Sixty-Two Mile Run - What Happens in the Mind
Sixty-Two Mile Run - What Happens in the Mind
The rollercoaster of up and downs on a Tennessee trail
They are all kinds. Young and old. Women and men. They are all in running gear. Some kit is fresh from the shiny pages of trail running magazines. Other kit is well worn, proven in long-distance running battles. Everyone wears lamps. It is dark.
The race will start at midnight. It will climb the steep paved road and then vanish into the woods. The Tennessee mountain trails will carry us along rivers and cliffs, and through waterfalls, up monstrous climbs and deep valleys, then will bring us back to the start after one hundred kilometers, or sixty-some miles of an amazing adventure.
Some of these people will make it back. Many will not. They will drop out at one of the sparse aid stations or hike to the road and hitch a ride. Will I?
Why do they come here? Why do I?
There is a short speech. Warnings of hypothermia. Instructions on how to safely abandon the race and let the crews know — to save a rescue. There is the anthem. Then we take off.
My nerves settle by mile five. It is only the beginning. The finish line is twelve times as far. I reject the pull of the ego to run with the fast group up front. I find my own pace. Succumbing to another person’s plan is to ruin my chances to finish, and my chance to enjoy.
Time is flying fast. For now. Slow, crawling, difficult miles will come and grind time to a halt. They always come, at different times at different races. Happily, those miles are only a few.
A large group of us stays together. I see headlamps shooting lights at the trees, and meander between them, ahead of me. Lights behind me too, focused on the trail, searching for the trail’s edge in the soft, thick carpet of leaves. The lights sway left to right, bounce up and down in cadence to unhurried footsteps of experienced ultra-runners.
The lights dart ahead, at times, to find the next reflective strip of pink tape hung from the trees to mark the trail in the dark. It is comforting to see the bouncing beams, to hear footsteps and voices warning others of roots, of rocks, of low-hanging branches.
By mile twelve, I am alone. The woods silence the detritus of human noise, but my breathing and the soft sound of my feet landing on the leaves. All else is gone. No cars, no planes, no humming of capitalist progress. It is silence.
I hear a river. I imagine its width — mighty. I hear a waterfall, a gentle stream, then I feel the mist but cannot see it in the darkness. I run through it. Now I know where it is. I feel the slippery rocks, the moss underfoot. I tighten and shorten my stride. This trail follows cliffs, I know. The river is closer, cliffs must be, too. I sweep the space in front and to the sides with my headlamp and regret it. The light vanishes to the right, either swallowed by the rotting carpet of wet leaves or the empty darkness of space.
I try to make sense of the world without sight. It is true, the remaining senses heighten. They draw only a sketch for me, don’t paint with full color. But it is a new way to see. I wallow between wonderment and terror. The trail meanders away from the river, away from the imagined heights. I breathe out with relief.
Eighteen miles already. I am beginning to feel the climbs and descents in my legs. Agh, only a quarter done. This will be tough. Easy man, I tell myself, you have done this before. This is the start of a rollercoaster and games I will play with my mind. I don’t always win.
The trail hits a wall. I wandered off the trail onto some spur, I decide. I shine the light behind me and see the reflective marker shooting light back at me. At least I am not lost. I look down. The trail is under my feet. It is well-trodden. I look around; it ends at the wall. What is this? I shine the light on the wall and spot a step. The heavy darkness moves to hide it, but I see it now. I scramble. Hands and feet. After fifty feet, the trail climbs at a gentler angle. I still use my hands every few steps.
The rocks are wet to the touch, cold. My foot slides. I scrape my knee. Minor! It is hard. That is what I signed up for. I press on, faster, with a grin. I chant inside my head.
I am the master of my body, I am the master of my mind.
I climb for hours. Quads burn. I hit another knee. Hurts! I check my watch. Fifteen minutes? I climbed for only fifteen minutes? Where is the damn top? I check the elevation on my watch, but I don’t know the target. I look up in search of the top. Too dark.
Okay, just one minute at a time. I know I can go on for a minute then for another after that. Minute after minute. My legs burn. My feet slip. My hands are covered in grainy dirt. I don’t see it, but I feel the grit against my face when I wipe the sweat off my forehead. Another minute. Only twenty miles in, but I am already a wreck. I will not make it.
The top! Or another false summit? No. The top? The top!
My excitement feeds my aching muscles. I switch to a run and fly on a gentle downhill. This must be the highest point on the trail. There are other climbs, but this one matters most. I conquered it! I will conquer it again on the way back.
A runoff stream joins the trail. I shlep through the shallow water for half a mile, feet soaked and shoes heavy with mud. It weighs me down, slows me, kills my mood. The soggy shoes will soften the skin on my feet, and they will prune painfully, then tear or blister. Each step adds to the worry, adds to my gloom.
I have not seen a reflective marker in a while. The trail, if it is a trail, scampers over rocks. I am lost. I feel alone and afraid of the dark for the first time in the night. I see two yellow eyes reflecting my headlamp. They shift a foot, then hold. I slow to a walk and watch them watch me pass. They are a welcome sight. They could be the eyes of a predator, but my mind refuses to condemn them, welcomes them, another creature to save me from the loneliness of the woods. I see a footprint. Fresh track from a trail-running shoe. I am not lost.
I see a headlamp downhill swaying without the running bounce. Someone is walking. I catch the man. He tries to let me pass, but I say I will follow for a minute, then walk with him for a few switchbacks of the steepening descent.
“You good?” I ask.
“Good. My legs are spent. Recovering.”
“Yeah. Ugly climbs.”
We chat. He is an engineer from Michigan. This is his eleventh ultra race. “They were not joking. This one is a doozie,” he says. “I can’t wait for the sunlight; it's depressing in the dark.”
But I love the night, so I only nod.
“I am going to pick up the pace,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah.” He lets me pass.
“Do you need anything?”
“Low on food. You know how far the next aid station is?”
I don’t. I leave him with one of my “Uncrustables,” peanut butter and jelly smashed between crustless wheat bread. It is the perfect ultrafood.
The trail flows among the pines, free from undergrowth. Pine needles cushion the floor. They soften each footfall and spring me back into the air.
I see lights and hear cheers. Still far. But the pines are sparse and let the light and sound travel unimpeded.
The trail leads toward the cheers then heads away, determined to keep my solitude. Enough! I need human eyes and banter. The trail is stubborn, it veers off. I am ready to scream obscenities at the designer of this path. My chest fills with angry air but before I unleash, the trail swings to the lights and the aid station.
“You are fifth,” a woman tells me. She hands me chicken soup in a cup. I drink it.
“How far away is the fourth?” I ask.
“Just left a minute ago.”
I grab a few bars, refill my bottle.
“A shot of whiskey?” a man asks.
“Maybe on the way back.” I feel great right now, no need to chance a shot. I run for the dark trail, fine to be alone again.
The time loses its hold. Trees, rocks, ups, downs, sounds of silence, sounds of waterfalls. Peace of the night is soon replaced with the cheer of the morning light and chirping of birds.
I can see beyond my headlamp. I am in a beautiful landscape of mountains and rivers that I imagined through the night, but reality breathes vitality and truth into it, impossible to conjure within the confines of imagination. The scene reloads my will, heals the night’s pains.
I fall into a state of flow. My body spent its reserves and lost its restless buzz. My mind followed. I settle into calmness unreachable in the frenetic daily life. Calmness and restraint. The mind abandons its race from thought to thought. It is happy to follow one through all its iterations, digging for the nuance below the crust of trivial and familiar.
I think of expectations that shackle me to pursuing a version of success I do not want. In two hours, I think I understand.
My watch beeps an alert. Thirty-eight miles covered. Only a marathon left. I can run a marathon, I say. I can finish this. I pass another runner. He stays with me for a half-hour, then he is lost to the woods.
Eight miles left. Flat, rolly, flat. Leaves, pine needles, rocks. I stub my toe and yelp in pain. My big toe is already raw from driving into the front of my shoe over the endless miles of descents. I run, I limp, I run. Stub my toe again. That’s it. I pick up the rock and smash it against another. It thuds, rolls off undamaged. Fuck you! I scream at it. Then I run off.
Eight miles, only eight, but I don’t see how I can make it. My toes hurt. The quads are twitching in pre-cramp spasms. My calves lock in contractions on their inconvenient schedule and refuse to release. I could handle that if my mind were intact. But that rock, one in a string of similar offenders, attacked my toe and my spirit when I could resist no longer.
I stop running. I walk. My race is over. I just have to walk home. Failed. My mind failed. Failure. I am.
“Hey, man!” I hear a voice behind me. I step to the side and let the man pass. He stops his run and walks with me just ahead.
“Man!” he says. “That uncrustable saved my ass.”
“Oh, it’s you,” I say. “Sorry, did not recognize you in the light.”
“That’s cool,” he looks back and sees my state. “Do you want anything?”
“Chocolate,” I laugh. I think I laughed hysterically. He rummages in the front pocket of his running vest and hands me a Halloween-sized baggie of peanut butter M&Ms. I take it. I stare at it.
“They had it at the last aid station,” he laughs. “Do you want me to hang with you?”
“No, no. I am good. It’s only eight miles.”
“Run with me.”
I do. I follow his footsteps from rock to rock, buoyed by the chocolate and his easy manner. My legs lighten. My despair fades. I hop. I lunge. I run. We climb. A fourth of the way, then a third, then half. Five hundred feet to climb — another mile. We are on top. We go on.
The last mile is easy. It always is. The excitement of the finish numbs the pain. The looming cold beer lifts the pace.
I am there. High fives. Congrats. I grab a can of IPA and sit down to drink it. Slowly, with joy. Each sip, with joy.
That’s why I come to these. I come not to prove anything to myself or others. No one cares about big things. It is the mundane that defines you. I come not to anneal my mind through a manufactured struggle. The routine existence does that well enough. I come to find the nuance revealed only when I cannot escape a thought. I come to spend time with a community of seekers, to share in the kindness and support. And I come to shed my cynicism, to re-learn to accept help from others who are happy to give it. Twelve hours well spent.