The day dawned cool and fresh. And early. I had been in Atlanta since Tuesday, so luckily the 4 am wake up call wasn’t as shocking to my system as it could have been (3 am my time), but I still wasn’t delighted to be awake and racing. In my journal entry that morning, I cursed at myself for registering to race on my only vacation in over a year. Seriously, what was I thinking?
In retrospect, perhaps I should have chosen an easier race. But it didn’t exactly happen as a mindful choice. Tuesday morning before race day (Saturday), I woke up and knew I needed to get away. To stay at home meant I’d continue to work because there’s not much to do around there, and I needed to stop working. I packed up a suitcase, grabbed my hydration pack and a few pairs of running shoes, and I hit the road. I arrived that afternoon in Atlanta and headed over to ultrasignup to see what races were in the area. I found the H9 Dragon’s Spine (with 99, 50, and 26.2 mile options) and clicked to learn more. From the race description, it seemed hard (which never really deters an ultrarunner). Further, when I clicked to register button, it looked to be sold out (this was just an additional carrot).
Somewhat relieved, but also a little deflated, I emailed the race director to see if there was a waitlist. He emailed back within the hour, saying that someone had just dropped and the space was mine if I wanted it. I wasn’t exactly sure that I did want it. Yet, I emailed back and said I’d take the slot. I watched myself paying the club dues. And then paying the race registration fee. Just like that, it seemed I’d signed myself up for a trail marathon. I mean, I’m not crazy – I did have a four-hour training run on the plan for the weekend, and 26.2 is about a four-hour run at a training (I try to stay between 9-9:30 pace on long runs for ultra training), so my logic was sound. But 26.2 is about a four-hour training run on pavement or a treadmill. This was 26.2 miles in the trails.
And, apparently, this marathon course was tough. I’ve never gone much for reading course descriptions (and, well, emails), but as I explored the race Facebook group to see if I could find a roomie at the campsite, I started to read what everyone was saying about this course. The cutoffs were enough to scare me – 12 hours for a marathon. I started to imagine how miserable climbing up mountains for 12 hours in Georgia heat would be, and I started to question my sanity. Apparently, hardened runners thought this course was one of the toughest ultraraces.
However, I’d not only signed up voluntarily for this, but I’d specially asked to be added to the race and my request was accommodated. I had no choice but to show up.
This was the attitude I brought with me race morning. I had decided to stay in Atlanta so I didn’t have to worry about getting back before check-out time (Ha. The very idea of completing this course and getting back to my hotel before 11 am with a start at 7:30 am is legit ridiculous). The road up to Vogel State Park, where the race starts, is windy. I’m not a strong driver in daylight, so the dusk made driving the road up to Vogel treacherous. I continued to berate myself for signing up. Why couldn’t I just get drunk, like a normal person on vacation? Why did I have to sign up for a race with a bad reputation? Self-flagellation is one of my strengths, and I was in fine form.
I arrived, picked up my shirt and had my number written on my arm (no bibs here, and frankly, I think all races should get behind this. Bibs are awkward on any course longer than a few hours.). I then applied sunscreen which made my race number mostly illegible. I joked with the race director at the start that I’d see him in 12 hours, and we set off. No fanfare, no frills, just a five second countdown.
As my trepidation made clear, I had no expectations going into this run. I knew it was going to suck. I didn’t plan to race it – this was just a well-supported training run.
If I want to win, the course is short (less than three hours to complete), and winning seems like a reasonable goal, I’ll try to stay towards the front of the pack at the start. I didn’t think I had much of a chance here – I’d really only been back training seriously for two months, after a six month hiatus. I was for-real scared of the course. Plus, I don’t run steep uphills even when they occur at the beginning of long courses to save my legs. So, since this course started on an incline, I started in a brisk walk, and I didn’t start running until the course leveled a bit. By this point, I was at the back of the pack, if not the very back of the back. I embraced the suck, and settled in.
However, my plans to stay at the back didn’t last. They couldn’t. I am after all, quite competitive. And, I quickly learned that this course was branded as tough because of the very steep inclines, which is my strength (and, normally, the heat+humidity, which was absent race day). I love steep climbs, but not necessarily because they feel good. (They don’t, they feel terrible.) They are terrible. But I’m fast on steep climbs. And I can push through the climbing pain, largely, I think because I’m not afraid of falling like I am on steep descents (which is my weakness). This course has a lot of steep single-track ascents and gently sloping descents, which is my idea of dream course, if I am trying to win. The weather was also a dream, much to the race directors chagrin, as it only hit the 80’s close to noon. The rest of the time, it was almost cool and the humidity was manageable. It was perfect running weather.
I wasn’t trying to win, I promise.
But within the first mile, I was passing men and women racers. I was worried that the course would descend, and everyone I’d passed would then pass me back, but luckily the course continued to climb. I soared. By the first aid station, I’d built a considerable lead over the back half of the pack. By the second aid station, Wolf Pen, at mile 12, I’d reached the point where I recognized that those who were ahead of me were pretty far ahead, so I’d have to maintain my pace on the flats and descents, and push it on the hills if I wanted to catch any more runners.
In my rushed packing to leave on Tuesday, I’d forgotten my Suunto Ambit, so I only had my Apple Watch to measure distance (which I learned, it doesn’t do real well when it’s not actively tracking). This meant that for almost all of the race, I really had no idea where I was on the course – I didn’t know how far it was to the next aid station and how far I’d come. Instead, I measured in Power Bars. I ate half a peanut butter Power Bar every 45 minutes. I drank water every ten minutes. At aid stations, I ate anything with salt, since the only hydration that does not cause stomach problems for me is water. I can be a bit more flexible with my fueling, as long as it is gluten-free, but peanut butter Power Bars work the best. This combination has proved to be magic on race day, and, altogether, I had no stomach issues and no serious dehydration.
Not knowing where I was, except by the estimations made by my watch and what I knew about the course, I resolved to push as hard as I could until I finished. And, for perhaps the first time in my racing career, I did. After the 12-mile aid station, the course was on an untechnical logging road, and I pushed hard, taking advantage of the flatter ascents, descents, and flats to push as hard I could. I wanted to make sure I didn’t get caught by anyone behind me – I didn’t think I could catch anyone on the road, but I wanted to give myself the chance to catch people ahead of me on the next set of climbs. I continued to feel strong as the course turned back to singletrack and started to climb again. I passed another three runners shortly after the trail started to climb again, and I only slowed down on the technical descents. I kept pushing, still without any idea of how far I had left to go. The uncertainty was disconcerting, for sure, but I let it sit. I would just push as hard as I could as long as I could and be happy with whatever that meant.
I did check my Apple Watch for distance a few times without knowing if it was accurate or not. My watch estimated that I had run 24 miles when I hit the Fire Pit aid station, so it was a bit demoralizing to learn that I still had 8 miles left. This meant my Apple Watch stats were quite inexact. I think it was because on many of the descents I shorten my stride considerably and take quick little steps; the Apple Watch, counting steps with my normal stride, must have led it to overestimate my distance traveled. However, it was still a blow to learn that instead of three miles left, I had 8, no matter how good I was feeling.
I was still feeling good. Really good. After Fire Pit, the course immediately climbs straight back up again to the top of Coosa mountain. The climbed sucked, but knowing that this is where I could overtake more runners, I pushed hard and passed three more runners. I was dripping with sweat by the time I hit the top of Coosa, but it wasn’t with relief that I took the sharp left. The descent here was technical, so while I went as quickly as I could, I was still passed by one runner as I descended. I kept pushing, and as the course led onto another logging road, I was able to run hard again, and I pushed without know how much longer I had to push. The lack of knowledge about where I was started to eat at me, and I wondered how far I really had left. About then, I passed a runner who had slowed considerably. As the day had finally started to get hot, I was worried about dehydration or hyponatremia, so I slowed down to ask him how he was doing. He wasn’t confused and seemed fine, but did admit to skipping the last aid station, so I gave him my last protein bar and pushed on. As I ran away, I asked how far we had gone. He said 23, and my heart sunk a bit as I had been sure we were closer to the finish. But as I still felt good, and I kept pushing.
And pushing.
And then, I hit the highway. Now, at Fire Pit, a volunteer said “if you hit the highway, you’ve gone too far.” He was referring to, I think, to the highway I’d hit if I had missed the turn down from the top of Coosa Mountain, but I’d just run 24-ish miles, and I panicked, remembering his caution about the highway meaning I’d gone too far. I turned around and started running back, searching for flags or a missed turnoff until I met the runner I’d give the protein bar too. I yelled, “did I miss a turn? There is just a road up there.” He explained that the pre-race email had explained that the course would continue on the other side of the road. Which, of course, the course did, something I easily saw when I ran back and ran far enough onto the road to see the trail on the other side of the road. (Two lessons here, read the pre-race email and before turning, back, run a bit further until you can actually see the other side of the road). I was frustrated with myself and extra mile I put on my legs but continued to push. The trail kept going downhill, but the course was single-track, technical in places, and I slowed down, enough to be passed by the runner I’d re-fueled. And then by another man runner I didn’t recognize passing, who told me to “keep pushing” and that I could “do it.” Never having doubted that I could do it, I retorted, “I never doubted I could.” Not perhaps my finest moment, but I didn’t doubt my ability to finish strong and resented his suggestion that I was struggling.
I kept pushing, and the course finally left the single track to the road we ran up at the start down to finish. I pushed harder, running as fast as I could. What had been quiet that morning was now a bustling campground, and I struggled to find indications of where I was supposed to run. Luckily, there were flags, and I finally made it to the finish.
When I arrived, it felt good to stop. It was finally hot, and I drank the last of my water as I collected my finisher prize. As I stood at the finish, I asked where I stood in the standings, and I learned that I had finished 9th overall, 4th woman. (Of note, the first three finishers were women). I was stoked. I was excited about my placement, of course – it felt amazing, especially as a course newbie. But this race was the first time since, perhaps, my very first marathon a decade ago, that I pushed through the pain and kept pushing, even when it got hard. I executed a nutrition plan, not adjusting when I felt like I didn’t need to eat as often because my pace had slowed. I finally figured out how to balance my electrolytes. And, again, I didn’t stop or slow down when things got hard. I pushed and kept pushing, and I ran the very best race I was capable of running. Even if I’d finished DFL, I would have been happy with that.
But, of course, I didn’t.
ultrarungal 