Barbara Freedman -- The Magic of the JFK 50
22 November 2003

First of all, I knew nothing about "ultras" really. I had one 50km under my belt, run at the end of June in Montreal, where I live. Moreover, I was absolutely counting on Peter C.'s advice that all you needed to train for this race was a marathon 4-6 weeks out, because (other than increasing levels of tapering and eating) that was pretty much all I had done. Second of all, I knew NO ONE connected with the race, unless you count my cyber-acquaintance with Anna B., Jim N., and Loretta M., whose stories I had pulled off the 'net and read every night for three weeks leading up to the race. To say that I was psyched at the prospect of running 50 miles (and managing the related logistics) would be the understatement of the year. But then, about a week before I was due to fly to Washington, things started to fall into place.

Having made contact with Anna B., and through her, with Richard R. and Dave Jr., I was now starting to believe that I would actually make it to the starting line. As for the finish, who knew? Dave picked me up as arranged and we talked "running" all the way to Hagerstown. That night at the pasta party, the Reston Runners individually and collectively demonstrated, to an extraordinary degree, the fine qualities I have so often observed and admired in runners. They were fun, friendly, and unbelievably generous, simultaneously managing competition and collaboration.

Once again, "Lifesaver Dave" agreed to pick me up, this time at my hotel on race morning—precisely at 4:55 a.m. We were well-suited to each other when it came to race-day priorities like arriving years in advance. It was pitch black, of course, but I had slept well, all things considered. Dave, unfortunately, had not, but was his usual cheery self in the face of this unnecessary blow. We arrived at the school gym in plenty of time for me to hear stories of previous JFKs, meet the legendary Loretta, and hook up with Marcelo's wife, Karen, who--miracle of miracles--had offered to crew for me the night before.

Then, all of a sudden we departed for the starting line, about a 10 -15 minute walk away. As Marcelo and I walked out together he told me he would be trying a new regime this year, doing 20/2s all the way. That sounded pretty ambitious to me, but I figured it was a plan. Finally, we started running fairly slowly, but I was surprised at the level of effort required for the upward climb to the AT, even at this pace. Surprised, because of my deep love for hills, and the fact they are my normal training territory. Of course, the effort turned out to be the usual "start-your-engines" adrenaline and I soon settled down, but lost Marcelo.

I quickly found the Canadian group from Ontario and ran with them, listening and chatting, until we reached the first aid station in the AT, where we got separated. I was to meet members of this group many times over the course of the day, and ended up finishing just behind one of them (Mary C.). I had adopted a very slow, steady pace that felt comfortable at that point, but I still wasn't locked into a plan.

Then I met Joan and within minutes we had one: trying to make it through the AT with any kind of a pace at all and in one piece. Joan led the way and I kept my eyes glued to her shoes as we ran on the rocky, root-bound, leaf covered trail. The running was tough but the day was spectacular—cool and clear, with bright blue, sunny skies hanging over magnificent vistas when you dared to look at them.

We had run a good way into the AT when suddenly we heard anxious voices from behind. We turned around and saw the Senator from Montana, Max Baucus, who had fallen and taken a severe gash to the head, among other things. Blood was everywhere, but so were people trying to help him. Someone among them came up with bandages and on seeing that, Joan and I started to forge our way forward again.

The rocks and the roots were really starting to take a toll; Joan and I stumbled and were near-falling several times. We kept expecting (hoping) to hit the switchback at any moment. It took a long time for it to come--about 3 hours--and just as we hit it, the Senator appeared again, having caught up with us wounds and all! We let him run through as he seemed to know what he was doing, and then we carefully picked our way down the switchback to the aid station. It was clearly nearby, as evidenced by the din of the crowd yelling to the runners as they arrived.

As we came running through the station, Joan was asked to show her bib number and Karen was yelling my name and asking if I needed anything. I stopped and took some of the food she had for me, while Joan ran on ahead, saying we would meet up at the portajohns. We did and then took off again, running together until we hit the entrance to the C & O, where a large food and drink table was located. Once again, we agreed to meet up, but this time we were to be separated for the duration of the race. It had been wonderful running with Joan because the pace and the conversation were so comfortable, but our time together was evidently up.

As I entered the 26-mile stretch of the C & O, I marveled at the beauty of the towpath, trees and water. The running surface was extremely accommodating, instantly illustrating what Carl had told me back home: "That's one of the sweetest marathons you'll ever do". It was fortunate that he'd said that, because I certainly did not get a good impression of it from my fellow runners, many of whom had been complaining about how boring and repetitive the towpath was. If you have never run this race before, I would highly recommend adopting Carl's perspective, as it is much easier to submit to the beauty of the path than to resist it. In any case, that's what I did, perhaps all the more enthusiastically from the sheer relief of moving from the AT to the flats. As exquisite as the Appalachian Trail is, there's no denying that it's a bit of a demon to run (where "run" is defined as moving fast).

I ran slowly on the towpath at first, realizing that so much lay ahead, some of it totally unexpected. I was amused when I saw the sign that said "Bourbon Ahead: 1K" and then found a man standing by an open trunk filled with bottles of bourbon (including the largest bottle of Knob Hill I had ever seen), but a bit less so when I realized I would not be able to drink of any of it (we were, as far as I could tell, in the middle of a race). So I passed on, taking in the sights and wondering how I would do a marathon--and more--after the effort I had already laid down on the AT. I decided to run into the aid stations and walk out, but since I had no real experience with ultramarathon racing strategies, I wasn't quite sure how this worked. For instance, how long do you walk out? In the end, I made it up, starting to run slowly again, within 2 to 3 minutes of leaving the station.

The beauty of the day continued to unfold, although it was warming up. Fairly early into the towpath, I passed the Senator for the last time. I would not see him again, but I did think about him as I ran (and later on) with complete respect for his persistence. Of course, I know what it feels like to try to stick it out, but this looked really tough. . . .

Somewhere around mile 20 or so, I caught up with the Canadian women again and hung near them for a while. Mary (who was eventually to finish ahead of me by two minutes) was running strong, but groaned when she asked me my age. I guess she thought we were racing one another, and in the end, it turned out we were. After a bit, she and her partner managed to get out of my line of vision and they pressed on ahead. I almost got her in the end, but not quite; nevertheless, I was happy enough just to imagine her in front of me, an elusive figure that I chased all afternoon.

I ran by myself for a while, taking in the conversations of the runners around me. One of them started to talk about an older man (75 years old, it turns out) who was running just ahead of us with a companion. "He's legendary, just legendary" I heard the guy near me say. "And I can tell you that if you just stick with Buzz, you are guaranteed to finish the race because he will!" The runner was talking about race founder, Buzz Sawyer, whom I looked at in awe. As other runners passed by, they yelled words of encouragement and appreciation to Buzz, who took it all in and even had the energy to thank them. Whoa!

Just after this point I noticed a young runner ahead of me and I fell in behind him. His gait was steady and the pace was perfect. I was running behind him for a while when suddenly he stopped running and started walking. I started walking, too, but I remained behind him. After two minutes, his watch beeped and he was running again. I followed. The next time he stopped to walk, I came up along side him and asked "Do you mind?" He said, "Sure, come on along" and I did. We ran 8/2s for many miles together. He was slightly faster than me, which was good—it kept me on my toes. When we got separated at the aid stations I found him again, even if I had to increase my pace while he was in a walking phase. I was determined to stick by Brian, who became a real partner through the tough slogging of miles 28-40. Once, I had to stop to use the portajohn, but I told him to keep going, I would catch up. He ran on ahead as I rolled under a wire fence on sharp gravel to get to the toilet behind it. It must have been a five minute stop for me, but when I finished I knew I had to find him again, and I did. Once I got Brian in my line of sight I pushed hard to catch up, aching legs and all, and we continued with our 8/2s.

I now know that run/walk is a really essential component of doing an ultra and I am pretty sure I'll know how to make it work for me the next time I run one. This was an invaluable experience and I was so grateful to Brian for showing me the way.

We talked a bit. He told me about his job as a teacher in a special school and that he would eventually start training to do an ironman. His said his dad was in this race, too. We stopped to stretch occasionally and then carried on with our 8/2s. Around mile 30, we passed the woman with the broken femur, but didn't know the nature of her injury at the time. We also ran into the ambulance cavalcade—several vehicles trying to drive against the tide of runners on that rather narrow towpath. I was within a hair of being knocked off the road by the side mirror on one of the vans. I hung on to Brian who kept me upright. The cars passed and just after they did, we saw motor boats in the water, nearby. It seemed they were dragging someone or something from the river, but we never knew the details about who or what it was.

We kept running. At one point we ran right into Marcelo (!) and his son, Tony. I was thrilled to see Marcelo again, but sorry too, because he seemed to be struggling at a time when I was starting to feel better. That didn't seem quite right. All along the route at major aid stations, Karen had given me progress reports on Marcelo, who was leading the way for the first chunk of the race. At those stations, Karen and the kids would yell for me and offer me anything I wanted. (I had worried so much in Montreal about not being able to access spare clothes and food as other runners would. Now that Karen was crewing for me, I realized that she gave me something much more important than a change of shoes or food. She gave me hope and the spirit to keep at it. There were so many times in the latter part of the race that I wondered how it would all end, but Karen just kept encouraging me, saying I "looked good".)

By the time Brian and I reached the end of the towpath, I could see that he was hurting a bit. For the last two or three 8/2s, I had led the way, picking up the pace. During the walking segments, he was stretching rather vigorously to try to loosen up his tight muscles. Finally we were off the towpath and starting the last eight miles! I took the lead, urging Brian on. The last thing I did before we parted was to point out the mileposts (a giant "8" on the side of the road) to let him know that we were close to the end. He responded faintly, but I did not hear exactly what he said. I picked up the pace again and after about 15 minutes, realized that Brian and I were no longer together. I wished him well in my heart, even if I did not get to tell him so in words.

Now the hills were before me and I knew what that meant. I had prepared so long and hard for this moment, but was almost unable to grasp the fact that it had finally arrived. I was alone. The rolling hills and expansive green fields were surprisingly lovely and quite dramatic. Only one more encounter with Karen and kids to go. And in the end, it was the phantom Yak Pak* and Karen who nudged me towards my goal-time finish of 10 hours. At our last aid station together, with 4 miles remaining, Karen told me it was 4:20 p.m. In other words, I had 40 minutes to finish the last four miles. That seemed huge! Within seconds of hearing this, however, I stripped off my pocket belt and gave it to her—the last bit of my survival kit and the last bit of weight holding me down. Tony encouraged me to "get light". I laughed and ran off, constantly checking the position of the sun (it had set at 4:56 p.m. the previous day) and the road ahead.

Now I was in race mode and feeling pretty good considering everything. The worst of the hills seemed to be over, and I was determined to try to make it to the end by 5:00 p.m. I started to run as fast as I could, taking few, if any, breaks. I passed wave after wave of walkers. So many people yelled words of encouragement to me from this point on that I was inspired to give it my all. One experienced-looking runner yelled, "Keep running and you'll make 10!" Another said, "Those almost sound like fresh legs" as I came up from behind him. I met two of the Ontario runners for the last time and they, too, urged me on.

I felt good, but I also realized that my throat was dry and I had let everything go! As I ran into the 48th mile, I yelled "I'm hungry, I'm thirsty" to those standing around the aid table. In an instant, every one of them ran up to me with something to eat or drink (I was the only runner at the station) and then I really understood how privileged I was. Privileged to be able to run a 50 miler, to have had the companionship and support of so many wonderful people, to experience that race on that day. Bliss.

Yeah, my legs were aching as I approached the rise in the road that led to the finish, but I felt great. I sprinted the last 100 meters or so and then it was done. The medal was around my neck: 10 hours, 16 seconds. My nephew, Jonah, and his wife, Suneeta, who had both been yelling loudly, approached and gave me hugs. After several minutes, I found Karen for the last time and I prepared to depart.

On the way home, I savored the taste of my first 50 Miler. But would I do it again? In a heartbeat--because, well, running feeds the heart.

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*Montreal running group

Barbara Freedman
December 2003