2010 12 22 ozark trail 100 leaves and rocks

Susan Donnelly Ultramarathon Trail Runner. Motivational Speaker. http://www.susanruns100s.com

Ozark Trail 100 - Leaves, Rocks and Lots of Creeks Date : December 22, 2010

Baby, it's cold outside!

November 6, 2010 It can’t possibly be this cold. It’s totally unnecessary. Ugh. But it certainly gives an easy race a challenging twist and keeps it from being routine. As much as I am really, really not ready for cold weather, steeling myself for these icy temps and thinking through the complications they bring, ups the interest.

Was I really at Javelina 100 two short weeks ago, in the sunny Arizona desert where highs lazed in the upper 70s F and lows lounged in the 50s? The thermometer this morning in Steelville, Missouri, screams 23F.

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It’s 3 a.m. We are up and getting ready to catch the bus. I force myself to dress in the outfit I carefully picked out for cold temps in a saner moment two days earlier: shorts, short-sleeved tshirt, long-sleeve zip t-shirt, and an uber-lightweight Patagonia jacket, topped off with gloves, hat, and Buff. Rationally, this should be just right but stepping outside the cabin to take a load of gear to the car, makes me panic about taking an extra fleece on the bus.

Let me explain the bus. This is a point-to-point race, my favorite format, and since the trail lies out in the boonies, there’s a long drive to the start – about two hours. Yes, hours. Thankfully, instead of making us figure out how to navigate all the turns on our own and retrieve cars after the race, etc., etc., they bus us to the start. The only down side is the length of the ride – long enough that halfway there, the drivers stop on the side of the road to give well-hydrated runners a pee break. So if you’re cold on the bus, you’re cold a long, long time before you even start the race. We can leave a bag of stuff on the bus and I totally trust the RDs – friends Stuart Johnson and Paul Schoenlaub – but after losing two drop bags of expensive gear at Pinhoti 100 a couple of years ago, I still can’t make myself leave stuff anywhere out of the norm. Rob talks me out of the extras fleece and I steel myself to brave the ride in race clothes.

Paul Schoenlaub at Grasshopper Hollow Aid Station.

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Stuart Johnson - thanks guys for making this race possible!

On the just-warm-enough bus, we land a seat across from Arkansas friend Paul Turner and in front of training partner Leonard Martin. Sporadic conversations with them make the time disappear, but they all manage to periodically nap while I can only watch instead.

When the bus finally stops, everyone piles off into the cold, joining the other bus load of talking and chattering runners outside, but I stay on while Rob checks us in. I’ve been so distracted with logistics and getting here, and work and other life stuff that I haven’t focused on the actual task ahead. Even with 40-some 100s behind me, I still need to ground myself and mentally prep for the distance and the unknowns ahead. It’s still 100 miles.

Better late than never. With the bus almost to myself and the other runners milling outside, I sit and meditate my way through the course…morning, afternoon, evening, night, more night, and then morning, picturing all the details and event I remember from last year’s race. I check for any expectations (finishing, running effortlessly…) and let go of them, accepting that I can’t control what will happen today. “Don’t focus on the end, take it all in the moment.” Much better. Calm now, with a deep certainty I can handle whatever lies ahead, I step off the bus into the darkness 5 minutes before the start, looking forward to the day ahead.

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Waiting (not for long) on the start.

The cold doesn’t hurt as bad as it did earlier this morning and anyway, it’s only temporary. I’ll be running soon and can survive this. In the lantern lights, it’s hard to tell who’s here but Rob’s height and orange jacket makes him easy to find and he’s talking to Leonard Martin.

Before I have the chance to even look around for other friends, Paul Schoenlaub gathers the crowd together and starts the race.

Start We funnel directly onto single-track, no road to thin the pack, everyone jockeying at the outside edge of politeness for an advantage, trying to get as close to the head of the line as they can get without actually shoving. I immediately lose sight of Rob and there’s no looking around because of the plethora of loose rocks under the leaves and the over-eager runners behind me, pushing, pushing, leaving zero margin between us for error. Crazy. It’s like we’re starting a 10k. Or swimming with sharks. One hesitant step is blood in the water and if they aren’t so close they run into you, they sense weakness and pass, sometimes letting you know they’re going to pass but often not. I concentrate in vain on picking the shape of brown rocks from under the brown leaves passing through the circle of light from my headlamp, determined to stay safe and treat my feet as nicely as possible from the get-go. Plenty of runners are ignoring the rocks in their urgency to gain seconds and places. Not smart – these rocks aren’t big but

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they take a toll over 100 miles.

It’s pitch dark and cold but I’m ok – just. The air hurts my face but as long as I keep running, I’ll at least stay just warm enough to make it to sun-up.

Dawn arrives partway through this section, (“thank goodness I can take this headlamp off!”), and the temperature immediately warms a degree or two, though this could be wishful, happy-tosee-the-sun thinking.

Gradually, the crush of runners eases off (after most of them seem to have passed me). The packs thins but when I think I have some trail to myself, a lone runner comes zooming up from behind so fast I wonder if he started late, then he sits right behind me. The burden is on them to decide to pass and (assuming they’re using proper trail etiquette) let me know they’re passing and on which side (again, assuming trail etiquette), but he doesn’t say a word. It’s distracting and I find myself running slightly faster as a result, which is even more distracting.

It’s like having your car on cruise control when cars around you are driving wildly inconsistent speeds. The runner hangs there like a leech, so close on this wobbly footing he almost stumbles into me. That’s my last straw. Since he won’t take responsibility, I will. I stop and step aside, just to be rid of him. The solitude is a relief, but only for a moment. Unbelievably, the exact same thing happens again a half mile later…

Grasshopper Hollow (8 miles) At the aid station, Paul and Stuart are both there, smiling. Stuart’s asks if he can fill my water bottle. Sure! I struggle with the top for a moment before giving up. The lid is frozen shut and my fingers are too numb to pry it open, so I just hand it over. Nothing like having the RD as crew!

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Grasshopper Hollow Aid Station - very busy!!!

Okay, my mission on this section is to carve out some alone space where I can concentrate on what I’m doing instead of what someone else is doing.

Like most of the course, this winds through open oak forest but this part was hit hard by a windstorm a couple years ago. The downed trees have pretty much been chainsawed away since then, but this part of the trail is pock-marked and routed around a continual string of rootball pits. The ups and downs are gentle and it would be a superbly runnable trail, except for the rocks and these pits.

I’m just starting to build a cushion of space around me, when my right foot steps into nothing and my leg plunges down into a deep root ball pit. My unhappy left knee grabs hold to steady me from tumbling all the way in. Definitely not part of the graceful running I was hoping for, and it allows some runners to catch up.

We run on. On guy without a water bottle stops at all the little stream crossings to drink, making a deal out of it when he does. To each his own. To me, the unnoticeable inconvenience of carrying a water bottle is trivial compared to the probability of experiencing the severe consequences of giardia. His stops mean we trade places a fair number of times through here.

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One of a bazillion creek crossings on this course. Hard to keep feet dry.

Besides, I’m prepping myself for what lies ahead – the first deep water crossing. It was so much warmer when we did this last year! I recognize the approach and slow down on the beach to pick a crossing but the runners in the loose line go willy-nilly at it, sensing a chance to gain places and time but not investing the few seconds needed to sight the flag on the opposite shore or pick a safe, and possibly dry way across.

Since I’d seen some runners ahead crossing over a fallen tree and I don’t want to get my feet wet, I chose the fallen tree and the runners who didn’t find a drier way across pile up behind me. It may take a few seconds more than walking directly through the thigh-high water but I don’t want wet feet for long on this course because of the constant loose rocks – a sure recipe for blister if there ever was one. Ironically (I’m tempted to say “cruelly”) this course has more deep water crossings than any I’ve ever done, by far. If your feet stay dry at this crossing, there are more blister opportunities ahead. It will pay to be nice to my feet now.

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Runners ahead, crossing the deep creek on a log.

The guys behind me barely bother to disguise their impatience while I climb over a tall pile of branches they’ll have to negotiate in a second. They’re acting like seconds matter, and I can’t help but picture the inevitable image of runners in the later miles of any 100-miler, camped out in chairs at the aid station, just sitting while the seconds tick by. Still, when one of them takes a stab at jumping across my right side onto the log right where I’m trying to climb up on, I try to hurry. He thankfully decides against it (because he would have knocked me off) but in my hurry to get up on the log and out of the way, I misstep and my camera dives gracefully from my pack into the frigid water.

For a moment, I don’t care who’s behind me or where they think the fire is. All I can see is the LED screen glistening pristinely at me like a multicolor seashell far below. With two more seconds gone and runners growing even more impatient, there’s nothing to do but jump from the log and get it. Once in the water, the cold is actually not that bad and it’s not as deep as last year, though each step toward the other shore sucks handfuls of pebbles into my shoes.

By the time I’m there, the entire beach is in my shoes so I stop to empty them while runners fly past.

Once back in the running, I make the lazy climb within sight of some other runners to the cliff above Sutton Bluff – maybe my favorite part of the course. You reach the side of a shoulder

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near the top of a hill and get a glimpse of the open valley with the aid station far below, before the trail wraps left onto a narrow shelf along the sheer face of the bluff. The trail becomes a narrow, rocky ledge with a wall on the left and long drop down to the creek on the right. Love it.

Sutton Bluff (17.6 miles) At the aid station, the dead camera and my jacket go in Rob’s drop bag (we’re sharing one here) and a baggie of GU comes out. Ugh, no dry socks – what was I thinking? Next year, I’m putting some here for sure. I’m in and out fairly efficiently but a blonde I don’t recognize leaves before me, running all the way up the road ahead. I follow as best I can, walking with food in hand and running on the not-as-steep parts (while still chewing) as she disappears onto the trail. It’s early yet.

The course winds along hill tops and hillsides through miles after mile of oak-hickory forest and the occasional open grassy area left by fallen trees. The rootball pits are mostly gone now so all my attention can now be devoted to spotting the loose rocks under the fallen leaves and adjusting footsteps to match. This game makes the miles disappear, one by one.

Stillwell Hollow (22.8 miles) The aid station appears before I expect and with an odd sense of deja vu. I remembered this one appearing later in the course? While I’m puzzling over my memory of aid station, I lose forget what I need and find myself about to aimlessly browse the table. Volunteers start to cheer another runner nearing the aid station, breaking the spell. “Snap to it!” I get my bottle filled, grab a small donut and hit the trail.

On a downhill, I pass the blonde and three other runners but never pull out of earshot range. At the beginning of a race, I’m often running somewhere above comfort level and making my body work like it’s supposed to until it wakes up and form, breathing, and all else flow naturally together. That should have happened by now but it hasn’t. It’s not a horrible struggle – just uncomfortable enough to be a chore I don’t want to even try to sustain for a 80 more miles. I hate to do it but have to accept I’m out of normal shape and can’t run at my usual level.

By the time I turn right into the deep, dry wash that takes us to the aid station, I’m beat and mentally down, listening to the runners behind me happily talking. I can finish but the running isn’t smoothing out and I’m just not enjoying it like I could. I’m trying in vain to think of some way to make it better when a voice inside calmly says “Run you own race.” That’s it – that’s what has been missing!

While getting my bottle filled, I pull out my default goal – to be comfortable.

The other runners pass me on their way out of the aid station and I let go of any attachment, wishing them peace in their own races.

Johnson Hollow (28 miles)

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Across the road and up the hill into the woods again, I repeat “run your own race” until it sticks and attention is focused on how I’m doing instead of how everyone else is doing.

The trail winds slowly through more upland oak woods. Much of this course looks the same but again, I can’t look around much because of all the rocks lurking under the leaves.

To my surprise, I catch the blonde, so we talk. She’s from California and this is her first 100.

She chose this because it fits well with her training and her family lives nearby in St. Louis. She looks way to fresh and neat to be running the same race I’ve been running (not a hair out of place!) but she’s great company and I hate to see her pull away on the downhill into the aid station. But I’m running my own race and silently wish her a successful, happy race.

Gunstock Hollow (34.8 miles) I come in looking for Joan Frost, hoping she’s there, in vain. She was here last year even though her husband, my good friend Jerry Frost, was recovering from a broken neck sustained in a bike accident. By all rights, this should be Jerry’s home course but this year, Jerry is again recovering from a bike accident, though if you can believe it, an even scarier one – he was hit by a car and is healing multiple injuries. Gratefully, Jerry’s an overachiever in the healing department and I am relieved to be able to look forward to running with him sometime in the coming year.

Besides Joan last year, there were a lot of grim-faced, dropping runners camped out in chairs.

Maybe because of the cooler weather, there are only empty chairs this year. I have a drop bag and invest the time to change into dry socks (bliss!) and pick up some GU before taking off, now with the idea of getting further than last year before turning on my headlamp. That would be cool.

But there’s one important milestone on the way. The spot where I first fell last and hurting the fingers on my left hand last year (before falling later and hurting the fingers on my right hand). I pass it without event, like breaking a spell, and the remaining miles roll safely away in solitude until the next aid station.

Brooks Creek (43.5 miles) I stop at the aid station, where I have a bag, and then head out on more trail through much of the same scenery. The miles go peacefully and run as far into the dark as I can without a headlamp. Just past a series of small streams, I stumble several times where I shouldn’t.

That’s too much tempting of fate. Time for the headlamp, a full section beyond last year!

Maybe I’m doing better than I think?

The turn to the next aid station is a short distance away. I feel great!

Highway DD (51 miles)

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The turn is actually a tiny out and back. There are several runners here. I have another drop bag here and change into dry socks again. I’ve still got the morning headlamp in my pack but I get the other one from my drop bag. One light won’t make it through the night without a battery change and since they don’t weigh much, it’s just easier and safer to have two. Why risk it with one?

I take off the morning headlamp and don the fresh one from my drop bag. The morning headlamp is brighter and will help me stay awake later at night when it’s most needed. That done and bottle filled, I head back to the trail and take the left turn down the hill I remember well from last year. After miles of running my own race, I’m feeling almost light on my feet, like I could run forever.

It’s a long descent. I am taking it happily but conservatively (as usual here) to pick out the rocks from the leaves, when I catch a toe and fall hard, cracking my bad knee on a rock. In the instant before the pain hits, the voice inside says “Race ender!”

“No!” I counter as the wave hits. The pain is so bad I can’t breathe, and roll in the leaves, gasping and hoping no one will come by. I don’t have enough energy to deal with anyone else even if they’re trying to help. It feels like my knee is broken. But no way am I going to drop unless I can’t move forward at all. An injury might make it hard but not necessarily impossible.

I pull myself together enough to haul myself upright using a tree in reach, but my knee won’t bear weight. Give it a minute. I dust myself off, pull the leaves off my shirt, and try to quell the pain. At least those runners from the aid station haven’t come down the trail.

Stupid mistake. The headlamp I pulled from the drop bag is an older model with fresh batteries but not as bright as the one from the morning, which is a newer model. I want to save the remaining batteries in the newer model so I keep the old model on. I need to be more careful with my footing.

“Okay, enough time wasted on this.” I grit my teeth and take a step, then force myself to gingerly walk, then as soon as imaginable, to shuffle in kind of almost-jog, marshaling all the little bits and pieces of good form together at one time to make the knee as happy as possible.

Slow is still okay. I’m just relieved I can even walk. As long as I can move forward, I can finish.

The shuffling slowly becomes tolerable and I’m just starting to believe it might get better when I fall again, hitting the same knee in the same place just as hard. I lay in the crisp brown leaves, hands clamped around my knee trying to stop the pain, struggling to breathe. Once I can breathe, I dare to inspect the damage, which I rarely do. A deep gash is oozing lots of blood and the other knee is scraped up as well. No bones sticking out but it will be a miracle if I can finish like this.

Ironically, anger gets me going. Two falls in less than a tenth of a mile? Dumb, dumb, dumb.

These falls were totally preventable. Why on earth didn’t I just change headlamps at the last fall?!? Since I’m down, I change headlamps. The difference is huge. I had no idea! The old model is relegated to household projects from this point forward.

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It’s the same routine over again but once I get moving almost normally, there’s another factor to contend with. This isection last year was poorly marked and required lots of back-andforthing to find the trail. I remember every place I got lost last year and it’s best to pay very close attention.

I pass the first place I got lost with confidence. I should know it well enough by now. The next two tricky spots go smoothly, using a hard-learned lesson from last year – if there’s no obvious turn, it’s best here to go straight.

Martin Road (59.2 miles) At next aid station, someone immediately asks to clean up my knee. No thanks – I want it to scab before going through the deepest of the water crossing – certainly above knee-height – coming up in this next section. It will be good to get that over with.

I make it to the crossing just fine, absent the gunshots from last year, and this time I know exactly where to turn. The headlamp of another runner is over the water. There’s no log or rock detours for this wide, deep crossing, and after surviving the first in colder temps, I plow straight across without hesitation. The runner ahead turns out to be Angela Hill. We talk on the way up the following hill until it turns left downhill and I start to pull away. Then comes the sound of footsteps zooming up behind me. Again? This late in the race?? Sure enough, and the runner, whoever it is, just sits right on my heels, not saying anything just like before. Great.

The downhill, which seems like an old roadbed on the side of a hill, is deeply rutted so I choose my route with care. Impatience emanates from behind but nothing is said. I keep going in silence. Nothing. More nothing. So I finally give up just to be rid of the distraction, and step right onto a high spot next to the uphill side to allow the person to go by on the good route along to the downhill side. The guy is confused at first but I tell him a bit impatiently to go on. Angela isn’t far behind.

He takes a stride onward and as I go to step left to the good track behind him, he hesitates.

What? I’m already mid-step and to avoid stepping into him and knocking him downhill, I change aim and set my foot on what turns out to be an unstable bit of dirt that gives way.

Momentum carries me over the cliffside, head first but on my left side, as if I was laying down on my side in the air. It’s odd to see things passing through my headlamp beam – a large rock outcrop, then trees trunks. What am I falling into? I can only think of the creek we just crossed somewhere far below. An image flashes to mind of hitting a tree headfirst and breaking my neck.

A trunk passes close to me and my arm shoots out to hook it in the crook of my elbow but momentum overpowers my arm and the trunk slides down to my wrist and then my hand. But it slows me enough to stop.

The runner and Angela have both stopped to help but I’m far enough off the side of the hill it’s easier for me to right myself. After a far from graceful effort, I make it back up to the trail, no

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horrible harm done. Well, that’s definitely a first.

The guy runs on and I slowly pull away from Angela and have the trail safely to myself until the next aid station.

Hazel Creek (68.5 miles) Same as last year, it’s deathly cold at this aid station. This time however, a drop bag awaits. I locate it as quickly as possible and sit down at the fire to change into dry socks. The longer I sit, the colder I’ll get and the harder it will be to start again. My fingers, though, are too cold to manage the shoes. Po Dog Vogler, a speedster who’s working the aid station, changes my socks for me. It’s an oddly personal experience to trust someone enough to let them do this, especially when your feet aren’t their most beautiful. Thanks aren’t enough.

While he’s struggling with wet feet, dry socks, and dirty shoes, Po Dog says Paul Turner dropped – bad news. He doesn’t know why but is going to wait until morning to give him a hard time. Rats. Knowing there’s one less friend out here makes it a little lonely.

Paul Turner, before the race, on the bus to the start.

The soup du jour here is chicken noodle so I head out into the cold, quiet woods with a cookie

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and in hand and plenty of warm layers.

This is a long, dark, cold section, and somewhere along the way, I start slowly catching headlamps on a long climb but one pair of lights are on the side of the trail aren’t moving. I swear this is almost exactly where I saw a pacer and crashing runner last year. It’s almost the same, except the runner, the blonde from California, is clearly not doing well. I avert my headlamp beam and since I’m passing right next to them, ask the usual “how’s it going?”

“Fine, just resting for a moment,” answers the male pacer.

“As long as you’re making forward progress.”

“So true.”

I’m about four steps past when I hear her quietly crying or pleading something inaudible to her male pacer, who immediately starts yelling “QUIT YOUR F—-ING WHINING! QUIT YOUR F—ING WHINING!!! THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE THE HARDEST THING YOU’VE EVER DONE IN YOUR LIFE!” The sheer violence of it electrifies my skin with adrenaline. I speed up to put some distance between me and that. It’s not something I want in my race and I don’t want to be anywhere near it.

Once I’m comfortably out of range, I wonder if they discussed this strategy before the race.

Hope so. I’ve never seen anything like it and speculate whether the pacer knows this mileage and time of night is a common low spot.

I spend the rest of the section putting distance between me and them. It passes quickly.

Machell Hollow (75.1 miles) Miles later, the aid station comes into view. At least I think so. Across a road and along a hillside trail, there it is. A couple of HAM radio operators are here along with a race volunteer or two and they are crowded around a runner who’s got something dramatic going on. I serve myself and while they debate about needles and toenails. There’s tons of what-if’s, much examination of the toenail in question, and lots of drama. This also is something I have no need, desire, or (probably) capacity to watch at this particular point. I leave. I hope someone checked me through the station.

Ahead lies Berryman Campground, where I saw Rob last year on the short out-and-back to the aid station. I wonder how close he is (another gauge against last year’s performance). My mind drifts away and the miles goes smoothly.

Berryman Campground (81.5 miles)

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This is a busy place, though there aren’t many runners sitting on the benches under the picnic shelter. I get my drop bag and park in a corner under a stand-up heater to put on the last of the dry socks. A volunteer promises the potato soup is pure vegetarian, so I have a cup, then another, while I’m doing the socks. Real food late in a 100 is a treasure, and this is seriously good stuff. The guy promises veggie soup at the next aid station. I’m tempted to believe him because of the miracle produced here, but suspicious. If it’s really vegetarian, it usually means “we can heat some up for you,” which is really nice but takes too long. It’s a happy possibility but I’m not counting on it.

Now, to get out of here. Will I see Rob like I did last year?

Nope. I get out to the junction and turn right, downhill and onward without seeing him or much of anyone. Still in the dark, I pass the spot where I turned my headlamp off last year. Yes! It’s nice to be doing visibly better. I also pass the area where I started to have Aleve-based problems last year. So much nicer to be doing better on that too.

But…maybe it was right before the next aid station…maybe it wasn’t after Berryman. I can picture the next aid station (even remember eating two chocolate mini donuts) but it seems like it was dark-ish. Maybe in pine trees? Or maybe it was right after dawn?

I’m suddenly impatient for the right turn up the draw to the hill where I waited on Rob last year.

Dawn will start any minute and I want to be ahead where I now think I was last year. I glance east (I think) and though it’s not light yet, intuition says it’s coming. Why bother looking at a watch?

The sky starts to lighten and the aid station isn’t in sight. Where is that spot I napped while waiting on Rob? I up the pace. Yep, the sky’s definitely growing lighter. Where on earth is that aid station? The world won’t stop turning if I don’t get there before turning my headlamp off, but it really would be nice to make that and do better this year. Corners, more corner, but nothing.

A small white box is sitting on a rock beside the trail ahead, out in the middle of nowhere.

Hmm. It blinks as I walk by. Double hmm. Someone ahead starts ringing a cowbell. I turn off my headlamp. Sure enough, around the corner of the hill sits the aid station. Deb Johnson is ringing me in and the sun hasn’t yet risen over the nearby ridge.

Billy’s Branch (88 miles) Deb immediately offers me some veggie broth – perfect! It’s warm, salty, and gives me a chance to chat to pet Lizzie, her dog. The sensor on the trail is her idea to alert them of incoming runners. Cute idea with huge points for innovation.

I get a second cup to linger for a minute or two. I don’t get to see Deb much and since I beat the sun for sure, there’s nothing left on the agenda besides running comfortably to the finish. A runner who was there when I arrived leaves and another arrives as I’m leaving.

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I jog out feeling great from the calories, conversation, and as usual, the sunrise. Wonder what the new finish is like. Replacing all the gravel road will trail is a huge help. Can’t wait to see it.

I slowly pass the guy who left ahead of me and enjoy the trail. Running feels absolutely great. I could shed a layer of clothes now that the air is warming and there’s a drop bag at the next aid station for that purpose.

The trail winds here and there through the woods and the swishy fallen leaves, generally gaining ground. A pair of talking runners come into view ahead, by their dress probably a male runner and female pacer. The woman apparently hears me in the leaves because she turns around and sees me. She turns back and the man and woman both take off running. Really?

You’re kidding. Catching them is so far from being on my list of things to do, their behavior takes a minute to sink in. They stop and the woman turns around again to see how close I am.

When I’m walking, they walk, but when I run they take off at fast pace. Well, whatever, but it’s a little silly. I’m still happily running my own race with zero interest in whether I finish ahead or behind them. She turns around a couple more times and they keep running – uphill, late in a 100. It’s amusing but it must be important to them.

Eventually, I do happen to pass them at the bottom of a pleasant downhill. They seem nice and the guy, probably being magnanimous, tells me I’m the second or third woman. Ugh, I hate hearing that stuff. Once you take that bait, someone else’s race takes control of yours. Nope, not gonna do it. I dealt with that at the start. The sun is shining, I feel incredibly great and I just want to enjoy this last bit of good, solid trail running.

In fact, I’m feeling so wonderful, I smile into the final aid station. A group of people, probably someone’s crew, is standing at the entrance. One of them with great intentions says there are “very few women” ahead of me. Thank you. And thank goodness I have five peaceful miles ahead.

Henpeck Hollow (95 miles) I locate my dropbag and take off all nonessential clothing, assuming it’s going to warm up as forecasted. It’s still chilly but I was starting to overheat and removing those layers is cold water after a sauna – invigorating. Refreshing. I’m ready to go!

This is by far the best I’ve felt the entire race and I almost regret there’s only five miles left.

Let’s make the most of it! Ratcheting the pace to the edge of comfort level makes me feel alive. I picture five miles on a familiar course and think I can sustain it. Heck, if I can’t I can always slow down.

I pass some runners and after a while, I reach the new trail. Parts of it are beautiful – maybe the prettiest on the entire course – but there are also some of the dreaded pointless drops and climbs that would look like an omega if seen from the opposite hillside. Why do trail builders do this?

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I catch some guys here and there, some struggling up a climb in the warming sun and some shuffling slowly, but everyone moving forward and assenting they’re okay. The trail veers in along the river we’ll have to cross, then back away. It’s a little cruel, even to someone feeling as good as I do. Where’s that bridge? Having been here isn’t a great thing right now. I know the bridge we have to cross and I’m expecting it. “Relax…you’ll get there when you get there.”

Interestingly, the trail finally dumps out in a pasture, not at the bridge as I expected. I look around for flags. It takes a moment or two to spot them tied along a fence and since there’s nothing else and it goes in the right direction, I follow the fence. There, past a picnic shelter, is the turn to the bridge.

Last year, Rob and I were clueless about the finish until we were almost there. This time, I know exactly where I am. I feel strong and as I cross the bridge, some part of me dares the rest of me to run all the way on the dirt road to the finish.

Done!

So I do. A smiling Paul Schoenlaub is there to greet me. While I’m still trying to catch my breath, he says I’m the second woman and both of us are master’s, so she gets first open and I get first master’s. Perfect… “old chicks” rule!

Leonard Martin is waiting too. He was pulled at one of the later aid stations and – good friends are gold – waited for me and Rob instead of starting the long drive back home.

We get a status on Rob – he’s through the last aid station – and I shower while Leonard waits for Rob. Then we eat and wait. And wait. And wait.

Other runners keep crossing the line with no sight of Rob. Finally, as the clock is ticking down to cutoff, he appears in the distance. He’s moving weirdly slow and weaving. When he finally crosses the line, he’s in bad shape and heavily overdressed, insisting he’s hypothermic. Some time on a cot, warm food and fluids get him back to normal.

Plus, he wins the coveted “Last Mule in the Barn Award.”

Leonard, Rob and I convoy home (Rob drives us the entire way). Another great weekend is gone, lightning fast. We must be doing something right!

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