Running On Empty
2014 Pisgah Mountain 50k Trail Race Report
Friday morning, two days before the Pisgah Mountain 50k Trail Race, I put on tights and ran 3 miles on some local trails in the unusually cold weather. What should have been an easy trail run left me feeling like I had done a 10k speed-workout. “Hummm…”, I thought, but ignored it. That would turn out to be a big mistake.
Race weekend was at the tail end of the worst couple of weeks of my life. Two Sundays before this, I was running up a mountain on a training run when my friend Chad dropped to the ground and died. Needless to say, it was an emotionally and physically tiring couple of weeks. Foolishly, I thought that if I didn’t run the race, it would mean Chad’s death had somehow ruined running for me. This thinking was rubbish, of course. Chad himself would have told me to sit this one out because I was not feeling good going into the race.
Race Day
I woke up early on Sunday. Saturday was Chad’s memorial service, where I met his wife and brother face-to-face and listened to many stories about Chad from his friends, family, and children. It was an emotionally draining day. Nevertheless, I felt good and actually was excited to run the race on Sunday morning. I carpooled down to Pisgah State Park with my friends Emily, Amos and Mike. Amos, Mike and I would all run the 50k version of the race.
After a low key start to the race, I took off and had a nice conversation with Mike on the road. As we climbed the first hill on the road, I could feel that my body was tired. I chalked it up the the typical first 10–15 mins of ‘heavy legs’ feeling I always have when I begin running cold. Time passed, and I felt a bit better — enjoying the trails and running with Mike. I figured I’d run this one with him and just have fun, not try to push it or worry about my place. I would just enjoy the day like it was a long training run, with bonus aid-stations along the way. Two weeks ago, this had been my goal race for the year. A lot can change in two weeks.
Before we even reached the first aid station, I could tell there was going to be no way I could keep my pace. Around mile 8, I started slipping into the meditative, delusional zone that I expect to enter typically around mile 20. I ate a few shot blox and after 10 or 15 minutes I felt better, and even had a little runner’s high kick in. “Maybe I’ll push past this.”, I thought. Nope. The high slipped away, along with Mike, and I found myself alone.
I began to accept that I was simply exhausted. I wished that the race was scheduled for the following weekend — I needed a week of real, actual sleep under my belt in order to take on an ordeal like a 31 mile run. But, here I was, running this thing, and now I was alone. I went dark as the physical toil started to pull my thoughts and emotions down with it.
The emotions were not about the grief and horror of Chad’s death — though those feelings slipped in around the edges from time-to-time because I was so vulnerable. It was mostly a battle of trying not to come up with reasons why I should quit. At one point I scared myself into thinking I’d end up like guy I saw hauled away in the ambulance at the end of the Bear Brook Trail Marathon this summer — he just didn’t know when to quit. This all came down HARD around 10–12 miles into the race. I still had a LONG way to go.
Trying not to give up
I have never, ever, felt such fatigue in my legs. The 20 mile run I did in the White Mountains? Nothing on it. Catamount Ultra 50k and Bear Brook Trail Marathon? My legs felt fucking fantastic compared to this. Wherever I thought the marker was for the threshold of leg wreckage that I could endure, I was already miles ahead of it. I was actually quite fascinated with just how much harder this was than anything I’d experienced before — and I’d thought I’d gone pretty deep this year.
My legs were in so much pain, that walking hurt just as much as running. There was no difference. No relief whatsoever in stopping to walk. It was crushing — walking would only make this ordeal longer. The only thing that walking did do was lessen the cramping fits my legs would launch into on any incline. For any real relief, I was going to have to stop. Thinking about stopping led to thinking about sleeping.
I couldn’t stop and sleep, so 20 miles into the race, I walked and ran, on and off, by myself, sobbing in misery and swearing like a sailor until my mind shut off and I only worried about breathing. I would draw in a long, deep breath through my nose and throat, and then let out a scary growling noise — it became my world. Keeping that breathing consistent was the only thing I focused on. Funny how when everything shuts down, you end up thinking about the one thing you typically never think about: breathing. (This has happened to me in every ultra.)
The very last bit of the race got a little better as I began running with a guy named Joe. This race was his first 50k. It was strange because I had nothing left for myself, but I did have something for him. I led the two of us on the trail and thought of Chad as I encouraged Joe to stay strong. Chad was notorious for his infectious optimism on the trail, and many of the stories at his memorial service were about his encouragement on the trail. When Joe fell behind, I’d yell to him to keep moving: “You got this!”, “Yeah buddy.”, “You can do it!”, “Almost home now.” Joe actually passed me at the end on the road just before the finish line. I was happy for him.
After crossing the finish line, when I was finally was able to stop moving, emotions poured back into my brain. My quads were involuntarily jumping up and down, out of control, just lying on the blanket that Emily had kindly spread out at the finish area. I was transfixed for a while watching them while I waited for the cramps to subside. They were unlike any I have ever felt, everywhere on my body. My arms and back, sides, core — everywhere. All I could think was: “That was really stupid.”
