OK. I admit it. I finally succumbed to the ever intoxicating ruminations of past RRs on the thrilling experience of running the JFK 50 Ultramarathon. I must confess that before this year I never had any ambition to run one solitary inch beyond 26.2 miles, the standard marathon distance. But after two prep meetings and the yeoman's effort in organization by Anna Bradford, here I was at the starting line about to undertake this little oddity in the world of running which by the way, is quite a few "inches" beyond my heretofore 26.2 mile threshold.
For me the weather was ideal - just a bit on the cool side and I was wearing a long sleeve shirt. I was as prepared as I thought I could be, fully carbo loaded, hydrated et al.
The first two miles were up a steep mountain on Rte 40 which meant mostly walking. So far, no excuses. I noticed two members of the armed services carrying the flag and I complimented them for it. But plod on I must for I was only on mile 2 of this day long saga. Upon picking up the Appalachian Trail I was relieved that the majority of the increase in elevation was behind me yet fully expecting other obstacles, both natural and internal, to impose themselves upon me over the course of the race. Gee, why was I thinking that?
The trail was by and large narrow with mostly risky opportunities to pass. Anyway, all of the prerace talk about one's footing on the trail was about to manifest itself as I came upon the very rocky and treacherous portion of the trail. Negotiating my way through much of this portion, I couldn't help but think I was Texas 2-Stepping my way forward - and I can't dance a lick. Carrying a rather large 230 lb frame I was, shall we say, slightly more encumbered than many of the runners. In fact, I tripped numerous times and fell hard once into the rocks. Luckily for me it was apparent that apart from my bruised ego only the local wildlife seemed to suffer any nervous reactions to my unsettled form plowing into mother earth. To that end, I quickly discovered the true meaning of "terra firma".
One by one we all exited from that segment which I dubbed the "infernal regions" and began the next segment of the run - the C&O Canal Towpath. In this portion it was much easier to execute a plan due to its being completely flat and predictable for all of its 26 miles. The aid stations were much more regular as well; this helped in maintaining a steady pace not to mention having greater access to your support crew. Heck, even a clumsy wildebeast like me could systematically run this portion with regular walking intervals. In my case, since I did not have a specific time goal I did not bother to carry a watch to track my time. Besides, I thought just making it through this little extravaganza is a lofty goal in itself! So I simply counted strides - typically, 1000 running strides followed by 200 walking strides. Later in the run counting became a bit of a chore so I took estimates. All right. All right. Truth be known, I lost count.
Having plodded through the towpath portion I was encouraged to hit mile 41.5 and the beginning of the last segment, the 8.5 mile road portion. Fearing the unforgiving hand of fate I said to myself, "Don't stub a toe now there 'Barishnikov', the end is not too far off." Well that first mile of the last 8+ was, shall we say, a walker, which was fine by me because I needed a break. Up the hill I went (walked) to mile 43 where I began running again. (By the way, did I say I was tired? Well, I was tired!). But at the same time I felt a measure of anticipation that the end of this ordeal was becoming more apparent as opposed to sometime in the next generation. Slowly, doggedly I chugged along. On the road I actually abandoned the counting system I employed on the towpath. I just wanted to run as long as I could for the last 10K.
Finally, at mile 49 I caught up with our very own Anna Bradford who had momentarily passed me a mile or so back. At that time I was almost, dare I say it, euphoric at the prospect that I had but 1 mile to go to the bloody finish. I noted to Anna, "Hey, if you don't plan on sprinting in the end I'll run along and finish with you." Her reply, "I'm not running any faster than this." Good enough for me and away we went, waltzing as it were toward a graceful, easy finish. It was nice to know we were going to finish the last mile of this adventure without busting each other's chops. As we completed the last turn and "scaled" what felt like Mt. Hood I could see the finish line about a half of a light year way - approximately 500 - 600 yards. I remember thinking to myself, "I'm hurting but I have only a few hundred yards to go to the fin---. Wait a minute. Anna's stride just picked up! I thought she said she wasn't going to run any faster. What's going on here? Confounded woman! Now I have to run faster. Cra-!" I begin to shovel some more coal into the furnace and attempt to match her stride for stride. Two hundred yards to go and we are neck and neck. Alright, so we are going to finish hard instead of easy. Bummer. No graceful, smiling, photogenic finish. I have to bust my chops in the end after all. As we close to within 100 yards I can hear everyone cheering and since I didn't see many runners in front of us I presume the cheering is mostly for us. Ahh, maybe there is a touch of glory in this afterall. A hint of ecstasy. But wait. Sweet Jesus, she's sprinting!! How impertinent! A southern belle would never behave so. I have only bits and pieces left to put into the furnace now. I quickly convene an emergency session between my thumping heart and my groggy mind to deal with this crisis. Decision made with one abstaining. I begin sprinting. Of course "sprinting" is a relative word. Nevertheless, we are both running like a bat out of Hades. We close on the finish. Closer. Closer - will you finish already"! Suddenly, it is done. We both cross the finish line. I walk over to a tree and very unceremoniously give back the remnants of the last aid station - upchuck, that is. So much for glory. Good run, Anna. You're a real Georgia Peach! The epic was finally concluded.
But not quite. I would be less than remiss to neglect the outstanding support of the RR support crews in general and both Stuart Schept and Ford Jones in particular who dedicated their day in my behalf. Thanks to both of you - you are first rate.
Will I do it again next year? Heck, I don't know. I'm still licking my chops!