You can watch my race experience in video form here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cIpLcTcakzg
I was in and out of sleep for the entirety of the short night leading up to my first 50K. I turned the lights off before 9, but – as is tradition with big races – I was awake for a long time after that. Breathing exercises and attempts at meditation did nothing. The stoke was too high.
So I was awake 15 minutes before my alarm went off at 5 AM. I put on my race gear, plus some extra layers to stave off the 45 degree morning cold. Tech shirt. Short shorts. Hat. Vest. Gels and flasks in vest. Trail shoes. Along with the comfiest socks I own. I checked all these off the literal list I’d put together, to make sure nothing was forgotten. I knew any issues for long runs can start out small then snowball, and I wanted to forget nothing.
But even as I was getting my stuff together and preparing the AirBnB for check-out, it all still didn’t seem real. I’d been training for the Walking Tall 50K for the past 21 weeks, and had signed up for it 6 months ago. As I lived from day to day, it just became something I said. “The 50K” was a nebulous goal off in the distance, something I said when friends asked how the running was going. Now that I was staring it in the face, I didn’t quite know what I was looking at. That strange casual feeling persisted as we left the AirBnB.
We drove the 25 minutes to Big Hill Pond State Park. The familiar winter constellations followed us there in the dark country sky. Check in, deposit drop bag, try to keep warm. I met a friend under the pavilion, who had run this 50K before and was running the 25K today. He had been a source of essential information about the course, leading up to the race. We made small talk as I pleaded with my brain to accept that we were about to do something slightly crazy.
Eventually the first rays of the Sun were lighting the horizon behind the starting line, and 7 AM approached. The 50K runners sidled up to the race director. Anthem, prayer, AC/DC’s Whole Lotta Rosie – the usual American pre-race ritual, you know. And NOW it felt real, suddenly. NOW “fifty kilometers” loomed large in my consciousness. I looked around at the other runners, suddenly self-conscious of all the water I was carrying on my vest. Was it too much? Shouldn’t I have more of a strategy? Will I go out too hard? How slow is too slow?
I hardly had time to dwell on these thoughts too much, because 7 AM hit and the gun went off. The first mile of the course was on pavement, and I did want to start it a little fast. Because after that brief section of pavement is miles and miles of single track trail, and I didn’t want to get stuck behind a convoy that was moving TOO slow for my liking. Despite my doubts, I stuck to my plan. With the exception of the gloves I decided to add, to combat the 50 degree air.
I’d practiced on the 25K course last month, so the entire first half of the race was familiar to me. I was running it a bit faster now, legs feeling great after a three week taper. I fell into a rhythm, focusing on keeping my effort low and moving my legs as efficiently as I dared on the tricky footing. Roots and rocks threatened from all sides, but I sailed over them all.
The Sun had crested the horizon now, and a golden glow lit a hilly forest that was still grimly holding onto the last green leaves of summer. It was one of those views that stick with you, even if you’re constantly switching your gaze between it and the ground. Ahead of me on the trail now was a group of 8 to 10 runners. I decided I’d fall in with them for the next few miles. Ever the enthusiastic new student of trail ultras, I noticed that the runner ahead of me was dressed exactly like John Kelly at this year’s Barkley Marathons, and I decided that that couldn’t be a coincidence here.
That was the first discordant thought among many that rattled around in my brain for the duration of the race. I decided to run without music, keeping my headphones with me in case I needed a pick-me-up somewhere down the line. Without tunes, my mind became a free association free-for-all. Rational running thoughts could still punctuate the cloud of pop culture, but they took a back seat as I turned my brain off and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
“What’s your goal pace today?”, the guy ahead of me suddenly asked. The group had been running mostly in silence, so it startled me back into reality. “If I can average 11 minute miles, I would be ecstatic,” I said, not wanting to betray the fact that I had no idea what I was really in for.
He paused. “Shasta?”
“Hey that’s me!”
Turns out that the runner ahead of me was the one person who had commented on my Big Hill Pond 25K Youtube video I’d put together the month before. He was very kind, saying that he had only run the second half of the 50K course, and my video was the only one on Youtube that covered the first half of the race. I felt like an extremely minor Youtube celebrity. It’s nice when a stranger knows your work and appreciates it.
We encountered our first aid station 7.5 miles into the race, appropriately named Railroad as it was nestled right up against a railroad crossing. Turns out that that aid station also marked the end of our little running convoy. Some stopped, but I ran right through. I had my gels for fuel, and I’d hardly touched my two 500 mL flasks of Nuun. The morning was still cool, and I wasn’t sweating much yet. I had a three mile loop ahead of me before I returned to Railroad, and I knew some described this as their least favorite part of the course. Almost immediately I could see why: The climb after the aid station was straight up not runnable. Not that I was running many inclines today anyway, but still. I could feel the power getting zapped from my quads as I climbed, and I was helpless to conserve it.
As soon as I climbed, I was rushing back downhill into the swamp bottoms. I trotted along the thin trail, overlooking a slew of picturesque cypress knees poking through stagnant water. After a calm mile, I encountered the hardest climb of the day so far. It seemed to go on forever. Doubts started working their way through my brain as I climbed: Could I have prepared better? How am I going to climb this a second time when I’m exhausted? That guy passed me running, why can’t I run too?
Eventually I worked my way to the top, feeling less like a conqueror than a survivor. Maybe someone who had been given a stay of execution. I then drifted downhill back to Railroad. This time I stopped to top off one of my flasks with water, then ten seconds later I was back on the course. The Wall awaits immediately after the aid station: a hill so steep that they actually have a couple ropes snaking down it to help you climb. At the top I found myself between two runners who seemed to know each other, Gavin and a guy from Memphis whose name now escapes me. Gavin had run the Walking Tall 50K for all five of its previous years, and ten miles in he had an easy confidence around his race approach. As we made small talk and he discovered that this was my first ultra, he asked what my own approach was today. “Run dumb and make mistakes,” I laughed. It was one of those jokes that was mostly truth, and I held onto that mantra for the rest of the day.
Shortly after that, I made my first significant mistake of the day. On Mile 10, the course takes you across an elevated wooden boardwalk that spans half a mile of swamp. It was a welcome relief from the technical terrain, and I briefly felt the confidence of a road marathoner again. I also felt the corner of my phone digging into my ribs from inside my vest. I decided to switch pockets, and let my right ribs take a beating for a bit. I’d taken my gloves off around the second mile, but my hands didn’t share my warm confidence in that moment. The phone slipped out of my hands, and I briefly bobbled it before it hit the boardwalk and dropped off into the swamp.
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
I couldn’t believe what I’d just done. Gavin and Guy From Memphis continued on ahead as I rolled under the railing and followed my phone downwards. Fortunately it had landed in a clump of grass, rather than the knee-deep water elsewhere under the boardwalk. Finding my phone wasn’t the hard part. Climbing back onto the boardwalk was. I cursed myself as I wasted energy and my scant upper body strength to climb a leg of the walk and muscle my body back onto the boards. I tore a corner of my race number as I slid back under the railing. Really, that could’ve been worse. I didn’t feel like I lost much time, but I did feel pretty dumb. I caught up to Gavin and Guy before the end of the boardwalk, and Gavin reminded me that I have to be as deliberate as I can during ultras. I let them drift on ahead of me on the trail as I tried to gain back the strength I’d burned retrieving my phone. It wasn’t easy – my heart rate was close to redlining as I climbed the hill towards the fire watch tower that I’d also have to climb. I’m sure I was already looking pretty haggard as I approached the volunteers at the base of the tower.
As I climbed the 81 metal steps to the top, I passed Gavin and Guy as they made their way down. “Don’t drop your phone, Drew!” Gavin joked as he passed. It was a good-natured ribbing, and one that I frankly deserved. I briefly rested at the top of the tower, got my number punched, and wisely passed on the shot of Fireball that was waiting for me at the top. I need to run deliberate. The last thing I needed was a mind cloudier than mine already was. If that makes me sound like The Fun Police, so be it.
Miles 13 through 16 passed unremarkably. My legs felt great, but I was still struggling to keep my heart rate down. I knew that at Mile 16.5 I’d reach the Campground aid station and the official halfway point of the race. My drop bag would be waiting for me, and with any luck my family too. I also wondered if there actually was a creek crossing this year. In previous years, runners had to wade through a small creek just before the bag drop, and again just before the finish. But I hadn’t found it on my 25K recon run I’d done last month, and I’d heard rumors that beaver dam had required a course change that eliminated the creek.
Not so. I encountered a couple runners at the edge of the creek, unsure of what to do. “No other way but through!” I cheered as I approached, and we went splashing through the water. On one hand it’s cruel to get our feet wet this close to an aid station, and eventually this close to the finish. But at least it means you don’t spend much time with wet feet, if you plan correctly.
And in this case, I did plan correctly. My socks and gels were high in my drop bag, because I knew I’d want those for sure. As I approached Campground, I thought of exactly what I needed, and who I needed to direct for each. And there was my dad, just ahead of the tents, asking me how I was feeling. I grabbed my bag, plopped into a bag chair, and got the pit stop going. I swapped shirts, socks, and hats. I decided to keep my trail shoes, since my backups were old road shoes and they would’ve been miserable without the grippy soles of my Salomons. My girlfriend toweled off what mud she could, and replaced the bandaid on the side of my heel which covered a hotspot that my Salomons always seem to irritate. Between family, friends, and volunteers, it really does take an army to get a runner across the finish line. I tried to thank every person who helped me along the way, but I was never more thankful than when I was hunched over in that bag chair, with every need and then some being taken care of by my family. A volunteer topped off my liquids for me, then I was off to confront the second half.
After Campground, I approached a T intersection. There was a 25K sign pointing to the right, leading me to the same opening mile I’d run before. But there were no signs to the left that I could see. I immediately felt a sense of unease. The runner ahead of me had gone right, so I skeptically followed him with no one to tell me otherwise. This course does have significant overlap and I’d already passed a few runners going in the opposite direction as I approached Campground, so it didn’t seem too out of the ordinary.
I called out to the runner, asking if this was the right way for the 50K. Neither of us were sure. I decided to call my girlfriend, who I figured could ask one of the volunteers for directions. They assured me that they thought I was going the right way. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was off course and getting more off course all the time. 1.75 miles from Campground, I called again, and this time my girlfriend was able to talk to a race director. Shit. Yes we should’ve turned left at the intersection. The 50K sign was down. I had added four miles to my 50K run, for nothing. The race director wanted me to loop back over Miles 13 through 16 again, through the creek, to make sure I didn’t get lost. I decided I’d rather backtrack; I’d added enough distance to this event already.
I was angry with myself for not trusting my gut, and for not loading the course on my GPS watch. The course was loaded into my watch, but my watch sometimes freezes when I use its navigation feature, so I chose to go without. I was told the course would be clearly marked. “You will not get lost,” the event email had reassured me. In that moment I was angry at the organizers too.
The other lost runner had gone his own way when I placed the second phone call to my girlfriend, so I backtracked alone and got back on course. The fire had gone out of me. What good was this race now? Would I be able to get through Railroad for the last time before the 2:30 PM cutoff time? How was I going to run 34.8 miles, when I had planned for 31? That extra 5K would be a suffer-fest, I knew.
The second half of the course was a suffer-fest by itself. Climb after climb conspired against me, until I wondered if I’d ever get the chance to run on flat ground again. The morning heat was sneaking up on me, and I was pulling more from my flasks now. I was walking quite a bit, partially to save my energy and partially because I was looking for reasons to continue. I reminded myself to keep moving forward while I struggled with these thoughts. Any progress is good progress.
At Mile 22 (for me), I came across a magical aid station. Every volunteer was dressed like a Dr. Seuss character. Thing 1, Thing 2, and the maskless Sasquatch looked at me with genuine concern. They asked what I needed. I didn’t know. I wasn’t hungry, my gels were getting increasingly unappetizing, and I wanted to drink despite the fact that I was feeling a bit bloated. My face was encrusted with salt and I was clearly miserable. “You need salt,” I was told, which to me was funny because I could’ve just ran a hand across my forehead if I needed salt. A plastic mug of pickle juice was placed in my hands. Pickle juice! I’d never tried it, never heard of it in the context of ultras. But I felt vulnerable, and trusted the good nature of these volunteers in their ridiculous costumes. I followed up the pickle juice with the unholy chaser of Mountain Dew, topped off my water, and then carried on after hopefully communicating my real gratitude to these Things and Whos who kept me moving and accurately diagnosed my problem at a glance. Because once that pickle juice and caffeine landed, I was moving again. Race volunteers are saints.
I’d been videoing the middle of the race intermittently, but I went dark for a long time after that aid station. I was trading places with a few other runners, as we found our individual run-walk rhythms. Miles that flew by in the beginning of the race now felt like a lifetime.
The fire watch tower again emerged from the trees after a brutal climb at Mile 24. The 81 steps to the top were a bigger struggle than I’d remembered a few hours ago. Again I got my number punched, earning the additional challenge coin should I make it to the finish line. Again I declined the offered Fireball shot, worrying about what decisions I’d make without the entirety of my remaining resolve. “Run dumb, make mistakes” does not include stressing your body out further with alcohol when you’re confronted with the farthest distance you’ve ever covered in a single day.
I traveled a merciful downhill from the watch tower and back to the swamp boardwalk. This time my phone was staying safely zipped into my vest. I was neurotically checking my watch, concerned that I wouldn’t make the cutoff time at Railroad visit #4 despite the fact that I was still well ahead of pace.
I dragged myself into the third Railroad visit right at the marathon mark. There I had a couple slices of dill pickle, and two small Dixie cups of Coca Cola. This was the day I learned that absolutely disgusting combinations of food and drink are what truly keep you alive on race day. I refilled my flasks again and carried on into the three mile cypress swamp loop.
That loop dragged, but then, that’s the story of the entire second half of my run. I consciously noted when my watch ticked past 26.2 miles, celebrating the fact that I was now on the longest run I had ever undertaken. Somehow I’d gotten the idea that I’d make the cutoff if I “ran” 20 minute miles, and that became my motivation to trot down the single track trail when I could. Which wasn’t often. I frequently thought about calling my girlfriend as I walked along, just to hear her voice. I decided that that would be a bit dramatic. I wasn’t dying, I was still moving. Just keep my mind on the task at hand.
Halfway through my Mile 29 I was back at Railroad, well ahead of the cutoff time. Two small cups of Coke and a pickle slice later, and I was out of there. I noticed I had fallen into a similar pattern after each aid station: The caffeine and salt would carry me for one motivated mile after each aid station, then I’d crash again. I knew now that – barring disaster – I could finish this thing. Slowly. Painfully. The wind had picked up somewhere in the tree tops, and heavy walnuts occasionally dropped like mortars around me, exploding into the ground. I was too tired to be concerned.
There was a final aid station at Mile 30.8 or so. Just short of my personal 50K, but I took my time there. I had another couple small cups of Coke, and an offered popsicle. Why not taste the icy champagne of 50K victory? I hit the 50K mark in 6:50:10, ten minutes ahead of my 7 hour goal time for the day. It wouldn’t be reflected in the race results, but I’d had plenty of time to make peace with that fact by now. I celebrated my personal win without stopping. As far as I was concerned, every step after this was a bonus, and the only reason I had for getting to the finish line faster was simply to end this terrible ordeal.
When I had three miles remaining, I started playing the game of counting down the miles. “It’s ONLY a 5K” becomes “it’s ONLY two miles and change” to “it’s ONLY one mile and change”. I’d check my watch way too often, frustrated that the latest trudge that I’d put so much effort into amounted to only another tenth of a mile since I’d last checked.
I crossed the creek again, feeling so close to the finish. I climbed another wall of a hill, again with the aid of ropes. A spectator at the top recognized me. “No way! Are you the guy from the video?!” I gave her a high five. That lifted my spirits as I covered the last trail of the day. I emerged from the woods and onto pavement, and my legs realized that we were road running again. I had energy again! I ran up an incline for the first time in hours, as the finish suddenly felt within my grasp. 800 meters. 400 meters.
There was my dad, posted up as always ahead of the finish line. It was an old habit from back when he was my grade school cross country coach, letting me know exactly what place I was in and how hard I’d have to kick to pick up some points for the team. This time he surprised me by running alongside me. He’d been on a running journey of his own this year, but I still didn’t expect him to run me into the finish. We made small talk and I basked in the moment. He veered off as I saw my mom and girlfriend along the side of the road. I turned left, and there was the finish line. I figured I should probably film my own finish, but I quickly shut that thought down. This moment wasn’t for Youtube. This moment was for me. I threw up both of my arms and crossed the finish line. Only then did I stop my watch. 7:43:46. 34.79 miles. 56 kilometers. 70,000 steps. On multiple levels, I couldn’t be happier to be done.
I recapped with my family under the pavilion, and sipped a victory Coke, then a beer. I still wasn’t hungry, and wouldn’t feel any real hunger at all until the next morning. I went into this race with few expectations. I wanted to learn what trail 50Ks were all about. I wanted to see if I could do one. I wanted to understand how my mind and body reacted when pushed so far. In that sense and more, my first 50K was a rousing success.
I have another road marathon in six weeks. But after that? I feel like I’d like another shot at 50K, armed with the knowledge I now have. I can do it better, faster, less painfully. I’m nowhere near done with this distance yet.
But I was for the time being. Because my flight to Japan was in less than 48 hours!
Shasta Runs 