The 2024 Caney Fork Ultra 50K

Saturday 2024-03-23 7:00 AM local time

50 Kilometers / 31.1 Miles

Single- and double-track trails. Occasional gravel road.

Friday, March 22^nd. 4:15 PM. My significant other and I were en route to Sparta, Tennessee, where I would be running the Caney Fork 50K with my sister. Barring the raindrops pelting the windshield, the car was silent as she furiously refreshed her phone for news. Jasmin Paris had two minutes left of her 60 hours to finish the infamous Barkley Marathons, and our only source of news was a white-haired man tweeting from a bag chair in Frozen Head State Park. She had until 4:17 PM. I checked my watch repeatedly as seconds ticked by. 4:16. The tension in my chest refused to listen to what my mind was telling me. There’s no way someone could cut it this close after 2.5 days. I glanced back at my watch, watching the seconds tick over into 4:17. Barkley had just ended, but to paraphrase an old adage, it ain’t over til the old man tweets. I stared at the road ahead and tried to visualize what might be happening at Frozen Head at this very moment.

A phone notification caught my eye. Jasmin Paris @JasminKParis finished loop five of the #BM100 in 59:58:21. I lost my mind. My SO lost her mind. There were few words as the car filled with celebratory vowel sounds and “OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOD”s. A woman had finished the Barkley Marathons in the most dramatic fashion possible, and I couldn’t imagine a better start to my race weekend.

Choosing The Race And Training

I chose to run the Caney Fork 50K because of the date. The fact that it looked like a fun and scenic event was just a bonus. I’d run my first trail 50K in late October, then turned around 6 weeks later to run a road marathon in early December. After a month of holidays and light mileage, a March 23^rd race would give me exactly enough time for a 12 week training plan. As with my first ultra, I used the Some Work, All Play Podcast’s Intermediate/Advanced 50K Training Plan (PDF warning). This time I was able to take advantage of cooler winter temperatures to really stack miles. I averaged about 57 miles per week, peaking at 77 mpw three weeks before the race.

Training included my first snow and ice trail runs, as well as my first night trail run – a solo trail marathon that started at 4:15 AM! I made sure to put a special emphasis on hills. My city is as flat as flat can be, so I really had to go out my way to get climbs in. Any time the training plan suggested hill repeats, I hit them hard and hit them often. By the end of the training plan, I could feel the difference. Hills that I had walked last fall suddenly became no issue. When I did gas my legs on a climb, they would slowly recharge instead of giving up for the day. I was excited, and that momentum carried me towards race day.

Race Day

I didn’t sleep well for the three nights leading up to the race. I fell asleep easily, but woke up 2-3 hours before my alarm. Race day morning was no different. I laid in bed and waited for my alarm. It had rained heavily for most of our six hour drive, and the rain continued to batter the porch roof of our AirBnB as I prepped my race kit. I’m one of those crazies who still gets excited to go jump in puddles and play in the mud, and my excitement overwhelmed any worries about my poor sleep. I privately hoped that the rain wouldn’t discourage my sister on her first 50K. She’d repeatedly voiced concerns that her training wasn’t consistent enough, and the first 50K is spooky for anyone. It’s that inevitable uncertainty of doing something for the first time. Hopefully my excitement and encouragement helped a bit.

Packet pickup took place in The Big Red Barn at the Bridgestone Firestone Centennial Wilderness Wildlife Management Area. Really rolls off the tongue. It was about 50 degrees and still sprinkling. I knew going in that this was a smaller race, and the arrangements were a little punk rock. People like me find that charming. The race director and volunteers were friendly and accommodating. Right down to the space heaters in the barn that everyone gathered around in the cool morning air. Volunteers laid the orange duct tape finish line on the barn concrete as we were waiting for the start. Hell yes.

With 20 minutes until our 7 AM start, I tracked down the bathroom. Upon emerging and finding my sister and SO, we found that the race director had gathered the 50K runners in the gravel road next to the barn. I guessed this would be the starting line. He was in the middle of his pre-race speech, some of which disappeared into the steady wind. Surely it’s the usual fanfare. I’m glad I had prepped my Garmin beforehand, because the race start was an unceremonious “three, two, one, GO!”. We were off.

Photo credit: Nick Morgan – https://nickmorganphotography16.pixieset.com/caneyfork50k/

The Start

It’s hard not to get caught up in the opening mile, even of a 31 mile run. The energy, excitement, and nerves turn you into a snowball rolling downhill. I trotted down the muddy gravel at an 8:40 mile pace. Way too fast. We turned left onto a wide grassy trail and I settled into something closer to 9:30, in what I estimated was seventh place overall.

A shallow, five foot wide creek greeted us in the first half mile. There were rough stepping stones, but I charged right through the water. Just the night before I had received advice to not avoid puddles or mud, and that was gospel for the day.

The runner in front of me had used the stepping stones, which allowed me to briefly catch up to him. We briefly talked training, but it became clear that we had different pacing styles. I let him drift ahead of me. I felt weirdly confident that I’d reel him back in.

We left the dirt path just past Mile 1, and took to the gravel on Scotts Gulf Road. The rain had let up, never to return. I decided to take advantage of the road while I had it and let my pace pick up. My heart rate was still below 130, so I had fitness to work with. My second and third miles were 9:18 and 9:14, respectively. Still about a minute slower than my current marathon pace, so I didn’t feel like I was cooking too much.

Miles 3.5 To 11.2 – Wes Johnson To Lost Creek

The Wes Johnson aid station passed by at mile 3.5 or so. The volunteers acted as a hotel front desk, ready to assist runners with anything they may have forgotten upon arrival. I continued without stopping, fully prepared.

As I ducked into the woods at Mile 4, I finally caught and passed the runner I’d been following since the start. Ahead of us were the first proper trails of the day. They were double-track and deceivingly treacherous. The wet leaves looked level and safe, but hid fist-sized boulders that will turn an ankle if you’re not careful. It was drier than I expected – no real mud so far. I was told later that this trail was once a full-fledged road, cut by coal miners in the early 20^th century, and it still holds up today. The rain had stopped but the forest was cloaked in mist. The first green of spring clashed with winter’s brown leaves.

40 minutes into the race, I’d dutifully thrown back my first caffeinated Gu. Five minutes later, I passed the last runner I would see (besides out-n-back sections) for the next five hours. How exciting to be near the front of the race. I was breathing easy and maintaining a 9:40-ish pace on the trails.

During the seventh mile, the John Cole Mountain Trail merged with the Dry Creek Falls Trail. As I turned onto the new trail, I couldn’t believe my eyes. A valley opened up to my right, with shadows of mountains lurking in the mist behind it. It was the first view to really knock my socks off.

Halfway through the ninth mile we started plunging. I dropped 750 feet over 2.5 miles. My quads were still fresh, and I navigated the rocks littering the path with grace. As I descended, the roar of a waterfall got louder. I looped around a corner and it came into view. Spectacular. I followed the subsequent creek for three quarters of a mile or so. I’d never seen anything like this on a trail run before, and it was a treat. Little did I know what other sights were waiting ahead. The downhill led to an out-n-back towards the Lost Creek waterfall, and the second aid station. A couple of the lead runners passed me in the other direction, looking as if their feet weren’t touching the ground at all. The out-n-back culminates with a loop that had us climbing a gravel road to a vantage point above the waterfall, before quickly descending until we were next to and below it. The view was incredible.

The Lost Creek aid station was at the parking area just past the waterfall. The food spread was simple, but it had everything I needed: I refilled a 500 mL flask with water, and had my usual mix of dill pickle slices and a dixie cup of Coke. Don’t judge me, it works!

Miles 11.2 To 27.2 – Lost Creek To Scott’s Gulf

On my way out of the out-n-back, I saw my sister. She reported that she was still having fun, which was her goal today. A mean 400 ft climb waited for me after her. It felt steeper going up than it had going down. I struggled to keep my heart rate below 170, but I felt like the climbing was easier than it had been at my first 50K. The hill training had paid off.

I finished the out-n-back at 12 miles in and turned right to continue my climb up the single track Rylander Cascades Trail. I passed some hikers between miles 12 and 14. They rang “virtual cowbells” for me, and cleared the trail every time I went by. I really appreciated them, and it was cool to have enthusiastic spectators this deep into the woods.

My pace had slowed to 13 minute miles on the climb, but I was confident I could make that up when the route plateaued later in the race. My heart rate was stabilizing on the climbs, and I realized that I was trading my quad strength for this lower heart rate. I wondered how long that bargain would be sustainable.  After my 700 foot climb, I immediately started a 700 foot descent into the Caney Fork River canyon.

At Mile 14.5, near the bottom of this descent, I took a risk. For the past two races, I had carried a couple salt tabs in a ziploc bag. I’d never used them. One of my regular enemies on long runs is sodium deficiency, and popping a tab suddenly seemed like a good idea. Part of it was, despite the cool post-rain air, the realization that I was sweating. A pretty good amount, in fact. I decided that I’d rather gamble with something new on race day than deal with the inevitable cramps and bloat of running low on salt. The tab was tastier than I expected, and I let it dissolve in my mouth for the next few minutes.

I heard Virgin Falls long before I saw it. It was ROARING with spring run-off, and I stopped in my tracks. The race didn’t matter as much as committing this scene to memory. This is what trail running is all about. The falls were even bigger than I’d initially thought, as I saw that they disappeared into a massive cave below ground level. I could’ve stayed here all day, and judging by the two tents I saw on a nearby hillside, some do. But I had work to finish. I reluctantly ran on.

The Virgin Falls Trail was rocky and rooty, and I didn’t take as much video as the footing got nastier. I fell once, bloodying my knee, purpling a toenail, and scraping my palms a bit. I crossed Little Laurel Creek, which really wasn’t trouble. This was my seventh or eighth creek crossing of the day, and they didn’t even phase me anymore. The water was probably around 50 degrees, but my shoes and socks dried within a mile or so.

Waterfalls became a frequent discovery. They just kept coming. As I saw the Big Laurel Falls, I knew that the biggest climb of the day was right around the corner. Up and out of the Caney Fork River canyon. I’d never climbed a 900 foot hill before. I was about to. It took 1.3 miles of straight climbing, but I knocked it out. Doing that much walking was unnerving when I was chasing a time goal, but what else could I do? Trash my legs and wind up walking anyway, but deprived of energy for the rest of the run? No thanks. I stayed patient and continued onwards and upwards, one step at a time. My watch claimed that my heart hit 184 bpm on this climb. If that’s true it must’ve been for a blink, because I didn’t feel like I was maxing out yet. My engine still felt good, even if my quads and calves were starting to complain every so often.

Eventually the trail leveled out, and the worst climb of the day was behind me. Soon after, a welcome sight greeted me: Gravel road. My 18^th mile took me 18:05. My 19^th on gravel? 9:36. I was back in business, baby. I was shocked by how good I still felt as I approached Welch’s Point Overlook and aid station. The overlook truly took my breath away. I told the volunteers that they picked a great spot to place a tent. The ground dropped away from us in three directions, and the entire Caney Fork canyon was spread before me, at least until the clouds started hiding it. Again I had no time to be a tourist, but I took a moment to absorb this view. I regret not taking a photo. There were multiple moments on this run that words will not do justice. The overlook is certainly one of those.

Photo credit: Nick Morgan – https://nickmorganphotography16.pixieset.com/caneyfork50k/

I celebrated pickles and Coke, plus what I dubbed a “Trail Arnold Palmer”: 50:50 Tailwind and water.

Miles 22 through 24 were joyous. I was now on the Ambers Den Ridge Trail, and I was hitting it as if it were a paved road. On Mile 23 I passed right by Polly Branch aid station, exactly as I’d planned to. That led me to Polly Branch Falls Trail, upon which I clocked my fastest mile of the day at 8:56. I ate my second salt tab, as I felt a little bloated. That did the trick.

As I completed my trail marathon, I understood that the course would be at least a mile longer than the advertised 31.5. I should’ve been at the Scotts Gulf aid station by now. But I was still following pink flags and ribbons, and besides trail ultras usually run a little long. I was feeling good enough not to worry about it. And I was right not to. A 500 foot descent led me to the aid station at Mile 27.2. More pickles and Coke.

The End

I was running alongside the Caney Fork River now, which was roaring from all the rain the area had gotten in the past couple months. I’m told that sometimes this river runs dry, even. Fatigue was starting to set in on Miles 28 and 29, but I was happy with how the day was going. I knew I still had a few strong miles in me.

My dreams fell apart as my watch chimed Mile 30. I had been following the clearly established Caney Fork River Trail. But here the pink ribbons I had been following in the absence of pink flags led me off trail towards the river. What? There were no pink flags to be seen ahead of me on the trail. I supposed this must be the course. But it led to the river, which was filled with boulders and was rushing by at waist-height. At least. This would get someone killed. I stood on a large rock jutting above the river, and couldn’t believe what I saw on the other side.

A pink ribbon. And a trail. “What the fuck. WHAT THE FUCK.” I yelled above the water. I could feel my PR time slipping away. I weighed my options. The race director had emailed us earlier in the week that the course had changed, so I couldn’t trust the map on my watch. But they wouldn’t change the course to lead across a raging river, would they? But the ribbon was there, and there was nothing on the trail I had been following. I had to make a decision.

Ten meters upstream, the river was safely crossable, if just barely. If I hadn’t grown up kayaking the streams of the Missouri Ozarks, I don’t think I would’ve even tried. But I did. The water was cold enough to take my breath away, and I had nightmares of trying to swim with frozen legs that had just run 30 miles. But I wanted that PR, and I was confident I could cross this river. Afterwards I’d have a conversation with the race director about this shit.

I screamed as I got to the other side. Screamed from the cold, screamed from the fear of having to cross that river, screamed from the fear of going off-course, screamed at not knowing if I’d made the right decision or not. I screamed again. Then I took the trail. It led me across another chilly, shallow creek, and continued slightly uphill for three quarters of a mile. Then the trail disappeared into nothing. A steep uphill boulder field, covered in moss, was before me. And so was a pink ribbon.

“FUUUUUUUCK.”

I had to be off-course, right? But there was the pink ribbon I’d been following all race. I desperately scrabbled up the boulders, slicing my finger and hardly caring. I hit the 50K mark, just over 6 hours instead of the 5:50 I’d been on pace for before this nightmare of a river crossing. Doubt was snaking through my mind. Do I backtrack? I’d have to cross the river again. I got to the top of the boulder field after 20 minutes of struggling, still following pink ribbons. There was no trail. There was no getting back on course. I’d fucked up. Again.

In October I’d gotten off course too. That time a sign had blown down, and a group of us missed a turn and added three miles to our journey. I was pissed that it had happened again. Sure, maybe two times is a coincidence. But maybe not. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Seriously thinking that that raging river was part of the course? I’m a hazard to myself and a liability to the race.

These thoughts raged as I backtracked to the river. My race was over, as far as I was concerned. My heart rate had dropped, and my body was cooling down. I just wanted to be done and put this race behind me. I felt like a failure.  Again.

As I crossed the Caney Fork again, I saw another runner go on up the trails without batting an eye at the pink ribbons. What did he know that I didn’t?

I survived the crossing and continued up the Caney Fork River Trail. Just over the next hill, out of sight from the cursed ribbons, was a single pink flag. Son of a bitch.

The fight was out of me. I felt like I blew it and I couldn’t turn my thoughts around. My mantra for the entire run had been Allie Bailey’s advice that there is no wall. And indeed there didn’t seem to be one. I’d overcome every obstacle so far without crashing. But this wasn’t a running obstacle. This was… self-sabotage? Poor race marking? I didn’t know.

The pink flags were sparsely placed in the back half of the course. So as I turned back onto the Polly Branch Falls Trail, I felt like I was lost again. I hadn’t seen a flag for a while. So I backtracked to the last flag I’d seen. And who walked around the massive boulder ahead of me? My own sister.

We both stared at each other, each wondering if they were hallucinating. My sister thought I’d gone insane and backtracked to her after finishing my own race. Maybe I had gone insane, but I still had a race to finish.

We walked the last massive uphill together, catching up on each other’s races. She felt a little broken upon realizing that there was an extra mile or two she’d have to do on top of 50K. Her Apple Watch was about to die. Maybe it was a good thing I was there.

I couldn’t help but fume and brood. I wish I was in a better state of mind for the end of my sister’s first 50K, but it is what it is. She started walking within 400 meters of the finish, but I convinced her to run it in with me.

Photo credit: Nick Morgan – https://nickmorganphotography16.pixieset.com/caneyfork50k/

The Aftermath

Honestly, crossing the finish line next to my sister at her first ultra was a very real silver lining to what had become a hard day for me. But my anger was still boiling. I wish I’d waited to cool off before talking to the race director, but he was right there. I justified talking to him with the worry that if I had got off course, others might too. After all, my sister had stood on that same rock on the edge of the river and wondered how she was supposed to get over there. I didn’t yell, but I was snippy. And I regret that. After sitting down and thinking things over, I apologized for acting that way, and we had a good conversation.  My anger should be directed at myself, not the race director.

Here’s what happened. The course takes place across state parks and designated wilderness areas. Park rangers are responsible for this land, and they use different colored ribbons to make significant points. Trees to cut. Future trails to mark. Significant points. The pink ribbons I’d been following – fresh and matching in color though they were – were a red herring the entire time. The only course marker were those pink flags. That had been explained during the pre-race meeting that I’d only caught the last half of. Guess which half was spent talking about the pink flags and ribbons.

I was surprised to see my friends Tyler and Kellie at the finish line. They’d driven 90 minutes to be here at the finish. I didn’t know how to acknowledge them in the state I was in. I was still a mess. But it was a huge gesture that they were there. I know it wasn’t easy, as new parents with extra responsibilities on top of that.

I sat in a bag chair and cheered on the other runners as they came in. I started working through what I was feeling. The joy of how well I’d run those 30 miles, and the joy of how prepared I was for the final two. The disappointment of going off course for my second 50K. This was supposed to be redemption, and I’d just kicked that can one more race down the road.

At least.

No. We won’t think about that.

I didn’t come to a healthy conclusion there in that bag chair, but I did later that night. I realized, what did going off course really matter? Yeah I’d added an hour to my race time and dropped two places, but who is that for? That’s for other people. That’s external validation. That’s useless. That’s not for me.

What is for me is how I felt over the course of those five and a half hours, where I was conquering terrain that I would’ve given up on six months ago. What is for me is the knowledge that I’ve dropped my 50K time by an hour in six months. On terrain that includes 4,400 feet of climbing and an equal amount of descent, no less. What’s also for me was being there to cross the line with my sister, at the hard-earned end of her first ultramarathon. That she wound up winning, by the way. I’ve introduced her to this beautiful, painful, meaningful, and truly epic sport, and she loves it. She was already talking about her next 50K by that evening. And I couldn’t be more proud. Yes. That’s for me. That’s what I choose to take away from yesterday. My Caney Fork 50K was a success, despite the setback near the end.

And that’s not going to stop me from coming back for revenge next year.

My First Ultramarathon – The Walking Tall 50K

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 was clearly having the time of my life.

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!