On September 22, 2012, I earned a ninth place finish at the Georgia Jewel 50 Mile Race with a time of 12:08:19.
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| Photo courtesy of Wayne Downey |
The
Georgia Jewel 50 Mile Race, an out-and-back course that takes place
along the northwest Georgia section of the Pinhoti Trail, features
roughly 8,500 feet of elevation gain on rugged rock-covered technical
trails that demand constant attention to footing. The
exasperating experience of climbing up and down mountains while
side-stepping pointed rocks with fatigued ankles reduces even the best
trail runners to the frayed ends of mental stability. I
once saw a television interview with a famous author who, when asked if
he enjoyed writing novels, replied that he enjoys having written them. Did
I enjoy negotiating the dangerously rocky trails of the Georgia Jewel
as I encountered one false summit after another on mountain ridges while
my arms and hands bled from repeated falls along a race course where
manned aid stations were ten miles apart? I enjoy having
completed this race in the company of friends and beautiful scenery, and
the proudest moment of my entire running life was when I crossed the
finish line. The Georgia Jewel 50 Mile Race tore me down
emotionally, and the process of slowly rebuilding my mental walls
brick-by-brick was infinitely satisfying.
The toughest trail race that I have ever run ironically featured remarkably painless and uncomplicated start line logistics. On
the evening before the event, I drove straight up Interstate 75 to
Dalton, Georgia with a friend, Kat, who was participating in this
50-mile run as her first ultramarathon after having completed only 18
miles as her previous distance record. We were pleased to
find that the host hotel of Georgia Jewel was located within sight of
the interstate exit and less than a half-mile down the street from the
race start area at the Dalton Convention Center, where we arrived in the
predawn hours the next morning and parked 50 feet from the start/finish
line. The brave participants of the Georgia Jewel 100
Mile Race had started their event at 4:00 in the morning, while those of
us who were running the 50-mile and 35-mile race options took off from
the start at 6:00 in pleasant early fall temperatures under a dark sky.
The
Georgia Jewel course wasted no time introducing us to the relentless
hills, and the first two miles of the course rose almost 800 feet from
the start line to the top of the first mountain. After a
brief enthusiastic dash out of the start area, most of us slowed down to
jogging and power-walking on the 1.3-mile paved road that wound higher
and higher out of our line of sight. The gallows jokes and
nervous laughter between runners blended with sincere wishes of
encouragement as the crowd thinned and we all settled into our
respective comfortable paces. I must have climbed the
paved road faster than expected, because I soon found myself in the
company of faster friends whom I had identified from previous races as
being well out of my league in running ability. The
steepness of the paved road was soon matched and exceeded when we turned
left onto a gravel forest road that, once again, twisted beyond view
above us. As my headlamp illuminated the road surface in
front of me, I longed for a fast-forward button to speed up the sunrise
before turning left off the road onto the next eight miles of brutally
technical single-track trail known as the “Rock Garden.” My
wishes went unheeded, though, and I soon left the road to follow the
pink trail ribbon markers that led me into the dark forest.
The brutal assault of rocky terrain began at once and snapped me out of my early complacency. The
Rock Garden, an express elevator down to an endless hell of insidious
pointed rocks that seemed to trip me up every few feet, had begun and
there was no relief on the horizon. The predawn darkness
was a blessing in disguise, because the view provided by my headlamp
obscured the harshness of the terrain, and I felt confident enough to
run at a moderate pace while talking to friends. Even the
darkness could not hide the most daunting stretches, though, and I took
my cue from runners ahead of me who slowed to a walk when stepping over
the most technical trail areas. The Rock Garden had only
just begun, and the knowledge that I had eight more miles of this
terrain ahead of me was worsened by my realization that I would have to
traverse this same trail in the opposite direction at the end of this
50-mile race. As I often do during these ultramarathon
events, I amused myself by pondering the turn of events and twists of
fate in my life that had led to my actually getting out of bed hours
before daylight on a Saturday morning to put on a headlamp and run along
rock-covered trails for fun.
Pleasant conversation held the mental challenges of the trail rocks at bay while I ran with two friends, Andrew and Angela. At
the end of the first hour, I removed my headlamp under the rising sun
and joked that the happiest moment of my morning was stuffing the
headlamp into the top zippered compartment of my hydration pack. Our
random intervals of restrained running and fast walk breaks on the
boulders continued and I was astounded to find that we reached the
5.4-mile unmanned water stop in less than an hour and 15 minutes. Surprised
and pleased with my progress, I kept pace with Andrew and Angela when
the rock-strewn trail occasionally revealed less-technical stretches
that invited nonstop running. Strangely enough, I suffered my first fall as I ate a pack of Sport Bean jelly beans during a walk break. The
first of many bloody gashes on my forearm did not deter my positive
demeanor as I caught up with my friends, but the initial stages of my
fatigue revealed themselves as I started to trip on the rocks and catch
myself over and over. I kept telling Andrew and Angela
that I was going to slow down, because I had started the race too fast
and was getting tired on the rocks, but I somehow kept pace with them
through the entire Rock Garden despite my intentions.
I
was overjoyed when we finally emerged from the hazards of the Rock
Garden trails onto a gravel forest road and arrived at the 10-mile aid
station in two hours and 20 minutes. I refilled my
Camelbak with water, grabbed a handful of Gummi Bears, and ate them as I
ran nonstop down a long descent along the forest road. Every
ultrarunner runs his or her own race, and I was not surprised to find
myself all alone on the forest road after some friends ran on ahead and
other friends lingered at the aid station behind me. My solitude was short-lived, however, as I soon caught up with a small group. Jason,
the race director of the rugged Yeti Trail Race 15K that I had
completed a week before, and several other local friends, had banded
together and, sensing that I had been asking for trouble with my
faster-than-comfort-zone pace early on, I decided to stick with these
friends for a while and follow their cue as they took extended walk
breaks on the forest road that had now turned uphill. We
climbed and we climbed nonstop along the turns of the forest road, and I
assured myself that I was going to enjoy running downhill along this
same stretch on the way back to the finish.
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| Photo courtesy of Kat Schuller |
After
a long while, we left the assuring embrace of the forest road and
returned to rocky technical single-track trails on top of a mountain
ridge. I often blind myself to fatigue early on during a
race, only to suffer from abrupt mood swings when the extent of my
exhaustion reveals itself. This race was no exception, as I
soon began to react in a high-strung irritated manner when I tripped
over rocks and took occasional tumbles. When a mountain
biker appeared behind us on the trail and startled me, I yelled and
became so rattled that I shook for a few seconds after the biker passed. Despite
the fact that I eat race gels or other similar quick-sugar offerings
every half hour from the beginning of a race, I always seem to hit a
mental low indicative of glucose shortage around the 15-mile mark of
every ultramarathon. This time around, however, my mental state was taking a sharper downturn than usual. At
180 pounds, I had finally arrived at my weight loss goal, and I knew
that months on my low-carb style of the Paleo Diet could have very well
played a part in my present situation. I also knew that my
one non-Paleo guilty pleasure, Diet Coke, probably contributed to my
increased jittery behavior simply because I had been drinking the same
amount of caffeine every day while losing over a third of my body weight
in eight months. On the other hand, I may have simply
been psyched out from the realization that I was not even a third of the
way into a 50-mile race. I did not know what exactly was causing me to become so high-strung. I just knew that I had to find a way to keep going. My friends and I were in the middle of a seven-mile stretch without aid stations, and the only solution was to move forward.
Thankfully, our forward progress was impressive by my normal pace standards. I
was proud of myself for keeping up with Jason and another local friend,
Brooke, since these runners had both finished races faster than I in
the past. I enjoyed joining in on the conversation, but I
was equally content to trail behind Brooke and Jason as they exchanged
stories about their children. I was fully aware of my
fatigued state by now, but I still repeated the same comical scenario of
telling my friends that I was going to slow down only to continue at my
current pace to keep up with them. As the three of us
negotiated rocky trail obstacles while running nonstop down a
mountainside trail to the Mile 17.1 aid station, a handful of 35-mile
race participants passed us in the opposite direction after their
turnaround point and wished us well.
I
arrived at the Mile 17.1 aid station in a head rush of sudden tiredness
from the extended nonstop downhill run and grabbed two whole sweet
potatoes from my drop bag while a volunteer refilled my Camelbak with
water. After getting directions from a volunteer, I left my friends behind at the aid station and continued onto the trail by myself. I
wanted to remove myself from the pressure of keeping pace with other
runners, and, for the moment, complete solitude would provide comfort as
I mentally put myself back together.
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| Photo courtesy of Kat Schuller |
My
decision to stock my drop bag at the Mile 17/Mile 33 aid station with
sweet potatoes was the most intelligent decision that I made for the
Georgia Jewel 50 Mile Race and, in the end, I believe that this
nutrition strategy may have been the deciding factor in the ultimate
outcome. The slow-working gradual-effect sugars in the
sweet potatoes worked their wonders, but, more than that, the potatoes
just tasted wonderful. I ate one sweet potato as I left
aid station and carried the remaining one in my hand until the next
half-hour mark on my nutrition schedule. Even in my tired
and increasingly irritable state, I kept laughing to myself that I was
officially the quintessential hardcore Paleo caveman as I climbed a
mountain trail with a whole sweet potato in my hand.
I spent the next mile power-walking up a moderate mountain trail and managed to pass another runner. I soon arrived at a beautiful ridge and was pleased that the trail terrain was forgiving enough for nonstop running. The
next two miles to the Mile 20.7 unmanned aid station were runnable, and
I took full advantage by plowing along at my fastest pace so far during
this event. Occasional rocky sections slowed my progress, but these two miles of gentle downhill were a breath of fresh air for my psyche. I
knew that I would suffer compounded fatigue later on from the nonstop
running, but I also knew from past experience that, when trails are
runnable during a long-distance event, I needed to take advantage and
bank some time under my belt while the running was good.
My
primary goal for the Georgia Jewel 50 Mile Race was to earn this
distance on my feet as a training run for my upcoming second attempt at
Pinhoti 100, a race that ended for me at Mile 75 the previous year when I
failed to make the time cutoffs. My secondary goal was to
finish the Georgia Jewel 50 Mile in less than 13 hours, since a
sub-13-hour 50-mile race finish would qualify me to run the Laurel
Valley 35 Mile, an intense self-supported ultra that takes place along
the Foothills Trail of South Carolina and accepts first-time runners as
race sweepers. These two goals were conducive to one
another, and they were further entwined with my extreme desire to
complete my second trek through the Rock Garden section before
nightfall. I would suffer several moments of crippling
weakness in the miles ahead, but the thought of night falling once again
on these rocky trails shocked me like a cattle prod each time. I
was still moving in pre-noon hours, but my nonstop running along mile
20 of this course was nonetheless fueled by my need to race against the
sunset.
I
passed the water containers of the Mile 20.7 aid station without pause,
confident that I had enough water in my Camelbak to get me through the
next four and half miles to the turnaround point of the race. I had recently read the new Tim Noakes book, Waterlogged: The Serious Problem of Overhydration in Endurance Sports,
and was utilizing this new information by doing my best to drink
according to thirst instead of drinking by schedule, since I have long
struggled with my hydration/nutrition balances during ultramarathons. A
visible vein that now runs down the side of my forearm as a proud badge
of accomplishment from my recent weight loss served as a rough
indicator, and I figured that, as long as I could still see this vein on
my forearm during the race, my hydration was adequate and my arms were
not swelling. I would eventually realize that I am still
far from being an expert on proper water intake, because mild
dehydration likely contributed to the emotional lows that I later
experienced.
The
toughest mental struggles were still over the horizon, though, as I
quickly power-walked a mild incline after the unmanned aid station, ran
down the other side, and emerged from the woods into a vast meadow. I followed the pink trail marker ribbons around the periphery of the meadow to find a beautiful pond ahead of me. When
I paused briefly to look for the next trail marking, a blonde woman
suddenly appeared like an angel out of nowhere from behind a tree line
and told me that I would go left of the pond and follow the next three
miles to another aid station. I thanked the volunteer for being there, and then took off running to the left of the pond. I
continued an extended nonstop run for the next mile or so as I followed
the trail markings along the wonderfully forgiving surface of soft
gravel forest roads. Fortunately, the trail markings were easy to see. Race
Directors Karen Pearson and Don Gibson are both experienced
ultrarunners, and the Georgia Jewel 50 Mile Run was brilliantly
organized, from the race registration logistics, to the aid station
setups, and, finally, to the placement of trail markings by the
volunteers. Even when I am running a supposedly obvious
trail, I enjoy seeing periodic trail markings to assure me that I am
heading in the right direction. I always had that assurance along this race course.
Because
of an ongoing series of Achilles tendon problems that I had suffered
over the past couple of months after sliding on muddy trails at the Camp
Croft Challenge Trail Marathon in July and a recent shin injury that
had caused me to drop out after running 41 miles at the Merrill’s Mile
24 Hour Run on Labor Day Weekend, I was using the Georgia Jewel to test
some new race gear for the first time. I was wearing a
pair of CEP compression socks that I had bought at a local running store
the day before after having a calf measurement to determine the proper
size. I have worn compression leg sleeves that stop at the
ankles during many previous races, but this was my first time running
with compression socks that held tightness over my feet, ankles, and
calves. As I ran down gravel roads 23 miles into this
event, I was thankful to have experienced no Achilles weakness at all so
far, and I crossed my fingers for continued luck.
I arrived at a road crossing and followed the markings to another gravel road that led to the Keown Falls Trail. I
was familiar with the Keown Falls area, since I had spent my senior
year of high school in the nearby city of Rome, Georgia 22 years ago and
enjoyed many a weekend at the park with friends back then. A
gradual ascent on the gravel road provided a welcome respite from the
nonstop running, since I was now tiring rapidly in the rising heat at
11:00 in the morning. I smiled when the first-place
50-mile runner, a friend named John “Taz”, ran by me in the opposite
direction on his way back from the turnaround and wished me well. When
the realization dawned on me that I was only a mile from the Mile 25.1
turnaround point and had only just now seen the leading runner in the
opposite direction, a surge of energy reserve gave me the strength to
start running again. I kept running until the forest road
ended at the Keown Falls trailhead, where I now had to climb 700 feet of
elevation to the falls overlook.
Happy
nostalgia of high school weekends spent at Keown Falls only carried me
so far, and I soon suffered an extreme energy drop as I power-walked a
series of switchbacks up to the falls overlook. This is a
common occurrence for me after I have been running nonstop for a long
period of time, so I accepted the low that comes with the territory, not
realizing that my physical and emotional descent was only just
beginning.
The
trail switchbacks carried me up to a beautifully vast overlook that was
devoid of tree cover and exposed to the rising sunny temperatures. Another fast 50-mile runner passed by me in the opposite direction and advised, “You’re in for a real treat with the stairway of Death.” I
remembered the “stairway of Death” from my high school years, and knew
that my already-exhausted legs had a brutal task waiting for them just
ahead. I cursed quietly to myself as I encountered two
downed trees, crawling underneath the first one on tired legs, and
carefully stepping over the next one that was lower to the ground. I
ascended another switchback and arrived at the “stairs of Death”, a
series of unyielding stone stair steps that climbed steeply up the side
of the mountain with a wooden rail to protect hikers from falling. I
put one foot in front of the other to reach the top, but my relief was
short-lived when I encountered a friend, John, who was returning in the
opposite direction. I asked him if the next aid station
was close and he told me with a sympathetic expression that I still had a
very long climb ahead. I felt worn down to fumes as I
thanked him and continued my trek by turning right at the overlook and
starting a mind-numbingly gradual ascent up a forest road.
I
was now shaking with exhaustion and whining aloud to myself for divine
intervention to help me, but I still somehow passed a handful of other
runners as I exercised relentless forward motion up the road to the
John’s Mountain overlook where the 25.1-mile turnaround aid station
awaited. In retrospect, I have no idea how I managed to walk past other runners when I felt so helpless and weak. I
just wanted an aid station, I just wanted some sugary snacks, and I
just wanted somebody to tell me that I could turn around to go back down
this wretched hill climb. The smiling faces and
encouragement of a couple of other 50-mile runners who were returning
from the aid station greeted me with understanding, because these
runners had just experienced the same difficulty.
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| Photo courtesy of Candy Findley |
I
arrived at the top of John’s Mountain in a frazzled state and the sight
of my pale, shaking appearance must have concerned the aid station
volunteers, because they advised me to sit down. I told them that I just needed a few minutes to gather myself, and that, if I sat down, I would never stand back up again. This
aid station was manned by three friends, Jessica, Mitchel, and Brandon,
who knew me from previous races and quickly helped me refill my
Camelbak while I downed a couple of cups of Mountain Dew and some orange
slices. I wanted nothing in the world more than to rest
for a while, but I stayed at this aid station for only a couple of
minutes before grabbing a handful of Gummi Bears, thanking my friends,
and taking off on a downhill run on the rock-strewn forest road that I
had just climbed. I was elated to have reached this Mile
25.1 aid station in five hours and 45 minutes, and I took comfort in the
knowledge that I had over an hour of extra time in the bank to complete
the return trip for my 13-hour time goal. I enjoyed a
careful nonstop run down the forest road and, when I saw the tired faces
of friends on their trip up to the aid station in the opposite
direction, I paid forward past favors by encouraging them along.
My
rattled state literally returned with a bang when I tripped over a rock
during my downhill run and suffered an extremely painful fall that
scraped my hip and drew more blood on my right forearm. I yelled in pain, knowing but not caring that others probably heard me from miles around. The
situation went from bad to worse when I started to descend the stone
stairway, and banged my knee when I tripped over a rock. I cursed to myself and actually sobbed for a few seconds. Another runner just a few feet ahead of me asked if I were okay, and I replied, “I’m just…tired…of falling.” The runner replied that he had felt that way many times before. I thanked him as he soldiered on ahead while I limped for a few minutes to put myself back together.
I
encountered several friends who were climbing up the Keown Falls Trail
in the opposite direction on the way up, and, although I was still too
physically and emotionally exhausted to offer extended conversation, I
smiled at everyone and wished them well. A few of these
friends had finished considerably faster than I at past races, and I was
surprised to see them behind me on an ultramarathon course. I
remembered the paved road that climbed over a mile at the beginning of
the course and realized once again that I must have climbed that hill
faster than I had imagined.
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| Photo courtesy of Kat Schuller |
I
was still tired and shaking when I reached the bottom of the mountain
at the Keown Falls trailhead, but miles of runnable forest road
stretched ahead. I remembered a Patrick Swayze quote, “Pain don’t hurt.”, from the movie, Road House, and I took off for a slow run on the gentle gravel downgrade. I walked the next incline, but resumed running on the other side. The
next two miles to the Mile 29.5 unmanned water stop went by quickly,
although my running was interrupted by frequent walk breaks this time
around in my state of fatigue when I passed by the pond and meadows once
again. The runner who had expressed concern for me when I
busted my knee on the stairs was just ahead of me, and, although he
occasionally sped up his run, I kept him in sight most of the time. I
topped off my Camelbak at the unmanned water stop, since the noon heat
was still climbing, then started to power-walk the gradual unrelenting
climb to the top of the next mountain. I remembered the
comparably luxurious two-mile downhill run that I had enjoyed in the
opposite direction on this stretch a couple of hours earlier and knew
that I was in for a long hike. The runner whom I had been
trailing for the past couple of miles sat down beside the trail on top
of one incline and, when I asked if he needed anything, he simply smiled
and said that he was taking a break. I passed by and resumed a careful jog on a rocky descent down the other side. Just keep moving. Just keep moving.
A
scenario that would repeat itself countless times for the remainder of
the race occurred at this point when I attempted to run, tripped over
another rock, barely caught my fall with rattled shaking and profanity,
and slowed down to a walk. I was failing miserably as a trail runner, because I just could not pick up my feet enough to avoid the rock hazards. I had no mental strength left to give and I was sapped to my emotional inner lining. There was no way that I could keep going for the next 18 miles, because I tripped over rocks every time I tried to run. The
exaggerated low self-esteem stabs that assault me during moments of
sheer exhaustion and pained frustration returned in full force along
this stretch. I recalled some vague internet statistic
stating that the typical ultrarunners were successful middle-to-upper
class professionals who successfully balanced families, children, and
work with their running accomplishments. As I struggled to keep from stumbling on the rocks, I realized that I could not even successfully balance myself. I began to doubt whether or not I was cut out for ultrarunning in the first place.
There’s a scene in The Godfather where Marlon Brando’s character slaps his godson in the face and tells him to act like a man. My inner Vito Corleone surfaced and slapped me, ordering me to snap out of my gloom and focus on the positives. I
had lost almost 100 pounds over the past eight months, I was in the
best physical shape of my entire life at the age of 40, my running
ability had improved significantly, and I was experiencing the adventure
of a lifetime in a beautiful forest on a Saturday. I was also having the best race performance of my life on one of the toughest ultramarathon courses in the world. My
Achilles felt fine and my shins felt fine, so I was able to take
advantage of an ability that was a gift and not an entitlement. I started to run slowly down the mountain, and somehow managed to stay upright.
I
was still shuffling through strong emotions when I arrived at the Mile
33.1 aid station in weary condition, but I wasted no time finding my
drop bag and removing the two remaining sweet potatoes, along with a
sealed pouch of chicken breast meat that I had left especially for this
point in the race when I would need some protein. I ate
several bites of chicken straight from the pouch in a dazed manner as I
simultaneously downed three small cups of Mountain Dew, then thanked the
volunteers and started to walk away toward the impossibly steep
mountain climb that loomed ahead.
The
subsequent mountain climb was a tough-as-nails, slow-walking,
hunched-over, hands-on-thighs struggle, so I just ambled along at first
while eating one of the sweet potatoes. I had a little over five hours left to reach my 13-hour goal, and I was moving with shaky confidence, but still moving. Just
before I reached the top of the next mountain ridge, I encountered one
of the faster runners who had been ahead of me on the course so far. He was now limping slowly down the mountain in the opposite direction with a pained expression on his face. He
told me that he had injured his ankle on a rock and was trying to get
back down to the aid station that we had both just left. A
rare window of opportunity suddenly presented itself in my mind, and I
realized that, if I helped this runner back to the aid station, I would
not have to keep going for the final 16 miles and that, instead, I could
earn karma points by sacrificing my race to help an injured runner in
need. I could walk slowly back down the mountain at this
runner’s side and, within a half hour, I would be resting happily in a
camp chair waiting for a ride back to the start. I envisioned accolades from the ultrarunning community. Jason heroically put his best race performance aside to help an injured runner back to safety. I asked the runner if he needed help, and he replied that he would be okay walking back down the mountain on his own. I
wished him well, and continued on my way, faintly disappointed that I
would have to keep going for the next 16 miles after all.
I
broke out into a run once I reached the top ridge, tripped over a rock
once again, and endured a painful fall that battered my already-scarred
forearms. Over the next four miles, I ran only
sporadically, and, instead, utilized a technique that I consider to be
my greatest ultrarunning strength. My self-described
“Jason Voorhees walk” is an intensely focused power-walk where I take
large steps as my arms swing by my sides. My weekday
workouts consist of power-walks on a 10% treadmill incline where I move
fast enough to remain at a metabolic heart rate for one hour and I am
often able to walk almost five miles during that span of time. This
workout routine is always intense, but it is a surprisingly low-impact
way for me to protect my legs between weekend long runs and it has
ultimately worked wonders for my uphill running. The
benefit of this workout is realized most of all, however, in times like
this when a speedy walking pace serves me better than a hesitantly
cautious run on technical trails. My “Jason Voorhees walk” enabled me to pass a handful of runners along the rolling hills of this beautiful mountain ridge.
When
the frustratingly rocky single-track finally gave way to one last
forest road stretch, I took off running on the downhill once again for a
long time before reaching a series of small creek crossings at the
bottom of a valley and then following the forest road up a steep ascent
to the Mile 40 aid station, which would be the last manned volunteer
stop of the race. The sight of three faster running
friends whom I have always admired resting at this aid station was a
mental game changer for me, because I realized that I had been plowing
forward at a pace well beyond my wildest expectations. I
had over three hours to make it through the next ten miles to reach my
13-hour goal, and one of these friends assured me that I could reach
that goal just by walking. I laughed and told him that this was exactly what I was planning to do. When
I left the aid station with a handful of Gummi Bears and finally
reached the top of the forest road hill that led back into the dreaded
Rock Garden, I started running after all and continued to run for
several minutes until repeated stumbles on the rocks demanded caution
once again.
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| Photo courtesy of Candy Findley |
The next several miles through the Rock Garden were the most mentally challenging miles that I have ever completed in my life. I
was grateful that I was traveling this stretch in broad daylight on my
way back, but I still tripped and occasionally rolled my ankle on the
pointed rocks and boulder outcroppings. An agonizing
shooting pain surged through my right leg at one point as a foot blister
suddenly burst apart when my foot slammed into one particular rock.
The
sick irony of my situation was that I now felt energetic enough to run
nonstop, because my nutrition and physical resource expenditure had all
come together in a great way that left me with a positive second wind of
motivation, but I was unable to open up into such a run on the rocks
and boulders for the real fear of injury. I was so close to the finish, but I was also an eternity away.
How long is a mile? This is a simple question in terms of physical measurement, but the mental interpretation depends on state of mind. In
the same way that an hour-long church sermon can fly by in the mind of
an adult, yet last forever in the mind of a restless child, the distance
of a mile can go on as long as the runner’s mind allows. My “Jason Voorhees walk” pushed me past several more runners, but the cursed Rock Garden seemed never to end. I
knew that the final unmanned aid station at Mile 44.6 was close, but it
seemed to take days for me to reach it as I negotiated the rocks. After I finally reached the aid station, the next three miles of Rock Garden dragged along like a slow death.
Mental
metaphors of blood and punishment reached their height when I did
finally summon the confidence to take off running down the trail, only
to take one last harsh tumble with my hands out in front of me to break
the fall. I stood up, startled and shaken, to find that holes had been torn into the palms of both my hands in a “stigmata” fashion. I resumed walking, but used my Camelbak to wash water over my bleeding hands and remove the dirt from the open wounds. The pain was excruciating, but moving forward was the only option.
The
concept of “relentless forward motion” is the most useful mantra in the
ultrarunning world, because relentless forward motion involves finding
out how far you can physically push yourself and continue to move, even
if you are reduced to a walk or a crawl. Relentless
forward motion had carried me 47 miles in the form of happy running, fun
conversations, gradually accumulating fatigue, slow walk breaks,
labored climbs up stone steps, and through stretches of dazed
hopelessness. I had not sat down for the entire race, and I was not about to sit down now.
I reached the end of the Rock Garden and finally emerged onto the forest road that descended steeply out of view. I
took off running, relieved that the horror of the Rock Garden was
behind me and that I could hear the vehicle traffic from Interstate 75
at the bottom of the mountain. The forest road is not exactly a smooth travel, but I sped down the hills of loose pebbles and torn asphalt without a tumble. I was well within my time goal parameters and now excited to push the envelope on safe terrain to the end.
 |
| Photo courtesy of Wayne Downey |
I
turned off the forest gravel road onto the final 1.3 miles of paved
road and ran along the left side, facing the speeding vehicles that
rushed toward me as dictated by running safety guidelines. I
thanked my compression sleeves for holding my calves and ankles in
place as I ran fast down this road and pounded my quads into oblivion. One of the oncoming cars honked at me, and turned around to follow me. A local friend, Wayne, held his iPhone out of the car window to take a video while shouting encouragement. I reminded myself, “The faster you run, the faster you’re done. The faster you run, the faster you’re done.”, and accelerated my pace, even while talking with Wayne from across the road. The insanely steep pavement descent finally leveled off and I saw one runner ahead of me who had slowed for a walk. Wayne shouted for me to pass the runner and I did pass him just as we both turned the final corner onto the finish area.
I
crossed the finish line of the Georgia Jewel 50 Mile Race in 12:08:19
and placed 9 out of 39 finishers, earning my first top ten placement on a
fixed-distance course. My training and weight loss over the past eight months had paid off beyond my expectations. I
hobbled to my truck, grabbed my recovery meal of sweet potatoes and
chicken breast, and then sat down to cheer as several friends finished. Kat
crossed the finish line a short time later to complete her first
ultramarathon, and several other local friends sped across the finish to
sit down with me and exchange stories. I thanked the
amazing race directors, Karen Pearson and Don Gibson for putting such an
epic event together, and then drove home with Kat as we exchanged more
stories and relived the day.
I enjoy having run the Georgia Jewel 50 Mile Trail Race. I
do thank Karen, Don, every single volunteer, and every single runner
that provided company, encouragement, or simply another human encounter
in those remote woods. There were moments of joy and
elation interspersed throughout the day, even during the roughest
stretches, and these are the moments that always fill my rose-colored
rear view mirrors of memory if I do not take the time to capture
everything else in a long race report. When I inevitably
sign up for the next Georgia Jewel race, and perhaps even set my sights
on the Georgia Jewel 100 someday, I will return to this blog report and
smile at the surreal absurdity of things that I now do for fun.
See you on the trails.
Jason
