July 12, 2014 Blog--Reflections on a First Trail Race. Intro I awoke fearing I was about to do something regrettable today. I would possibly become a ‘trail nerd.’ I have never been a distance runner, and certainly not on trails. Trails were always meant for meandering walks, short hikes, rest and repose. Never work outs. My wife was about to take on an Ultra-marathon—run 31 miles through the woods-- and somehow I was going to run 10 miles of it with her. The whole process of how I even got caught up in it remains a blur to me now, but this is where it started: People who run trails are affectionately called ‘trail nerds.’ And it suddenly hit me that I was possibly going to become ‘a trail nerd.’ Would I live to regret this?

While ‘Trail Nerds’ is a running community (with website and Facebook page), it more aptly describes a group of humans that prefers donning athletic shoes to traverse wooded paths instead of pavement. So why was I even considering this? It is partly my story but mainly my wife’s. I ran in high school track and was active in college, but other than the occasional jog, running wasn’t part of my regime anymore. Back then I ran shorter races—never more than one lap around the track. Nothing of any distance, ever. That was some time ago. I am definitely mid-life now, and not sure I needed a new hobby. Especially distance running through the woods. My wife, however, had a different story. Growing up, my wife thought she hated running. After all, running was the ‘punishment’ militant high school gym teachers imposed upon slacker gym-classes—‘give me five laps’ they shouted. For most kids, like my wife, how could that environment ever make running desirable? But five years ago, all that running phobia changed for Marji. My wife read ‘Couch to 5K’ and followed the book’s running plan. To her delight, found she enjoyed running. Her first 5K was followed quickly by a 10K. Running was as much the physical pleasure as the social. She was running with new friends and enjoying the new goals, and enjoying encouraging others along the way. Not stopping with a 10K, a half marathon seemed within the realm of possibilities, and after conquering that goal within 12 months, a year later she eventually crossed off ‘running a full marathon’ from her bucket list. Now this summer, two years later since her first 26.2, with several marathons now under her belt, we were talking about her running accomplishments (which she always downplays). In the matter of conversation I mentioned to her “you should do an ‘ultra’ someday.” Her response took me a little by surprise. ‘Actually, I am signed up to do one in July. There is a 10 mile, 20 mile and 50K race, I am going the 50K,’ she said. It was all happening faster than expected. And suddenly, in the same conversation, I was hearing myself say, “Well I will do it with you…” Where did that come from? ‘Well I am doing it with you’….not sure why I said that, the words just came out. Truth be known, I hadn’t run in two years. I didn’t really believe it would be possible. Two years ago, just before our 25th anniversary, we had a goal to complete a full marathon and cross the finish line hand in hand --26 miles to begin our 26th year of marriage. Now I had done

endurance bike rides in the last few years, but never running. Unfortunately two years ago, in running too hard too soon, my chance to run a marathon with her ended abruptly as I developed a shooting ankle pain that persisted with every step. I couldn’t run. Marji ran the marathon, her first, without me. But it had been two years now, since my injury, and my wife was only running more, not less. I decided if I am ever going to do anything with her, I better start running. I may never see her otherwise. In the last two months, had long walks, hoping that the mechanical action with low impact would somehow help my ankle become pain free. And after two years, I was now walking without my ankle reminding myself of the previous injury. I was cautiously hopeful the pain that had persisted, had now subsided, and I could consider running once more. But it was a quick decision, literally just two weeks ago. There wasn’t a lot of prep involved in getting ‘ready’ for the race, not as some people prepare anyhow. Some people have time goals; my goal was simply to finish the same day I started. My prep consisted of this: I had done some long walks in May and June. Sometimes 6-10 miles per day, one day 15 miles. Ankle was feeling OK. But no running. I was optimistic. Two weeks ago, I ran 3 miles on a path one morning with Marji, and then completed a local 5k on the 4th of July. To get one more taste of a trail, I ran/walked about 2 miles at Landahl Park last week, and that was it. Other than walking, I had not approximated any running close to 10 miles. I hadn’t even accumulated 10 total miles running in the last 2 years. Now I was going to try to run a tough 10 miles, over rocks and woods, on the hottest day of the year. Not only was I thinking this may be a bad idea, but could be a recipe for two more years of an aching ankle. But I decided to go for it. I did learn one thing along the way while I recovered—if I pay better attention to my running form, landing mid-foot and not heal striking, I seemed to be able to run, albeit slowly, but pain free. Even if I ran at a slow pace perhaps, I believed I could get through the trail course—all 10 miles of it. But even after that, it is funny, however, how the human mind works, and can even work against your best intentions. On race morning, while the alarm was set for 5:15 am, I awoke at 4:00, never getting back to restful sleep, and realized my night had been a tumult of disjointed dreams that somehow all centered around trail running, with weird trail failures and mishaps along the way. I was overthinking this, even in my sleep.

A strong cup of coffee didn’t cure the yawns and as we drove to the event before the sun was up, I couldn’t get this whispering out of my head, ‘even if your ankle is OK, this day is going to hurt.’ Pre-Race Day time temp was forecast, 95 and relative humidity about the same. The day was about to become one of those hot, muggy mid-summer days where the sweltering air actually feels heavy, remedied only by indoor activities within the comforts of air conditioning, where inside-dwellers watch Weather Channel updates and quip, “man it’s hot out, glad we’re staying inside today...” We arrived at Wyandotte County Park, KS, a 45 minute drive away, at 7:00 am, about an hour before race time. The parking lot was already full and a throng of people were already in various acts of unpacking, stretching, setting up. I surveyed the crowd, many men already shirtless and toned women were prepping for the day. Hadn’t I seen these people on the cover of Runner’s World? Some of them even looked airbrushed. The blow-up finish line archway was already erected off in the distance. A folding table held medals and small trophies in anticipation of receiving one at the race finish. The trophies marked various awards for age groups. I didn’t expect a trophy of course, and somehow knew even getting a medal would be elusive if I didn’t come under that finish archway sometime later today. Out of curiosity, I began looking to see how they divided up the awards. It appeared they just had age awards. I was thinking to myself what they really needed was some non-runner awards, just by the slim chance that some of us who had no hopes of even completing the race may just happen to cross the finish line. What about a trophy for men who’s waistline exceeds their inseam?, maybe I could earn that one. Or to be fair to everyone, perhaps a ‘has cellulite’ division? Hmm. Could be on to something here. We headed to the bag check area. What was I doing here among these ‘elite’ runners, I thought? All the men and women I was seeing looked quite capable of flying through the woods, to leave me in their literal dust. A few competitors were already getting their race gear in place. One glance and you knew these were experienced runners. Men whose body composed of gangly arms and disproportionately long legs, with just enough torso to join it all together, and not much more. They were aerobic machines with chiseled abs. Some had race accomplishments permanently tattooed on calves— not just a 13.1 or 26.2, but the ‘M-Dot’, the 100M, the 140.6. Some had veins in their calves that bulged more than mine in my forearms (on a good day). These people knew hard running. I looked down at my tattoo-less legs. Maybe, I thought, I could scrawl a fake tattoo in magic marker on my leg….’used to be in great shape’ or, ‘Ran pretty well a long time ago.’

But the overwhelming sensation that I was in the wrong place on the wrong day lingered. What had my wife not told me about this event? I knew I already didn’t fit in. Slowly, as the heat of the morning rose, I felt my body melting into a puddle of middle-aged flab. , How would I run with these people, these aerobic machines? I just hoped they pass me quickly and wouldn’t hear my gasping within 10 feet of the starting line… But others arrived, and to my surprise not quite so ‘elite looking’ and many people looked kind of like ‘normal’ people. Not ones I would have labeled as the running elite, although they very well may have been. There were those who had also a few pounds to lose, older, younger, taller and the vertically challenged. Some brought their dogs and when I saw one man wearing a Scottish kilt, it bought relief that perhaps some there for the sheer fun of it, So what made a runner ‘elite’ I wondered? Was it a qualifying time? The number of races completed? A certain look or appearance? Maybe something else. My wife pinned my white ‘10-miler’ bib to my Dri-Fit shirt, then started making her social rounds, passing out homemade cookies to her ‘Run-Believable’ friends. Not wanting Marji to have to explain that I was perhaps here to actually run, (after all she was the one of us two with the running reputation, I was just her personal paparazzi at these events, not a competitor) I briefly entertained face-saving early exit options. Plan A: I could quietly become an aid station volunteer. At the first aid station, that was, if I made it to the first aid station, I will discretely tuck the running bib into my shorts and slip in as a (very sweaty) aid station volunteer….and how would I introduce myself after my late arrival? ”Hi guys, Corey here, reporting a little late for duty, just decided to jog the path to work instead of drive.” Maybe they would somehow believe this. Plan B: Return home, get my Nikon digital camera and jog with it a few feet up the first hill, then plant myself there the entire race, disguised as an event photographer, That was a job I knew I was cut out for. But somehow I looked around and sensed there were others, some perhaps, just like me, about to run their first trail race, and perhaps equally not sure if they made the right choice. But they all seemed to be stepping up to the challenge. I looked down at my race bib. It was hot and my shirt was already sticking to me. And I was going to run 10 miles through blazing heat. There could be big benefits if I finished, I thought. I suddenly became intrigued that it would be so strenuous and calorie intensive that the extra midsection I had accumulated by mid-life (normally obscuring my belt buckle) would vaporize by the end of the race, and my abs would be sleek and flat like every other runner’s too. Then I would be an elite trail runner, at least look more like one. A lot could happen in 10 hot miles, I just knew it.

The Race Course The race was named the ‘Wyco-Psycho, or Psyco-Wyco’ depending on who you talk to. The WY-CO part was for ‘Wyandotte County’ the race location. And I am sure the Psycho just made for a convenient moniker to make it rhyme. But I was starting to think simply naming it ‘The Psycho’ run would be appropriate enough by itself, and perhaps more to the point. A map posted in plain view provided elevation information for the course. My wife and I stared at it for a moment. “It says there will be 2300 feet ascent/descent over 10 miles.” I said the words outloud again. “2300 feet.”, I said it blankly, almost in disbelief. Surely that was a typo, probably intended to say ‘230’ feet of elevation change. It was not a typo. The map also included an elevation contour of the path. It was not smooth and gentle, but jagged, continually jagged with no flat spots anywhere. The ups and downs of the elevation profile appeared to have been created by the pen on a seismograph instrument during an earthquake. I knew about elevation change. To put in perspective, on a recent trip to the Big Island of Hawaii, I decided to ride my bike on the same 112 mile course that competitors follow during the annual Kona Ironman event. I did not do the iron man event, just rode the bike course. Now I have done distance biking, and the Big Island course was not easy by any means. But over the 112 miles I road, there was only about 3500 feet of elevation change, and that crosses continual rolling volcanic lava fields—no flat road anywhere. But this running race would offer 2300 feet of change in 10 miles, would have been like 40,000 feet on the Kona bike ride. Now I knew I was in for a workout. Had my wife conveniently forgotten to share this little detail about the Psycho course elevation change? This was not shaping up to be a trivial run through the woods. Several months ago, she had run the Wyco 10-miler—the same course--but in the dead of winter. My wife is known by others for her upbeat personality. It’s a good trait. I know her for this too, but also know that she can be blissfully forgetful when it comes to sharing important and (often) painful details when she is having fun. She enjoyed the 10 miler in the snow that day while running the same course. Somehow the mere fact that it was closer to a mountain-climb than a trail-run simply vanished from her memory. Now standing there, looking at the trail map with me, she did recall the minor detail, that there were a few times she needed to use her hands AND her feet to get up hills that winter. And she slipped several times. “I think I forgot that this course is so hilly,” she said somewhat sheepishly.

I still had time to go home and get my Nikon I thought. Suddenly, playing photographer for the day sounded really good again. This day would be challenging. Challenging indeed. Marji’s Race start I loved the casual atmosphere of the event. The race began between the picnic tables and playground equipment. A non-descript piece of grass just large enough to hold several hundred runners and their well-wishers. Really the only flat grass on the course. No formal starting banner. Just two orange cones, get somewhere close to those and that was the starting line. There were no announcements of ‘please head to the starting line.’ Everyone just meandered towards the cones a few minutes before 8:00, my wife and I exchanged a quick kiss and good luck hug, and after an informal announcement via bull-horn, the sea of 20/30 milers took off. The 10milers would assemble an hour later for our race. It was only 8:00 am and already shade offered a welcome repose from the sweltering sun. My race start-10 milers I had an hour before my group departed, so I headed back to the car to get my I-phone for some pics. The car was parked in full sun. It was roasting inside. I turned on the car briefly--the internal temp was 107—first time I had ever seen this. And my cell phone displayed a warning message indicating it was ‘temp too hot to operate’ Never had seen this before either. Now my cell phone couldn’t cut it….And we were going ‘running??’ The Psycho name flashed in my head again. I tried to push out thoughts of potentially unbearable pain that I may encounter. I once heard an ex-marine/marathoner interviewed about his running career. This man was a hard-core runner who knew no limits. To the question, ‘how do you handle the pain’ of running, his response was ‘Pain? Pain IS the REWARD. His words echoed in my head. If pain was the reward, I had a feeling by the end of the day I was about to be rewarded greatly. When my race group assembled, I passed several at the start early on, but the race hadn’t actually begun, we were still congregating in the starting area. This could be my only chance to experience passing, so that was just a confidence builder. Not intending to be, somehow I was up near the starting cone at the front of the pack. At 8:58, another announcement, although even briefer than the first. “Runners, head to the foot bridge, cross the road, climb the first hill, and follow the pink flags. The only pavement you will run on for anytime is when you cross the dam.” The dam was that dot on the horizon around the bend in the lake, which even if you could see, was already obscured by humid heat waves. There were a lot of trees and hills between here and there. I would be on my own.

When the horn went off at 9:00 sharp, my stomach momentarily clenched. OK, this was it. I was moving forward. From the start, we headed for the bridge, everyone surged out. I kept up with everyone for about 50 yards, and crossed the foot bridge. The start was flat, but with the humidity and blazing sun, I began breathing harder than expected, and already was convinced the first aid station had to be within sight soon… My Run My lungs felt instantly tight. I knew I was running too fast, and breathing too hard. But pride was playing its role. If only I can make it to the first hill without walking, was my only thought. Trying to blend in with runner elites when you are not one is, well,…in running there is just no faking it. When you can’t run, you walk. Could I just make it to the first hill? Then maybe at least in the trees, it wouldn’t be so obvious that I was the only guy who walked when everyone else would undoubtedly prance through the course like deer on a play day. As the racers headed out, runners passed me to my left and to my right, some older, some younger, I thought I was moving, but their pace was so energetic, I momentarily felt like a stationary river rock with the current flowing on either side around it. I was passed by a flurry of humans, tall, short, wide and thin. I stepped to the side of the human mass and was even passed by a 6 year old, his size 4-shoes taking 3 steps for every one of mine. He was cruising right on past with the others. I reminded myself I wasn’t in this for a time goal. Just to finish. And sometimes people regret coming on too strong too soon. Early on my race strategy was going to be jog whenever possible, but ‘walk the ascents to save energy, then run the down-hills and the flats.’ That quickly gave way to my revised plan which was ‘save energy on BOTH the ascent AND the descent because there were really no flats’, unless you considered the two strides across the creek bed or mud hole between hills ‘flat’ before you began the next arduous ascent. Ultimately the best strategy was to just do your best, it was going to be a long day, and there was nothing to prove. This was the ultimate strategy for me. Then to my surprise, I saw several others walking early on….some even walking up the first hill. ‘Someone else was actually walking!’. I didn’t expect it so soon, but somehow I was realizing it was OK to show my humanness out there. Suddenly the ‘embarrassment’ of walking was no embarrassment at all. The crowd of 10-milers formed a lengthy conga line up and down the first couple hills. Shortly after, the faster runners were on their way and we began to spread out. I thought we had to be a half mile into it. Then I heard someone say ‘quarter down, 9.75 to go.’ After two seemingly vertical ascents, what had felt like a half mile had only been a quarter mile. Somehow the news discouraged me. I wished I hadn’t heard that information. I intentionally wore no watch, no GPS. I encountered 35 MPH head winds on a cross country bike ride a few

years ago, and learned that when the head winds are stronger than expected, and your arrival time will be much later than anticipated, sometimes the best thing to do is cover up the speedometer, hide the odometer, turn off the Garmin, all of it. Otherwise the mental anguish of ‘being behind’ in one’s mind becomes an enemy worse than the wind itself. Faced with those situations, you just had to ride and not measure progress. So today my plan was ‘just run’, I will get there either way. I would only verify aid stations the actual course mileage for a mini-reward, and then not ask about time. I would only ask what mile point the aid stations were, and asked that when I arrived. I didn’t want to know time. Time wasn’t even in the realm of thought today. Just keep moving. The humidity was thick. Early on, my navy-colored Dri-Fit shirt was soaking and clung to me, wrapping around my chest like blue saran wrap. Already soggy clothes felt like they were removed from the washer without completing the spin cycle. My saturated navy shirt and dripping charcoal grey shorts now both took on a black sheen. By now, all runners, no matter what distance, were on the course, but the 10 milers started an hour after the 20 and 30 milers, with good reason. This helped to keep people spaced, and allow the longer distance runners to do so with less people to pass. Trail running is single file, sometimes resembling a conga line. You have to time your passes safely and be courteous about it. And you may have to wait your turn. Within the first two miles our 10-mile group had spread out. But in that space of time, at one point I heard swift footsteps approaching rapidly behind me. Not the normal jogging pace I was accustomed to hearing, whoever it was, was coming on strong, almost sprinting. I was in the back third of the pack or perhaps much farther back. I thought to myself surely just a ten miler starting late, trying to catch up, because no one in my part of the pack was moving fast. I instinctively got to the path edge while simultaneously heard the expected ‘On your left’ as a lanky tanned man in a red tank flew by me with the agility of a gazelle. he was smiling, looking straight ahead. I thought he must have been anxious to finish the 10 miles in good time. Then I saw the flash of his bib—it was not white like mine, but yellow ….he was not a 10-miler running late, he was a 30-miler, and he was in the lead, and although he had started only one hour before me, he had just run the entire course, and was starting on his second pass, and had just now lapped me. That meant he did his first 10 mile lap in just over an hour….I was trying to get one lap in three hours. But as he passed, and continued at light speed down the trail in front of me, almost skipping over rocks and roots that offered no obstacle to his quick feet, out came his words of encouragement to me…’looking good, keep it up! The race leader encouraged me; he was a nice guy. As the crowd of 10-milers thinned, I began to hear other runners in the distance talking, or more like constant chatting. People talking about their last run, or their kids, or their college days. I wondered to myself, ‘how could anyone breathe, let alone want to talk?’ And I thought to myself how could anyone talk about anything other than getting up the next hill?

After some more hills, I jogged again and actually overtook a woman who passed me earlier. Upon approaching her from the back, thinking this was my only opportunity that I might just pass another runner, I knew proper trail protocol was simply to announce ‘on your left’ and pass by when safe to do so, but instead because if figured I would only get to pass someone once and most likely when my short lived sprint evaporated, they would likely pass me again. Therefore, I offered a little more prolonged introduction: “If you don’t mind, I was wondering if it would be OK if I passed you, just so I can tell my wife I passed someone today, and then I promise in 10 feet, you can pass me again,” I said. The woman laughed and I passed her. Eventually she passed me again later when it was my turn to walk, but found that several of us ‘leap frogged’ each other, back and forth throughout the course, and although we were becoming familiar with each other now, every time we ‘re-passed’ each other, it was always accompanied by encouraged in the process. “You’re lookin’ good, keep it up, you got this.” Despite the heat, the shade of the woods was relatively pleasant, and if you didn’t know the temps would near 100 for the high that day, the shady areas actually felt nice. And while a tailwind is always what a runner hopes for to make time, the headwinds were welcome as they offered a slight breeze to keep the sweat from dripping into your eyes. Wyandotte County, Kansas, is beautifully rolling and rugged. Not quite ‘Flint hills’ but has bold limestone ridges and rocky outcrops adorning the country side, dotted with mature hardwoods of oak and hickory. The trail was much the same—rugged, hilly, densely wooded. While called an ‘established trail’ the path at times obviously channeled rain runoff, resulting in erosion making the path resemble dry water falls verses walking paths. Some of the terrain better suited for Mountain Goats and Dall Sheep with cloven hoofs, than humans in running shoes. By this time, even my group had spread out, and I was occasionally passing people who, head down, were working for every step. But the race was taking on a more peaceful complexion now. There were times when, by yourself, with only a pink flag to gently reminded you, that you were still on course. The end loomed up there, somewhere but I didn’t think about it. Many times all I could hear were birds, the sound of my own footsteps, and constant my breathing. My breathing was still heavy, had hoped it would have settled down by now, but it hadn’t. Maybe it was the heat. I slowed during the climbs to a walk. I was huffing too much to talk, and didn’t really want to talk, until I approached a man who was taking the course about the same speed as I was. He was running where possible, walking the hills, taking cautious descents. We were taking the same pace. I saw no need to pass, and stayed behind for some time. I began to breathe a little easier. Without thinking about it, we began a conversation, and doing so without ever making eye contact, as I recall. He just knew I was behind and started talking. I was surprised as I started responding in sentences, I didn’t think I had the wind to get out more than a few broken words at a time.

We ran the trail together between the first and second aid stations. It is funny how running releases the normal inhibitions of conversations. You start sharing with total strangers. With people of whom I didn’t even know their names, you find yourself exchanging life stories. I never did learn his name nor introduce myself. Somehow you put your guard down, you trusted others simply because if they were out there running this course too, there had to be something trustworthy in them. He told me of how he had run his first trail event recently. Without bashfulness he shared quite matter-of-factly ‘at that event, I came in dead last.’ He came in dead last, he was telling me about it, and he didn’t care. How could he not care? I appreciated this honesty, and then added a couple running stories I had heard. I told him of some people I had met at my wife’s running events who always have ‘come back’ stories. People who have overcome huge obstacles of health, or injury or pain, and when hope seemed to have taken it from them, they grasped it back and somehow, through it all, began running again. It was almost like running became their life’s metaphor for their unconquerable spirit. Running, whether fast or slow, meant they could not be defeated. It was always inspiring to hear stories of people who had conquered much and overcome. Then he said something to me I will always remember. He listened then said, “do you see the scaring on my legs?” I was running behind him. I hadn’t noticed, but then as I looked down, it was obvious. Deep furrows and discolored blotches of skin, up and down both extremeties. He said when he was in his early 20s he attended a bon-fire, ‘a friend’ threw a cup of gasoline on the fire as a joke. The explosion caught him on fire in the process. After 3 weeks in a burn center, 3 skin graft surgeries and a tremendous medical bill later, not to mention months of rehab, he was just thankful to have life and his legs. He took up running now, simply because he could. And he was trail running and didn’t care if he came in last. I just realized I had been talking to another miracle. And after I heard his story, suddenly, I realized I had no pain. There is always someone, always, who has had it worse than you. Not only did I feel pain free as he shared his story, I can honestly say, I never worried again that I would not finish the race. From mile 3 onward, I easily dismissed the minor tensions, the breathing, the aches, the heat, whatever. He was here doing this, I could do this too. I never learned his name, but waited for him at the finish. I don’t know that he ever saw me face to face until then, not sure he even knew it was me that fist-bumped him at the end, and wrapped a sweaty arm around him, for when we talked on the trail, it was with me ahead or he ahead, never side by side as ‘road joggers’ do.

I moved on and found even in good weather you get dirty running trails. Not just dirty, but muddy dirty. While I never recall landing in water, I realized my legs covered with muddy slimy grime. But the slick grime was not from stepping through creeks and across muddy patches. I was muddy simply because the sweat dripping from your head made its way down to your feet, and the dust of the trail stuck, mixing on your legs creating muddy slop from your knees down. I ran carrying a quart of water in one hand, a quart of sports drink in the other, refilled every station. I must have consumed at least 8 on the course and probably 6 more after, and only urinated once from the time I left home to the time I returned that evening (I know you want these details). Profuse sweating was the norm for all. The aid station volunteers were amazing. While the typical volunteers at street races are amazing, the street race volunteers usually just hand water or Gatorade cups to the throngs whizzing by, not ever getting personally involved with the runners themselves. On the trail race, it’s all different. These people are more like the Salvation Army to the homeless or FEMA workers at a hurricane—they definitely go above and beyond to serve. These volunteers wanted to help you personally. ‘Would you like water, sports drink? A coke?” I went to the water tap but before I could put my hand on it, the volunteer took my quart bottle ‘here let me do that for you.’ And opened and filled, then opened and filled the other. “Would you like a sport drink mix added?” I asked for the the grape flavor which he grabbed for me and cheerfully added to my bottle, giving it a good swish first. “How about ice?” He handed me ice for my face and head, and put some into the bottles too. “We have snacks,” pointing proudly, almost like a delicatessen owner, to a wide array of bowls and plates of real finger food, ranging from Nilla-wafers to cheese sandwiches and hot dogs, pickles, chips, crackers cookies. I suppose he would have spoon fed me had I required it. I popped a salt tab and took a pickle, thanked each volunteer personally for their service, and was on my way. These stations weren’t there to breeze through. Linger, enjoy the hospitality. The run continued. By now, my socks and shoes were soaked and squishy, acting simply as sponges for my sweat. From my head to my toes, everything was sweaty, and what sweat didn’t evaporate just rolled down with gravity, accumulating in my shoes. And every time I would tilt my head forward, trickle of sweat streamed off the bill of my hat to the ground, briefly watering the dry path in front of me. It was hot to say the least. The Dam was around 5.5 miles and after crossing and re-entering the woods, I recognized a familiar set of shoes ahead: The six year old boy who passed me at the start. He was running behind his mom. I had caught back up to the one who blazed by me at the start. I stayed behind them for a while. The boy maintained a steady pace without complaining, but mom would stop every now and then and let him close the gap, then she started again, offering positive encouragement to him along the way. “Hey bud you are looking great! Do you like running?” I asked him. He answered positively. We chatted and told me of his how he had already run several 5k and 10k races. He was impressive. In his six years he had covered more race miles than I certainly had, and likely more

than most adults. He could have been home playing video games or watching TV that day. But he was running, shirt off in the heat, not complaining. I was in no hurry to pass, so for a while we talked about things six-year olds talk about with adults, bugs and rocks and whatever we saw along the path. His mom maintained a steady pace just ahead, but now I was relishing the conversation. This six year old had become my inspiration. Though mom was calling back and encouraging him along the trail, he started lagging. Still moving, but slowing. Sensing his gap widening between him and his mom I asked, ‘Hey, want to have a race? Let’s see who can get to your mom first.’ That is all it took. He accelerated like a match-box car on an electric track, kicking up dust down the trail as he went. He had power to spare and I could see the under-soles of his shoes as he tore off in front of me, pumping his arms like an Olympic sprinter. I struggled to catch up. He high-fived his mom as he (of course) ‘won’ our race. A few minutes later, I passed the two of them as they took a trail-side repose, cheered them on, and was thankful for another new friend. I was in the last half of the race and feeling good. I often ran alone, no one insight in front of me or behind, other than the occasional 20 and 30 milers who passed. Good for them, I thought. They were looking good; I was feeling good. They could feel proud, I felt proud. Didn’t matter if they were fast and I was slower. That wasn’t the point. The point is that we could all enjoy it together. And EVERY person who passed me wished encouraging words, ‘looking strong…way to go…you got this’ I offered equal words of encouragement back. Somewhere between mile 7 and 10 the ‘real’ hills occurred. I hadn’t yet stopped along the race course for rest other than to refill water at the aid stations. But now these climbs were different. These were steeper, almost where you wanted to use hands along with feet because the path was almost as much in front of you as it was under. I stopped about 2/3 up one of the climbs and just stood for a moment, wondering if I should hold on a tree off the trail, but I talked myself out of any resting. I continued after 30 seconds to be greeted by an even steeper climb. This time, the trail was interspersed with thick limestone ledges, the kind people use to build massive rock walls. A rock slab about 2 feet tall and the size of a sofa looked inviting to sit and rest on, versus to climb over. Maybe if I sat down on it for a minute…..But it was in the middle of the path, where everyone had to step over it. I thought if I sit down, it may be a while before I can stand up, and if I can’t stand up, I would pose a certain imposition to other runners. This was the only legitimate step up the path. I mused as I pictured the potential traffic jam I would create behind me if they announced ‘disabled runner has assumed catatonic state, blocking the trail. Help needed.’ I laughed to myself and kept going, never sitting at all during the race. I knew the finish was not far off. My Finish

About a quarter mile before the finish, I was greeted again to the sound of swift footsteps approaching. The same tan man red tank and 30 miler bib—the race leader--he would lap me again--for the second time that day. He ran with the same intensity as when he lapped me in my first mile. Had I been a few minutes faster, we could have crossed the finish nearly together…my 10 miles with his 30 miles. I ran my course in just under 3 hours; with his hour head-start, he completed his 3 laps in just under 4, making our crossing nearly simultaneous. With one more hill and then a small rise to go, the pleasantness of the woods birds’ songs became overpowered by the beat of drums, the bass guitar, a rock and roll rhythm started filling the air. The DJ’s music at the finish. The finish was just over the hill. After cresting a small rise, and making a final turn, the finish archway suddenly emerged through the trees. Euphoric energize arose from within and I turned on the speed for the final stepsseemed like the thing to do. I was greeted with the typical enthusiasm all the crowd offers to other runners as myself. Cheering and clapping came from strangers toward me. The DJ announced my bib number as I blended into a small crowd of other finishers. All with smiles, a few looking dazed, but all happy. A medal was quickly draped over my neck and a ‘10M’ sticker placed in my hand. That was it. I was done. Now, my only thought and need: find a place in the shade to sit down, and wait for Marji. And I need water. Lots of water. I looked for a place to sit where I wouldn’t be in anyone’s way because I knew it might be a while before I could get up. I sat on a bench underneath the aid shelter. There was a post next to it, my strategic crutch when I eventually found my feet again. I sat and relished the fact that I was now still. I thought about the possibility that if I stood too soon, might embarrassingly feel light headed, stumble, whatever. I didn’t want any attention. I just sat there. The music sounded great, I had nothing to do, no place to go. It was 2:55 hours from when I started, but I had completed. Marji at 20 miles But I was also excited. Partly because although I was not ‘fast’ by any means, I also was never lapped by the one person who I hoped to be able to greet at her 20 mile point—my wife. I had not seen her or any of the ‘Run-Believeable’ group on the trail, which meant that they were still behind me, about to finish their second lap. But based on their projections, I still had 30 minutes of blissful rest to enjoy before they arrived and I had to worry about little things like standing again. Even though my race was technically over and my race finished, a kind aid station worker kept coming to me asking if she could bring me water, ice, a soft drink, food. It was kind and good hearted, I felt warm inside, not from my core temperature, but from the simple act of compassion and care being lavished on me. She filled my water twice, but filled my spirit many more times over.

While I was but on the course and while waiting after the finish, I don’t recall hearing complainers. (Well there was one person, but only one—seemed to be a little disappointed that the trail was so challenging for her, seemed she had a time goal in mind that she was just not going to achieve). There were some who the race doctor even those pulled from the race, receiving ice bath treatments and ‘time out’ in the ice house seemed happily compliant. Around 4 hours and 30 minutes into the race, a few of Marji’s run group emerged one by one, about on the expected pace. About 4:40 hours, Marji cheerfully emerged from the trail at the 20 mile point, looking happy but dirty. Her chin was bleeding, but she had that characteristic smile that let me know everything was OK. Our eyes met and greeted her before the aid station; I leaned over the rope separating the rest area from the runners, the brims of our hats touched in a sweaty kiss. She congratulated me that I was finished (I was happy she hadn’t lapped me but didn’t say it). She wanted to focus on my accomplishment but I wanted to focus on hers. She had completed 20 miles, with 10 more to go. I was proud of her, she was looking strong. Her face, arms, legs, hands were covered in dirt—dirtier than I had ever seen her. Slightly skinned knees matched the patch of red on her chin. She had taken a spill climbing the rocks. From her knees to her hands to her chin—it was all over before she realized what was happening. I helped her with a few snacks as she told me of her fall, and wiping her face and legs with a towel, said, “OK, is that better?” She was still dirty, but I could tell she was feeling great. The fall hadn’t fazed her. She was going to do this. She refilled her camelback and headed to the trail again, but waited for a running friend who, according to Marji had kept each other strong on the last few miles before coming at the 20 mile checkpoint. I learned later he ran only 2 more miles to the next aid station and announced he was 'walking it in.'. Unlike street races where there is always a crowd of runners ahead and behind, and supporters lining the curbsides, now without the trail friend, Marji was running by herself, primarily alone in the woods, the last 8 miles. The hours before I would see my wife again passed pleasantly. I dried my dirty socks and shoes on a sunny rock for a while, chatted with other racers. I enjoyed the continual camaraderie of finishers congratulating each other, snacked lightly and wondered if any pre-rigor mortise would set in to my legs, but to my delight, I felt pleasantly OK. I spent most of the time quietly observing the happenings around me. Some runners received ice-packs, one sat Indian-style, almost in trance-like meditation, under an outdoor water faucet and let the stream shower over his body. Others flitted around, socializing with other runners as if they had not even been running that day. But even people with cause to feel bad, seemed good. For me, pain was not an issue and I was feeling actually pretty good.

Marji’s Finish As 20 and 30 milers completed their races, the majority had now completed their course and headed home. The happiness of the event was still evident, but the hustle and bustle was diminishing. The final runners were thinning out, sometimes several minutes passed between runners individually crossing the finish. The hundreds of onlookers had dissipated to a handful now-twenty or so of us awaited the final finishers. Some chatted, hot dog in one hand, beer in the other and swayed in rhythm with the DJ’s endless tunes. My eyes just stayed focused on the opening in the woods where finishers slowly emerged, looking for the running tank top and camelback characteristic of my wife. After she didn’t emerge at 7-ish hours when first expected, I secretly was concerned but said nothing. I offered a silent prayer. When she didn’t emerge after 7.5 hours, an unsettled feeling started to grow. A few more finishers emerged. None of them my wife. Another 15 minutes went by. Now my mind started thinking the unthinkable thoughts. If you fell in the woods, there was no easy way to get help, what if she had fallen? At this point, there was no way of knowing if racers behind her were even on the course anymore. It could be a while before anyone found you and even longer to strategize getting you out. Only that perhaps another runner would emerge and summon others to head back into the woods, where their only recourse was a mountain bike or horseback. She was more than 25 minutes behind her previous lap times. Fleeting thought she was on the ground or had stumbled and lay bleeding, or even worse, lay passed out from heat exhaustion. I continued the wait. While the final crowd was few in number, many were running friends of Marji. Some who lingered were 30 miler hopefuls who decided to call it a day after 20 miles. They could have gone home 3 hours ago. But they didn’t. I didn’t realize they were waiting for the same reason I was—to congratulate my wife when she crossed the line. One friend said ‘Marji waited for me to finish my last race, I want to be here for her.’ Others said ‘she would do it for me…even if I finished after dark.’ At 7:45 hours after the race began, to my relief the navy tank and camelback emerged, the visor and smile that I knew only to be my wife, came out of the woods. Yes, she emerged after 31 miles with that smile, but after 26 years of marriage, I knew there was something else behind that smile. She was going to cry. And as she took her turn passing under the finish archway, under her sunglasses, she briefly did.

Wet from head to toe, hugs came from the team who awaited her finish. We hugged and took pictures, and got one more pic of her backpack verse, pinned on her the entire race, the biblical admonition from 2 Peter to ‘Do hard things.’ Some of the runners who simultaneously cheered her arrival were thee “Four-thirteener’s” a group who run with their mantra of encouragement in Philippians 4:13, and their shirts bore the verse, saying we can “do all things through Christ who strengthen’s us.” How fitting. The course was minutes from closing. Marji was one of the last to cross. It didn’t matter. The DJ began closing down his system, but played one last song, all too appropriate for her finish, Pharrel Williams’ ‘Happy.’ We felt like dancing, but would save it for later. After we had a private moment, she told me repeatedly she felt bad and wished that I hadn’t ‘had to wait’ for her all day. Where else would I want to be? I wanted to be there, I wanted see her finish her first ‘Ultra.’ Watching her cross, the ache of my muscles left me, in my joy for her, once again, I felt no pain. We gave more hugs and high-fived the running ‘family’ who awaited her finish. Nonceremoniously, nine hours after we arrived that morning, we gathered gear bags and I walked my newly-minted, muddy, sweaty, teary and happy ‘ultra-runner’ to the car. We took off our matching muddy socks and shoes, and left them in the trunk. Being close to each other, we realized we both stunk about as bad as each other, we laughed and realized it was another first for us too. For me, the memory of the day blended into a blur of green leaves, brown trail, beige rock and blue water. What stands out was the endless stream of happy people, encouraging each other from their soul. I will remember my wife wiping a tear from underneath her sunglasses as she crossed the finish at the final lap. My wife shared her ‘take away’ memory of her day: With the race course within an hour of closing, the last of the 50k runners were few and several minute gaps would pass between seeing any runners at aid stations. Marji shared that as approached the final aid station, she heard someone shout ‘Runner.’ A woman came out of the aid station running up the trail. Marji thought there must be a problem on the trail behind her. But the woman was not running past her, but to her. Fifty yards from the aid station, the volunteer ran to greet her and draped a cold wet towel around Marji’s shoulders. She then walked her, arm around Marji, all the way back to the tent. The emotion of that moment nearly brought tears to my exhausted runner. It was moving that a volunteer would be so compassionate. The volunteer could have easily stayed under the tent in her lawn chair and allowed Marji to ‘self serve’ herself. Instead she wrapped her strong arm around a weak sweaty stranger, sharing her

burden beside her and comforted her. The emotional comfort was as strong as the physical, and as much needed. Water? Sports drink? Food? Salt tab? Ibuprofen?’ While offering food for our bodies, their compassion and friendliness of the aid station workers offered nourishment for our souls. The need for emotional encouragement can be as great as the need for water…They gave us runners the energy to move, and continue on. They put the smiles back on our faces. A wise man once said when we serve other people, we are only serving our God. Often the most impactful ways we serve will be the ones that disrupt our comfort zone. That woman definitely got it. On the surface, one might think the heroes of that day were perhaps those that actually competed in the endurance event—the runners themselves--those who endured the pain and trial of the race. But as one of those people who ran, I can say with surety that the true heroes were not those on the course, but the true heroes were those who gave their whole day, just to make the race possible. The aid station volunteers made us feel like more important that we deserved. They not only offered nourishment but became the emotional beacons offering hope, who kept us spiritually on the journey. They magically made us feel like rock stars, while all the time maintaining a servant’s heart. They were the real heroes of the day. A helping hand, an encouraging word, a positive outlook. They kept us going, and they made it all possible. In the end, for me, I didn’t come in first, nor did I come in last. And in the end, none of that ever mattered to being with. I saw people endure. The man who finished 30 miles in under four hours was as inspiring to me as the woman who finished 10 miles in four hours plus. We saw human courage & compassion on display side by side, sometimes at its finest. Regarding races, I once heard it is not about the strength to finish, it is about the courage to start. There is truth in those words. As I sit here with my feet propped up, gentle tension in my calves reminds me that I crossed the finish line after about 3 hours on the trail, only 24 hours ago. How I finished is not even in my thought process now. I am simply glad I started. To my mild disappointment, my mid-life paunch hadn’t magically vaporized despite the arduous race. But this much I knew—I could work on that in the future--because there would be a next race. But I realized even more thing--being ‘an elite runner’ isn’t so much about the look of having sleek abs or an ironman bumper sticker (although that’s not so bad either). It wasn’t a tattooed reminder from an endurance event either. These things don’t create ‘Elite.’ In fact, truth be known, there really is no such thing as Elite. What is true, however, is more simply that if you try it, you just may find yourself, you grow your spirit, you reach new goals. And in that process

you may never win a single event, but you enjoy the experience. And it can be fun. And if any of that comes to pass, you are the Runner Elite. So that is the sum total of the day for me. That day running trails had been just that--fun. And I wanted to do it again. I suppose that means I had become a trail nerd. Good luck to all. We’ll see you on the trail again. Corey — with Marji Stark.