grayson highlands 50k race report
May 2021
Before Grayson Highlands 50 kilometer race:
I left 85 muggy degrees at the ocean front and drove 400 miles for breezy 60-degrees in Virginia. I’m trying to type while finishing a pile of crumbs at the bottom of a bag of Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips. The swap feels deeply right. I left my comfortable king-size bed and will be sharing a “full size” bunk style bed covered in a foam egg carton with my husband. We will sleep with the wind whistling through our unzipped pop-top windows and both of our snores, too.
Neither of us will sleep very well tonight. Tomorrow, May 1, 2021, I’m running my first mountainous 50k race in Grayson Highlands State Park in a town called Mouth of Wilson, Va. The park is also, quite literally, on the road to Damascus (Virginia). The race will be my sixth ultramarathon. I have completed a 50-mile endurance run, an 8 and a 6-hour get-as-many-miles-as-you-can event, one lapped 50K and a traditional 50K before today. But the race tomorrow will involve as much elevation change as the 50-miler I ran, with 20 miles less distance. I mentioned that I live at sea level, right? So I’ll be anxiously rolling over and over, despite the perfect sounds of the wind (and the white noise app on my phone) and I’ll rock the van and my husband who’s trying to doze off to the sounds of old-timey radio programs on an app on his phone.
I’ll stress a little about not getting enough sleep, but I’ve run enough races in my 42 years to know that it’ll be fine. I’ve slept well all week. No one sleeps great the night before a big event, especially not in a van. There’s a man in the tent site next to ours who was speaking with another man. They were comparing notes on the male competition, referring to someone “who won the AR 50 last year.” He must have meant 2019, because there was no AR 50 last year. There were so very few races in 2020.
The men are slim, white. One is balding. I wonder what they think of me. My face peeling horribly from a chemical peel I got with a facial on Tuesday. I’m wearing my favorite hoodie, given to me by my husband and daughters. It says: No one cares you run ultras. And I’ve already mentioned the chips. I look like my oldest daughter’s best friend who’s always wandering around our house with a bag of chips or the big carton of Goldfish crackers. Snacks are a central reason why I love ultramarathons and trail running in general. We call ultras sufferfests, and they do often entail suffering. I inevitably reach the place in each race that I wonder what the hell I was thinking to sign up for another one of these and swearing I’ll never do it again. But I’ve also learned to recognize those dark moments, the plodding steps through the pain cave, as part of it. Alongside the self-imposed suffering is also joy and a pleasure I never found in road racing. Trail and ultra runners eat real food as we move through the trails. Some of us hike the exceptionally steep shit, rather than forcing ourselves to at least ape running. I know I’m not going to win. Only in very small runs do I even have a chance of placing in my age group. But finishing truly feels like something. I cry almost every time I cross an ultra finish line.
The After:
I didn’t cry at the end of the Grayson Highlands 50K, by the time I finished I was feeling strong again, probably because I knew I was finished. The arc of every ultramarathon I run looks something like: at first I feel as stiff and clumsy as the un-oiled tin man. My joints squawk. I am seized with an urgent need to go the bathroom. Altitude thin air doesn’t fill my lungs. I gasp. I berate the choices that brought me here. Most races I move beyond this phase by mile 3 or so. At Grayson Highlands, it took me closer to five miles to find a groove—once the steep miles of downhill road running are behind me. I’m on a thin, technical trail. Fragrant earth, thick roots, moss and leaves. My feet remember how to move again. It’s also time for the inevitable ascent. Math isn’t my thing, but it doesn’t take a mathematical genius to figure out that when a race starts and finishes at the top of a mountain, if I go to the bottom I’ll have to get back up eventually. And when the course approximates 30 miles, most likely there will be ups and downs—literally, metaphorically and spiritually. The trail is wet, but not sloppy. The morning is early. The temperature hasn’t broken 45 degrees yet. Above the trees, the sky is bright blue and cloudless. But it doesn’t reach the floor of the forest. There are multiple creek crossings on the course. For the first third of the race I’m able to place my steps gingerly and keep my feet dry.
After a couple of switch backs, the trail climbs up the side of a waterfall. Forget running. At this point I’ll pulling myself up by my arms and feet on a ladder of exposed tree roots. Fresh, cold water splatters my face from the tumbling falls. I’m entering the high stoke portion of the race. I’m in the woods. I’m next to a waterfall. My kids would freak out. This is so cool. A transcript of my inner monologue is this vapid, this wide open. I find stretches of trail, some short, some long, where I can run and accept that I’ll have to walk again. The perceived impossibility of re-starting running after stopping is entirely mental. One of those weird truths (that’s totally false) that I absorbed in my fifteen years of road racing. In ultramarathons it’s as possible to flush the lactic acid out of my thighs and calves by walking a steep uphill as it is to gas myself beyond all hope by trying to run up the steeps. Likewise, slipping on a slick boulder and falling on the back of my head because I’m trying to pick up speed on a dicey downhill doesn’t get me any closer to a finisher’s medal or belt buckle. This is one of the beauties of trail races, particularly in ultra distances. It’s impossible for me to separate mind and body entirely. Completely zoning out isn’t an option. My breathing tells me if I’m pushing too hard. Kicking a rock into the air or snagging a twig on my shoe laces or gaiters all tell me that I need to pick up my feet. I ignore my body at my own peril. And my mind is a battle of its own. From euphoria—is there anything more wonderful than eating a squishy peanut butter and jelly sandwich while running under a forest canopy—to fatigue—where is the aid station? And didn’t they say there were wild ponies in this park—to exhaustion—screw this; I don’t need this; I can just head back to the road and call it a day—and back again.
I hear a conversation behind me. This is unusual for me. This is one of the bigger races I’ve run. I’ve gotten so used to ending up solo for long stretches of trail miles. A woman tells a man that this is her first “trail ultramarathon” and that she “runs long-distance obstacle course races.” He tells her how cool he thinks that is and that he hopes she enjoys her day out there. After her, he passes me as we move out of the canopy of trees and into a rocky gulch of boulders. So much of the Grayson Highlands run feels like you’re running in a dry (usually) river bed. He has a neck gaiter over the back of his head as he passes me. “Beautiful, right?” he says. “This is as close to Montana as we get on this side of the country.” I squeak out a breathy yes to both. He’s right. My husband, father and I hiked the Bridger Ridge in Montana last summer—a trail traversing a series of summits in the Bridger Mountain Range—and I haven’t felt as physically taxed and challenged by terrain since that day. At Grayson, much like on the Bridger Ridge, I’m rarely on even ground. Because of rocks, mud, fallen trees, I’m generally landing on the sides of my feet or having to angle my steps. But on the Bridger, I’d planned only to hike. At Grayson, I’m here to race.
The boulder field breaks through the trees and carries me into rolling pastureland. The Blue Ridge Mountains unspool behind me. Indigos and violets in the morning sun. I finally regain my running rhythm and find some flow. A blonde woman in head-to-toe black Lululemon gear stands off trail with her phone out and extended. I’m so thankful for her, because I would have run right by the miniature ponies nibbling the tall grasses and missed them entirely. I stop. Their fur is thick still. Spring hasn’t fully settled in up this high. Their manes are so long they cover most of their necks and down their bellies. Some are solid colored, whites and browns. Most, though, are painted, some mix in between. Regardless of their body colors, however, their manes are a universally light color. At least everyone I see. A family camps just off the trail. The ponies graze in a circle around their campsite. Children and adults alike stand mesmerized.
I slide my phone out of my tights pocket. The trail is narrow single track, wet and slippery rock. Everyone emits a surprised “oh” when they catch up to the slow snake of runners gawking at the horses. One woman offers to take my photograph. I’ve promised myself that I was going to take photos. I traveled 400 miles for this race. I wantto enjoy it. I reciprocate with photos of her. It’s a nice moment, but as passing as any other and it’s time to keep moving. The runner’s name is Evelyn. She’s younger than I am and certainly fit. But she seemed to struggle with her footing. She took slower, hesitant steps on the rocky terrain. My husband always talked with other runners when he ran trails. He’s a natural chatter, a people person. Most trail races I run long stretches without seeing other participants. But Evelyn and I fall into pace together. She tells me that the race is her first 50K and her first trail event. “I run a lot of road races,” she said. I’m impressed. This race is at elevation and vert is real. She’s from Chicago. She’s totally unfamiliar with trail running etiquette—run tight to the right when you can and allow faster runners to pass on your left.
We stay together for about three miles, until we reach the first aid station, roughly eleven miles into the race. There are plates of quesadilla quarters and halved pb&js, bananas, oranges (peeled and sectioned by some angelic volunteer), potatoes and more. Huge tubs of water and electrolytes and volunteers tipping pitchers into water reservoirs and bottles. There are also airplane bottles of Fireball. Everyone comments on them, but no one seems to drink any. I scarf some oranges and sandwich and head back out, thrilled to have covered more than a third of the course already. I’m feeling energized and strong. Evelyn soaks up the aid station vibes as I head back out, a whole banana sticking out of my right leg pocket. I’m thinking of how much time has elapsed and how my pace isn’t as horrendous as I’d feared. I plunge into that dangerous headspace of I can push it a bit farther now. It’s dangerous because my mind, my consciousness has vacated my limbs and swells up in my head. I stop paying attention. It’s a flat, rocky stretch. I’m not sure what I caught my foot on, but I go down. Hard. As usual, I land on my right knee and shin. I’ve cut open my tights. My knee bleeds. The banana has exploded, half in and half out of my pocket. My left palm is gritty and bleeding. I look to see if anyone witnessed my eating it. I don’t see anyone behind me. I need to walk about 100 yards before I start trying to run again. My steps are ginger and I take an inventory. I’m okay. Stiff, sore, but able to continue.
I can be clumsy, and find that I’m most prone to falling inside of two-weeks of the start of my period. Whether or not there’s a correlation, that’s what my body tells me. I throw the bottom half of the banana away, after scraping as much sticky goo as I can out of my pocket. My inner monologue has changed as I gain more experience running ultramarathons, and it’s one of the many gifts this sport has given me. Early on when I tripped or missed a trail marker or otherwise goofed up, I’d tell myself how dumb that was. Or remind myself that I’m an idiot. I’m not an idiot. But I’ve always gotten experiment and error tangled up with intelligence and worth. If my performance isn’t perfection, what’s the point? The damaging self-talk had plenty to do with the cessation of road racing. I didn’t realize it at the time, though. For a moment in my early thirties I was fast over distances between a half marathon and marathon, the fastest I’d been in my life and often fast enough to win my age group or place well among women. But that speed faded and everything I tried to increase my speed—plyometrics, aggressive speed training, heavy weight lifting—beat up my body and spirit without a corresponding increase in performance. Or enjoyment. Anyone can run half-marathons. What’s a middle of the pack finish even worth?
Thoughts are powerful. Now when I make a mistake on a course or in my training, I remind myself to focus on my foot placement and stay more present to the activity. I’m not such an asshole to myself. And it feels pretty good. Just like when I hit a wall. I don’t berate myself for going out too fast or neglecting my nutrition or being fat and lazy and a total waste of time. Instead, I remind myself that yes, this feels bad, really bad, but this bad feeling is a part of it and like any other feeling, it’s going to pass. I just have to keep turning my feet over and making relentless forward progress. The best athletes in the world grope through pain caves, unearth dark places in their minds. Why would I, a recreational ultramarathoner, expect to be able to train myself out of those dark spaces? Also, why would I want to, because the contrast between the I’ll never do this to myself again doldrums and the euphoria of runner’s high is dramatic. I’m better at enjoying the highs when I’ve experienced the lows.
The miles between the first and second aid stations are runnable, with fewer steep climbs and more predictable terrain. I don’t remember as much about these miles, except that the course doubles back on itself here and I miss a turn off, earning myself a half-mile uphill of bonus miles until a man chases me and gets my attention, directing me back on course. Less ponies. More covered forest canopy.
The spike in my heartrate when I see the sun glint off a car’s windshield. And there are less than six miles between the aid stations, so almost half of the ground to cover. The volunteers ring cowbells and cheer. I eat some sandwich and gulp down Coca-Cola, the nectar of the gods, and I carry on. My earbuds warn me that the battery is low. I attempt to swap to my husband’s Aftershox, but my fingers are clumsy and swollen, so no dice. The terrain drops steeply downhill between the second and final aid stations. The trail is thin and hard to follow, winding between rocks and roots and trees alongside of a large waterfall. I don’t need music at a time like this.
Two men pass me down this treacherous footpath of humus and rooty steps. I follow them rather than looking for the next pink ribbon marking the trail. I step out onto a wide, smooth boulder at the edge of the waterfall. Clearly I’m off trail, but this will make for an epic selfie. The two other men—one running in a sling, naturally—are convinced that the race route crosses the waterfall. This isn’t a stream crossing. We’ve had plenty of those. This is a rushing, foaming green and white rush of water, at least thigh deep. It’s a one missed step and you’re crashing over the falls terrain. There was no mention of this at the pre-race briefing. Another man makes the same wrong turn.
“Is this the route?”
The first two men bro dude each other over what their watch is telling them.
“No way this the way,” I say and start moving back onto the dirt.
Fortunately, I’m right and the trail snakes down the waterfall on our side.
The trail flattens out for a bit. I catch my foot on a large rock and barely save myself from another fall. I hear a woman’s gasp. Clearly she saw. I keep going. The woman and I leap frog one another. Eventually I leave her behind. There is a livestock gate, the kind I know from Montana, where you slide the ring beneath the clasp and it recloses automatically. The final aid station is just ahead, but when I was running I didn’t realize it was the last. I crunch down through leaves over a short but steep hill into the aid station.
One of the aid station volunteers points at my headphones—I have my airpods in again as they were able to charge in my backpack. “Those haven’t fallen out?”
I shook my head. “Nope, not even when I bit it earlier.” I gesture to my bloodied knee.
“Oh no.”
I roll my eyes.
Another aid station volunteer, a woman, said: “I do it all the time too.”
I pop some orange sections into my mouth. The sting of citrus. I’m so thirsty.
The day has warmed and I’m at the place in my run where I go through more water than in the beginning. My breath puffed out in cold huffs as I dressed in my van that morning, so it can only be so warm. But the sun is out and my body plowing through water. I ask for a fill up of both my small chest-worn bottles.
“I’m paranoid that I won’t get enough water to last to the next aid station,” I say.
“This is the last one,” the guy says as he pours something blue into my water bottle. “Up next is the finish.”
I hesitate before asking, not sure if I want the answer. “Um, about how far is it?” My watch says I’ve covered about 24 miles. It’s generally close, but I don’t trust it. Ultramarathon distances are measured in “ish.” Some courses are long, others short. They’re hard to measure as you so rarely travel in a straight line. No one runs one to Boston qualify.
“It’s not far. Four or five miles. A mile or two is road and then you’re back on trail to the finish.”
I can feel the grinch-like smile curve up my salty cheeks. I trot out of the aid station, reinvigorated by having so little in front of me. My burst of speed sputters. What he didn’t tell me—what I’m thankful he didn’t tell me—was that the road miles were all up hill. The young woman I’d leapfrogged before the aid station and I run a few hundred yards together, but we both get winded quickly. I decide to shift into interval mode to keep myself from walking the entire way up the hill. There’s always a little more in the tank, even when it sucks. I’m on my own again.
Nearly everyone is walking, hunched over and deflated. It reminds me of Last Gasp Hill in the American River 50 miler. But no one is handing out ice pops. We’re one long string of human suffering, beads pulling up the hill. I keep working the intervals. I’m barely surviving 30 seconds on and 30 seconds off, but it’s enough. I pass an older man and then a younger woman. I pass a few more men at the top of the hill, just ahead of the turn back onto the trail.
That has to be better than the road, I tell myself. I told myself the same thing about the reentry back into the trail at the end of the AR 50. Wrong again. The trail runs straight up. I’ve already done this first thing this morning. Was it this steep then? There are barely any switchbacks. I can’t keep my intervals up. A woman I haven’t seen all day jogs up behind me. I nod in respect and awe. I keep her in my sights for half a mile or so and then she disappears. Finally, the terrain flattens out a bit. Families are scattered around the trail up here cheering the runners on. I can run this but I don’t want to, until I see my husband, waving and smiling ahead of me. He thinks I’m miraculous and I don’t want to let him down. I hear cheering. We must be near the end. Another fake out. I can see the finisher’s arch, but John’s explaining, “it’s a lollipop, a short one,” and I’m being waved the opposite direction. The last two miles form a small loop away from the finish. I’m demoralized, but John has taken my pack and not having to carry anything feels really damn good. I keep waiting for the women ahead of me to double back and pass me. How far is this loop? I realize that the trail splits off when I reach a small AT shelter. A couple cuddling laughed aloud when I realized. “Oh thank god.”
I was headed back. It’s funny how quickly feet can turn over again when your brain tells them the race is nearly finished. Before I realize it, I turn back onto the welcome center lawn and crossing the finish line. I see my husband and my coach. Before learning I’d beat my planned finish time by 50 minutes, I know I’ll be planning my next race before we begin our drive home.
