I Said No to a Pierogi – Mountain Masochist Trail Run 50 Miler

After gorging myself on baked ziti at a solo 4pm early bird seating at the Lynchburg Olive Garden (note: don’t do this; lots of stares from the old folks), I put my running playlist on shuffle for the hour-long drive to Camp Blue Ridge. It was the eve of my third 50 miler, and just like the first two, I was a bundle of excited nerves. After almost accidentally entering the building for the Deaf Eastern Autumn Revival Camp Meeting instead of the race check-in tent, I set up my tent in the large grassy field and walked to the pre-race talk.

 

The only person I knew in the room was the venerable David Horton, who I’d met at White River a few months ago, so I reintroduced myself as things were winding down. Since I didn’t have a race strategy yet – I procrastinate until the very, very end – I asked him for advice about the course. His wise words were as follows: the first half of the course is very runnable, don’t go out too fast, and save a lot for the second half of the race. I walked out into the chilly night, unzipped my tent, and cozied up in my sleeping bag. And then what did I do with David Horton’s advice?

I turned it all around. I decided that I’d let loose on the runnable first half, and made it a goal not to stop to hike any uphill climb for the first 22 miles, at which point the biggest climb of the race would start. Then, thinking optimistically, I would have enough juice left to make it to the last five mile section, which looked to be completely downhill. I popped a melatonin and skimmed Tina Fey’s Bossy Pants until I drifted off to sleep at 9:30pm.

A cacophony of tent unzipping, Jetboil whooshing, and I kid you not, men farting, woke me at 3am. Being the low maintenance gal that I am, I didn’t need to get out of my sleeping bag until 4am, so I happily read an hour of Bossy Pants before getting ready to board the bus that would take us to the race start an hour and a half away. The line of school buses snaking through the mountains in the moonlight felt simultaneously apocalyptic and nauseating.

The First 20

I’ll remember the first mile of the race forever. I stuck just behind the lead pack of guys, and found myself suddenly running alone under the starry sky. This tangible change in circumstance compared to the loud, bustling start line was electrifying. There was a cool breeze, and I caught a falling leaf in my hand as I followed the bobbing headlamps thirty feet in front of me. I no longer felt the nerves from the day before, only excitement for the long day of running in the mountains that lay ahead.

 

The first 20 miles went exactly as planned (although I did roll an ankle at mile 5, which was not planned). I leapfrogged with a group of guys over this first part of the race – shout out to Jack, David, Erik, and Justin! As I slowly motored up the climbs by jogging without dropping to a hike, the guys would pass me, and we’d share words of encouragement. Then, at the top of each climb, I would zoom down the next section and pass the guys back, letting my legs go as fast as they wanted to. The fall leaves were absolutely gorgeous, causing me to spend a lot of time running with my head cocked to the forest next to me, instead of the gravel road at hand.

 

The Last 30

I first noticed things might be going wrong at mile 20. My legs were tired. Exhausted. A level of fatigue I had never felt before, even in a long run or race. Perhaps even more disconcerting, my attitude had shifted. The excitement and joy from the first couple of hours were replaced with a sense of foreboding and dread. If my legs felt like this at mile 20, how was I going to run 30 more miles?

 

Over the next 14 miles, the downward spiral continued. First, my calves started cramping on the 2500 ft climb that began at mile 22. Next, I started to lose my stomach. Each time I ate something, whether it was gels, cookies, or small bites of Snickers, I felt a wave of nausea that lasted for ten or fifteen minutes. Finally, my quads started to cramp.

I entered the mile 33 aid station seriously questioning whether I’d be able to finish the race. The very nice volunteers encouraged me to eat as I stood hunched over in front of the table. Pretzels? No. Oreos? No. Pierogis? Wait, what?? I’ve never said no to a pierogi before – this meant I really was in dire straits. I put a brownie bite and an Oreo in my water bottle pouch and shuffled away.

My head wasn’t in it. My legs weren’t in it. So it’s no surprise that I caught a toe on a root and fell, slamming both knees and my right hip on some rocks. I sat on the trail for 30 seconds to let the pain subside. Fighting back tears, I noticed the silence of the woods in my first moment of stillness in five hours. I heaved myself back up and continued on at a slow hike. Instead of the pain and adrenaline jolting me back to attention, which is usually the case after I fall on a trail run, my brain wielded my throbbing knees as an excuse to drop from the race at the next aid station.

Not five minutes later, I heard someone behind me and turned to see a woman running up. “Are you Leah??” Enter Anna, a fellow teammate in my coaching group who I’d never met before (our coach David Roche encouraged us to meet each other at the race). What an opportune time to meet Anna! I filed in behind her and we got to know each other as we worked through the next section together. We talked about East coast adventures and races we’ve run and how our days had been going. Throughout this conversation my voice was quivering, indicative of being low on both calories and resolve. Anna was crushing the race, and her positivity brought me out of my wallowing. I asked her for advice on how to handle my stomach issues, and we laughed as she suggested the “hard reset,” more commonly known as the puke and rally. Thankfully this was not necessary, because after we’d finished the 20 to 30 minute climb, I checked back in with my legs and stomach, and they’d come back. It is still baffling to me that my legs stopped cramping and stomach recovered without a break or any food – the power of camaraderie, teamwork, and the brain!

 

A woman had passed me around mile 28, so over the remaining 12 miles I tried my darnedest to close the gap through periods of pouring rain in the chilly 40 degree weather. I ran the last mile and a half, much of which was steeply downhill, stride for stride with Justin. Since I doubt he’ll ever read this, I’ll say it here: Justin, we were casually talking about the 70+ ultras that you’ve run and how much we wanted to change into warm, dry clothes, but we were running downhill so fast that I was sure I was going to face plant at any moment. There, I said it.

I finished the day 2^nd female with a time of 8 hours and 51 minutes. Krista finished two minutes in front of me (amazing race, Krista!!) and Anna finished two minutes after me (yay Anna!!). Thanks so much to the race director Clark Zealand, and all of the volunteers who made MMTR such a great event.

 

In the hours immediately following the race, and the next day as I hobbled from sausage and biscuits to rotisserie chicken to Thai curry to beer, I vowed to never start a race that fast again. But now I’ve had time to reflect, recover, and wean myself off of Aleve. And I think I’ve got a better idea. Instead of making a time goal or specific race goal for 2018, I will train to find that feeling from the first 20 miles again, and to hold onto it for longer. Because damn, it was FUN.