them in nicely during the City of Oaks Marathon in Raleigh on November 2nd. Unfortunately, and to my great irritation, I had forgotten my Garmin GPS watch at home and was now just wearing a Nike digital. Melissa would let me borrow her Garmin once I started on the towpath which would allow me to monitor my pace. I also had a fuel belt with four squeeze bottles positioned in "holsters" - two in front and two in back. The front bottles were filled with water, to which I had added half a Nunn tablet each for electrolyte and sodium replacement. The back bottles were filled with orange Gatorade. I also had four chocolate Gu packets stashed in a pocket on the fuel belt to sustain me until the first opportunity to eat real food in Gathland Gap.
By the time we made it out of the cozy confines of the gymnasium and into the arctic air outside it was 6:40 a.m. - only twenty minutes until the start! I noticed a bank of port-o-lets along the outside wall of the gym and felt that familiar pre-race urge to avail myself of the facilities. Having done so, the three of us made the quarter mile or so walk from the school grounds to downtown Boonsboro. As we walked along I soaked it all in - the crowd, the brisk cold, the collective energy of 1,800 runners and their crews and the last few moments of my "pre-ultra" life. We made our way to Main Street and I noticed that the crowd of runners seemed to be picking up speed already. I looked at my watch and it read 7:01. I never heard a starting gun and never even saw a starting line, but the race had begun nonetheless. I hugged Melissa and Jess and with a great sense of anticipation and just a bit of nagging uncertainty, ran the first few steps of what would be a nearly twelve hour journey. *****
The first mile or so followed Main Street out of downtown Boonsboro, up several hills toward the A.T. trailhead. I noticed that most of the crowd, even during this first mile, was walking the hills - a strategy I had read would pay great dividends in the later miles of the course - and so I followed suit. We walked/ran as a group, with very little separation for the entire mile leading up to the trail head. No more than 3/4 of a mile in I was already getting hot. I shed my fleece vest and hid it at the head of a bridge, not knowing if I would be able to retrieve it later or not, but willing to sacrifice it in the name of comfort and temperature regulation. The one thing you can't afford to do in frigid temperatures is to sweat. Your body will cool as the sweat evaporates and you'll be hypothermic before you know it, leading to a short, miserable run and a long drive back home, sans a JFK medal.
Within fifteen minutes we came to the trailhead of the celebrated and infamously craggy Appalachian Trail. The A.T. is a deceptively charming place in late fall - a pretty place not to be trusted. A place where running shoes go to die. A pleasant, even inviting blanket of fallen autumn leaves, resplendent in it's freshly fallen goldens and reds performs an act of treachery as it gives cover to menacing armies of angry, jagged rocks whose only purpose and one source of true joy is to twist and mangle the ankles of unsuspecting runners into odd and painful geometric angles that could only be truly appreciated by orthopedists with large mortgages and hefty alimony payments.
The most challenging part about running on the A.T. is that each step requires diligent focus and concentration. You must constantly scan the ground in front of you, looking out for sharp rocks and roots and sudden changes in landscape. Your field of vision seldom stretches beyond the next two or three steps. Taking your eyes off the trail, even for a few seconds can result in a fall, or worse, a broken ankle. I did not want my day to end on the A.T.
What had been a large mass of runners on the Boonsboro highway turned into an odd, single file, spandex-clad samba line snaking through the woods. The trail was seldom wide enough for more than one person at a time. There was a lot walking on the trail, but despite the slow pace, at least five or six people took hard falls along the way. To my amazement, they typically sprang right back up and were running again within seconds - probably embarrassed and more determined than ever to get the hell off of the A.T. I never relaxed, even for a second, on the trail. I don't trust my ankles. They've become flimsy over the years thanks to multiple sprains from my basketball days and they are about as structurally sound as a low rent, third world shanty. There were a number of times when I misjudged a step, caught the top of a sharp rock and felt my ankle start to turn. Though I was able to catch myself each time, it only increased my desire to finish this stage of the run. "If I can just get there," I thought over and over, "I'll have 26 miles of blissful monotony on the C&O Towpath waiting for me. I also knew that at mile 9.2 I'd come to the first aid station at Gathland Gap State Park and I would get to see my crew for the first time for the much anticipated Little Debbies and moral support.
Despite the rugged terrain and a set of dodgy ankles, I was making progress and had managed not to fall by around mile six or seven, which pleased me a great deal. I realized that I needed to make a more concerted effort to drink water, so I reached down for a bottle on my fuel belt. After three or four unsuccessful attempts to take a sip, I realized that ice had formed in the nozzle. I took some semblance of manly satisfaction in the fact that I was out running in these conditions and I realized that though I had numbed to it at that point in time, it was cold!
As the line of runners descended in a serpentine fashion down the trail and into Gathland Gap, I saw Melissa and Jess and was infinitely relieved that they had found their way there and that I could take a few minutes to rest up, eat something and chat with them about the first segment of the trail. I was beginning to feel just a smidgen of confidence, having survived that first nine mile stretch. I ate my Little Debbies, refilled my water bottles, soaked in Melissa & Jess' encouragement and within minutes was off again for the final six and a half miles on the A.T. I took comfort in the fact that following the last few miles of that segment, I would be joined on the towpath by Melissa for twelve miles, Jess for eleven and then Melissa again for another eight miles, at which time there would only be four miles separating me from the finish line in Williamsport.
Climbing out of Gathland Gap and back onto the A.T., the "neat factor" of running on the country's most venerable and historic footpath was dissipating rapidly. It was becoming a grind, in fact, and my goal for the next six miles was simply to persevere, hopefully with lower extremities intact. There were the same challenges on the other side of Gathland that we had experienced on the first nine miles ? treacherous, unsteady footing, biting cold and lots of walking. Towards the last couple of miles on the A.T., when the first welcome glimpses of the Potomac River came into sight through the gnarled wooden appendages of leafless winter trees, we began a steep decent down winding switchbacks as the high ridges gave way to the river valley below. Progress slowed to a hurried shuffle, as everyone took great care to maintain their footing. As we scurried along I struck up a conversation with the gentleman directly behind me. We discussed what a strange phenomenon this ultra marathoning was, and he congratulated me for attempting my first run of this distance. He claimed to have run over 400 marathons and ultra marathons over a period of about 20 years. That equals approximately 20 distance races per year over two decades - a marathon or ultra marathon every two and a half weeks on average since the Reagan administration's waning days. I didn't know whether to be impressed or doubtful, but in the excitement of the moment, I leaned toward being impressed.
At approximately 11:00 a.m. I, at long last, made my way down the final switchback and arrived at the Weverton Aid Station where Melissa and Jess were waiting for me. I can't adequately describe my elation at being done with the A.T. and by the fact that I would be accompanied by my crew for the next 31 miles of this journey. (as an aside, I had by far the most attractive and capable crew of any in the entire event and I was completely spoiled by them). I munched on an egg salad sandwich and, feeling warm now, unzipped the arms of my running jacket (I would regret this later), exchanged my digital watch for Melissa's Garmin and within minutes Melissa & I were headed off for the C&O Towpath - the longest section of the JFK. *****
The Chesapeake and Ohio (C&O) Canal is located along the north banks of the Potomac River and was built between 1828 and 1850 to aid cargo ships in navigating around the shallows, thus enabling the delivery of goods and creating markets for commerce further inland. The canal eventually fell into disuse with the rise of the railroads and much of it has since been drained and reclaimed by native forest. However the towpath remains exceedingly popular with runners and bikers alike. The surface was a welcome change - predictable, flat, blissfully boring - it is mostly clay and crushed gravel for the entirety of its length. Melissa & I quickly settled into a run-walk routine where we would run for two or three miles, then walk a bit, then repeat. The conversation was a huge boost to my morale. I don't recall exactly what we talked about and it really didn't matter. Just having my good friend there to talk with - to distract my focus from the fact that I still had thirty plus miles to go on this cold and blustery day - having someone with whom to share this experience - it made all the difference.
Throughout the entirety of the tow path portion of the event, I would pass and be passed by the same groups of people in a hop scotch pattern as we all ran and walked at varying intervals. As a result, we began to recognize people, sometimes chatting, sometimes just offering up a knowing and empathetic glance. There was strength to be taken from these interactions. We were all enduring the same challenges - the same discomforts of aches and doubt and weariness and cold. There was a communal spirit among the runners - a shared sense of purpose and a collective understanding and compassion which made the event much more tolerable - and at times, I daresay - even enjoyable. Misery does take great solace from company, after all. There were other people who, I have come to believe, were sent by God - because he does have a healthy sense of humor - to test my patience.
I came to know one such runner during the eleven mile portion that Jess ran with me. I didn't know Jess as well as Melissa, so I had been looking forward to the opportunity to talk with her at length during this part of the run. Along with probably a dozen other runners on the tow path, "Kevan", and I had been running at approximately the same pace for several hours now and we had been passing each other intermittently. As Jess & I passed through one of the aid stations at around mile 30 - enjoying a brief walk break and deep in conversation - we were approached by this now familiar runner, wearing Army regulation sweats and an oversized stocking cap cocked jauntily atop his noggin, who had a proposal for me. Oblivious to the fact that Jess and I were engrossed in an ongoing dialogue, he introduced himself to both of us and abruptly proposed that we run together for the balance of the event. I was a little taken aback by this. He volunteered that he had been observing my pace for the past couple of hours, had deducted that we would finish at approximately the same time and, no doubt tired of running alone, decided that Jess and I could use his company. Now I enjoy meeting people - I enjoy conversation as much as the next guy - but a sudden feeling of claustrophobic dread overtook me. I tend to be very comfortable as a solo runner, but I also love running with good friends over long distances because there is a familiarity and ease which allows you to fall into a comfortable silence for miles. You have the option of enjoyable conversation, or you can become lost in your own thoughts while still having the comfort of running with a partner. It is truly the best of both worlds. Running with strangers on the other hand - for me at least - is taxing. Conversation is forced, silence is awkward and it is nearly impossible to fall into that natural pace that seems to come so easily with familiarity.
Kevan was one of those people - you know the kind - who does not necessarily require that you be comfortable with (or that you even consent to) his presence in order to find perfect happiness spending time with you. It had nothing to do with Jess or I at all, really - he was simply craving human contact of any kind - we just happened to be there. And so, having been caught off guard and unable to come up with a quick excuse (and also, unable to find a large tree branch with which to smite him dead), the three of us started off running. Kevan was an interesting guy to say the least. It was obvious to me that he had been dying to talk with somebody for some time now by the way he latched onto us and began, unbidden, a lengthy monologue on all manner of subjects. He began by extolling the virtues of Vaseline and it's near miraculous capacity to soothe "hot spots" and prevent chapped lips. He never specified where exactly his "hot spots" were located, (this was left to the imagination), but he did speak at length about the matter. I knew his love of Vaseline was genuine because as he spoke, I noticed that an over-application of the stuff, hanging from his generously proportioned lips, had quickly frozen into petroleum-based icicles, reminding me of stalactites on a cave ceiling. He told us about his military service - he claimed to be an Army Ranger - and being an admirer of the military, he held my attention for a while with this subject. He went on to talk with mind-numbing detail about his three children. Two boys - both named Kevan, and a daughter, named Kevana. He lost me about right there. Was this guy serious? Who does he think he is, George Foreman? Jess and I remained silent but exchanged glances that asked "what the hell have we gotten ourselves into"?" From there he discussed his long and illustrious career as an ultra marathoner. He discussed a 24 hour, 100 mile run he did along this same tow path years ago. It seems he had become disoriented during the night portion of the run and stumbled off the tow path into a ravine, some twenty feet below. I silently debated asking him to recreate this fall for purposes of illustration and clarity, but thought better of it. He also shared that he had done the JFK many times before and had developed an air-tight plan to finish in less than 12 hours. "The thing about me", Kevan droned, "is that I can devise a plan and stick to it. Not many people can do that." (insert more "WTF" glances between Jess and I). Kevan loved to talk about himself. One of his greatest attributes however, was that he was so engrossed in his own ramblings that he failed to visually engage his audience. This opened the door to silent and conspiratorial communication between Jess and I in the form of me hanging myself and Jess shooting herself in panamime. We entertained ourselves in this fashion for a couple of miles while Kevan prattled on mindlessly about, among other things, President Bush (Kevan no like), skydiving (Kevan like very much), the economy (Kevan worried but optimistic) and a brief revisiting of the hot spot topic (Kevan concerned as always). Yes, it was childish, and quite possibly mean-spirited of us to make fun, but you would have done the same thing and you know it.
At long last we came to another aid station at around mile 36 during which Kevan stopped for something to drink and, of course, more Vaseline (the man's vigilance on the matter of hot spot avoidance cannot be overstated.) We took this occasion to quickly and unceremoniously inform him that we were going to move ahead and pick up the pace a little bit. Surprisingly, it worked, and we said our goodbyes. And so Jess and I, suddenly feeling unencumbered and fleet of foot, quickened the pace and began our conversation anew. This, until a mile and a half later during a walk break, Kevan caught up with us again. I wanted to cry. Then, to my great surprise and eternal admiration, Jess spoke up politely yet forcefully, advising him that we were in the middle of an important conversation and could use a little privacy. And so he bid us farewell again and we both wished each other much luck and God speed. I had a newfound respect for my friend, Jess. *****
At around mile 39 we came to another aid station where Melissa was waiting for us with a chair set up for me and sandwiches ready to eat. The plan had been for me to change from my trail shoes to my road shoes after the A.T., but I decided to remain in the trail shoes for the majority of the tow path as they were really more suited to the crushed gravel and clay surface. At this stop though, knowing it would be my last opportunity to change before the start of the road portion of the event, I changed socks and donned the Mizunos. It never ceases to amaze me how something as simple as a change of socks and shoes can bring a sense of rejuvenation and a second wind. I finished my sandwich, reloaded my water bottles and took off again, this time with Melissa back by my side. Melissa would run the next eight miles with me, which would take me to the 46 mile marker, at which point I would finish alone, giving she and Jess a chance to drive to the finish line to greet me in Williamsport. The two of us fell immediately back into that ease of pace and conversation which we always enjoyed on our runs and which had sustained me so much already that day.
I think its only right to point out here just what a sacrifice my crew made to help me through this day. Both of them had completed the Beach 2 Battleship half Iron Man triathlon in Wilmington, N.C. just three weeks prior and were technically not supposed to be running - or for that matter - exercising at all. They were supposed to be taking a month off. They were supposed to be home, lounging around, eating ice cream and watching television. Yet they both had taken it upon themselves to reserve precious vacation days from work and travel the 345 miles from Raleigh to Hagerstown. And here they were - out supporting me, braving the uncomfortable cold and the icy gusts, alternately running alongside me and navigating via maps of dubious accuracy all over Western Maryland, from one stop to another. They did it all with great cheer and an infectious enthusiasm that alleviated doubt and distracted from the little aches and pains that go along with staying on one's feet for fifty miles. Simply put, I could never have made it through this day without them.
As we made it over the final miles of the tow path, our run-walk pattern had turned into more of a walk-run pattern. I was feeling truly tired for the first time and I began to take notice of the time of day. As we approached Dam #4 at the end of the tow path I knew the official cutoff for that stage was 5:00 p.m. We reached that point at approximately 4:40 p.m. - a little too close for comfort in my estimation. Yet, as was the case after the A.T., I felt a definitive feeling of relief at having finished one portion of the run and was energized to be starting the third and final portion - only 8.4 miles now separated me from the finish in Boonsboro. *****
After a brief pit stop at the bank of port-o-lets in the transition area, Melissa and I were both handed reflective vests since we would be on two lane county roads for the balance of the race and it would be completely dark within the next couple of miles. The asphalt road felt odd beneath my feet after so many miles of trail and gravel path - it felt hard and unforgiving and as we rounded the first curve we were faced with a long, steep incline. I realized then that the last eight miles would be no cake walk and I began worrying in earnest about whether I would finish the run by the 7:00 p.m. cutoff. I tried to stay positive and Melissa did her best to reassure me, but as the light of day gave way to a deepening cold and a creeping darkness, doubt was on the march. With 8.4 miles to go and two hours to get there, I needed to average around a 14 minute per mile pace to finish on time. Under normal circumstances, this would be an easy task, but after covering 42 miles already, it seemed a daunting task and success seemed very much in doubt.
Even as I worried over time concerns, I was captivated by the rural beauty of the farm land around us. As we ran along that Western Maryland black-top with the sun rapidly descending and casting a faint orange glow on the stone farm houses and cornfields and ancient silos, my mind wandered to all of the history that has taken place in this part of the country. Historical markers seemed to be everywhere, and the thought occurred to me that this place probably looked very similar to the way it does now back in the 1860's when haggard men in tattered uniforms of Gray and Blue made their way through these very cornfields as they marched forward to heed destiny's call in tiny hamlets with theretofore unfamiliar names, like Antietam and Gettysburg and Sharpsburg. The sense of that history was palpable, and I got the sense that if I would just stop and listen for a bit in this ghostly twilight, the muffled drum and trumpet of armies past might be faintly audible. Alas, I had no time to stop.
There was less talking now between Melissa and I as we made our way to mile 46. We both seemed to be lost in thought and caught up in the moment as the end of a very long day seemed to be almost within our grasp. When we came to the final stop at the 46 mile marker in the tiny town of Downsville, Jess was there waiting for us. As always, she had food at the ready, but my body was starting to shut down on me. I had completely lost my appetite, although I needed to eat now, probably more than at any time during the entire race. I was feeling slightly nauseous now and so I just stored a Gu packet in the sleeve of my fuel belt in case I was able to eat it later on. It was completely dark now, and the temperature had dropped ten to fifteen degrees, it seemed, over the past twenty minutes. It was approximately 5:50 p.m., leaving me 70 minutes to complete the last four miles. I had been dreading this moment all day - having to run alone in the cold and dark - but the time had come and the only way for me to finish this race was to press on. It took a minute or two for my legs to respond to my mind's command to move, but I finally did start moving again. Melissa and Jess shouted encouragement to me as I staggered forward toward Williamsport. *****
There comes a point in every endurance athlete's life when their defenses are stripped away and their soul is laid bare. It is a critical moment when doubt and hope do battle and emotion springs forth. Running is a sport of passion, after all. I had often heard of people breaking into tears as they ran the final mile of a marathon. I had even hoped that I would feel that during my previous marathons. I craved that cleansing flood of emotion. It had never come to me before though and I always felt cheated by that. I worried that I was too stoic - too reserved in nature - to let myself be overcome. I need not have worried. About a 1/2 mile after leaving Melissa and Jess I found myself running along at pace I knew I could maintain and which, I also felt would get me to the finish line in time. I began to feel just the slightest bit of confidence return. And so, as I ran alone in the dark, with thirty yards or more separating me from the runners in front and behind, I let my thoughts wander to the events of the past five months since my preparation for the JFK began. I thought of the hours of training, beginning in the oppressive heat and humidity of July, and of all the miles I had covered from then until now. I thought about the breakup of my engagement and the raw emotion I still felt over that. I thought about the sacrifices that Jessica and Melissa made to be there for me and the fact that they were already waiting at the finish line for my arrival. I thought about my family and friends back home who knew I was here and had offered so many positive thoughts and prayers for me throughout the day. I envisioned myself crossing the finish line. And suddenly, I found myself overcome with emotion. At last, I cried. It felt as therapeutic and cleansing as I had hoped it would and I was a little worried that I might cross the finish line, wild-haired and bawling like a mad man only to be quickly taken away for evaluation by serious people in white coats. But I did compose myself and afterward I felt as though a huge weight had been lifted off my chest. My legs suddenly felt almost springy again. And I picked up my pace.
Something went wrong though, between the 47th and 48th mile markers. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Until that point, mile markers seemed to come relatively quickly. This mile though seemed to take forever. I didn't know if it was because of some warped sense of time somehow brought on by a combination of the darkness and my own emotional fragility, or if, as in some stressful dream, the finish line was actually retreating with each step I took. I ran faster, beginning to panic now, wondering even if I had somehow managed to take a wrong turn. I did see other runners in front and behind me, but in times like this, rational thought is often fleeting. "Where in the hell is that mile marker?" I kept mumbling to myself. It was now after 6:30 p.m. - I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that either I had missed the marker or something had gone terribly wrong. I tried to distract myself with other thoughts, but after eleven and a half hours of this, there was really nothing else I could bring myself to think of. Finally my eye caught the faint, shadowy outline of what looked like a table with drinks and race volunteers standing by. Race volunteers! I quickened my pace now and just before I reached the table I heard the voice of an angel. It came from a dark silhouette of a woman - God bless her, whoever she is - who was informing the runners that somehow there had been a mix-up with the 48th mile marker and from this point we had only a mile and a half to go. I could have kissed her!
I never walked again from that point on. What had been a pair of legs that seemed to be in the first stages of rigor mortis just moments before seemed now to be positively fresh. I ran like my life depended on it. I knew I would finish now ? both in terms of time and physicality. I knew my body would carry me across that finish line and so I pushed myself harder and faster in that last mile and a half than I had all day. I thought back to my old friend Kevan who, among a myriad other things, talked about the last mile of the JFK and how you knew you were nearly done when you saw the big water tower in Williamsport come into view. And so, as I turned left onto highway 68 just outside of town, I saw one of the most beautiful sights I have ever laid eyes on - the Williamsport water tower! I was running fast now and as I made the right turn onto Sunset Avenue - the last turn on the entire course - I saw the stadium lights set up at Springfield Middle School, where the finish line awaited me. My pace continued to quicken and as I got closer - and especially when I saw the actual finish line - I broke into a full sprint. It all devolved into a blur at that point, as I made my way into the coral where I heard my name and home town over the loudspeaker and received my finisher's medal. I had come in at 11 hours, 48 minutes - just twelve minutes shy of the cutoff. I saw Melissa and Jess, who handed me a huge bottle of Guinness beer they had been carrying around all day in the car. I cannot begin to describe the joy and relief I felt as I hugged my crew and took a long pull from that incredible beer. Melissa found someone to take our picture - my crew and I - and then, as monumental moments in our lives tend to go sometimes, there was a feeling of anticlimax as we made our way to the car and back to the hotel.
As Melissa drove us along those back roads away from Williamsport and towards the interstate, I found the simple act of sitting to be a sumptuous, almost indescribable pleasure. I tried to soak it all in - the events of this day - but I knew it would take a while to really comprehend the depth of what this experience would mean to me. For now, I was simply happy it was over and looking forward to the rest of our weekend. Later that evening, after showering and changing at the hotel, we made our way to a wonderful German restaurant in downtown Hagerstown - the Schmankerl-stube Bravarian Restaurant. We ordered beers as large as tree trunks and gorged ourselves on piping hot schnitzel and brat wurst and thick, velvety stews. It was the perfect meal after a long day in the cold.
The next day we made the short trip to Washington D.C. where we stayed one night before heading home. I hobbled around on wooden, painful legs for most of the next two days, but it was a soreness I was happy to live with. As we made our way back down I-95 to Raleigh on Monday we were mostly quiet - reflecting on the weekend and transitioning in thought to the week ahead. But mostly we were just tired and somewhat hung over (we indulged liberally the night before in D.C.) I dropped Jess off at her house and then Melissa & I returned to her home. I left for Columbia early the next morning.
As I sit here writing this, exactly two months since the day of the ultra, I find myself saddened that it is all over - and oddly enough, I am contemplating doing it again - not in 2009, but some other year down the road a bit. To be sure, I will return to Boonsboro one day to tow the line once more.Until then, I'll think often of Saturday November 22nd, 2008 and I will smile each time I do. Above all - and this is no small thing - I'll know that should I ever develop "hot spots", Vaseline is most assuredly the answer.