June 5, 2010.  Just outside of Washington, DC, near Sterling, Virginia.  Another early morning, and once again I was preparing for a 50k.  This time I was going to be running on my own, in high heat and humidity, on unfamiliar terrain, and with a new, inexperienced crew (my mom, Val).  I was excited, not really nervous.  The day before had been my birthday.  I was a newly-minted 31-year-old running 31 miles.  I’d met Dean Karnazes and got his book signed.  I was ready.

The sun was coming up over the trees and the field was filling up with runners.  I set some waypoints on my phone’s GPS so Val could find the aid stations and her way back to the finish line.  This would ultimately prove useless.  I briefed her, again, on what it would be like.  I tend to repeat myself when I’m anxious.

Okay: I may be incomprehensible later in the race, this is okay.
If I ask for something, ice, water, gel, whatever, that means I need it RIGHT NOW.
My body will not understand patience.
I may be manic, just go with it.
If I snap, I am sorry now and I will be sorry later but in that moment I am not.
Never tell me I’m “lookin’ good!”
Do not touch me at any point during or after the race.
I will probably fall asleep in the car after and then wake up like a hungry bear.
Val said she understood.  I repeated everything.

I ran into and briefly spoke with another guy wearing FiveFingers.  Compared notes, experience.  Good luck, all that.  Then it was time to go.  Val would meet me at mile 12.  In the meantime, I ran.  First across a park, a golf course, through chest-high stinging nettles (I got stung on the knee).  We met muddy hills so steep you had to pull yourself from tree to tree to go up, catch yourself on trees to get down.  We leapt fallen trees and sloshed through steep-banked creeks. Single-file through the woods and swamps, this was SINGLE TRACK, no passing lane.

Around mile 5 or so, while climbing one of these banks, I slipped mightily and nearly faceplanted in the mud.  My water bottle went cartwheeling into the weeds.  I’m pretty sure I heard a slide whistle.  Muddy hands, muddle bottle, mud smeared down my leg.  It looked like blood from a distance.  Cool.

Another runner turned back to check on me; this would become a recurring theme of the race.  This is one reason I prefer trail races.  Road races tend to be competitions, trail races (ultras, especially) tend to be camaraderie, celebration.  I was fine.  Muddy, laughing, happy.

I started running with a guy.  He would be the first in a long series of temporary partners throughout the race.  We talked about where we’re from, prior races, the mud, whatever.

A short time later the trail split briefly, with one side sticking low near the river, and the other climbing a small, cliff-like outcrop.  As I crested the outcrop, I saw a girl laying below, surrounded by other runners.  She’d fallen from the outcrop, about 15 feet.  I heard one of the attending runners say, “patellar fracture” and “I’m a nurse.”  My partner and I told them we’d send someone back to help.

It took almost an hour before we met someone who wasn’t running: two course marshals at a road crossing.  “A girl fell back there, back a few miles.”  And that was all we could do.  Back into the woods.

At the 12 mile aid station, Val handed me some gummy fruits.  I ate some stuff, drank some stuff, showed off my mud smears for her camera.  Then away again.  This next part of the course was rocky, wide trails, and very big hills.  On my way “back” from an out and back to another aid station, a runner going the other direction tripped once she passed behind me.  I turned to check on her.

Blood was gushing from a gash on her leg.  “Oh shit,” she said.  Repeated.  I rinsed the wound with some water, then walked back to the aid station with her.  This was her first ultra, and she desperately wanted to finish.  She hoped the medics would let her.  Once she was with the medics, I went back out.  I figure I got an extra mile or so out of the deal.

Shortly before we hit the 19 mile aid station (which was the same as the 12 mile), we ran along the top of a jagged cliff.  Mere inches to our right was a several hundred foot drop into the Potomac River.  I did not fall.  Once at the aid station, I asked Val for some Clif Shot Bloks.  “The yellow ones.”  She brought the pink ones.  I was incensed.  “YELLOW!  There were two options, pink and yellow, I need the goddamn YELLOW ONES!”

Yes, this was a 31-year-old man yelling at his mom over the color of what is basically expensive candy.  I immediately apologized (and got the right Bloks - the yellow ones had extra sodium to prevent cramps).  I drank ice cold water to try and lower my internal temperature.  And then I was running again.  It would take more than three hours to cover the remaining 12 miles.

A series of temporary partners rotated in and out, until at one point, 7 or 8 miles from the finish, Sarah caught me.  We talked about martial arts, distance running, her being a firefighter, Joy training to become a firefighter, the mud, whatever.  More importantly, she kept me pushing when I started to bonk.  She was my Steve.  We pushed each other through those last exhausting, painful miles.

Back through the tree climbing hills, where I noticed that all of the trees along the trails had dark bands around their trunks a few feet from the ground.  When I grabbed one to pull myself up, I realized the bands were from hundreds of sweaty runner hands.  Every tree.

And suddenly, finally, we were crossing the finish line.  I tried to cool down, but the 93 degrees and high humidity were crushing me.  Val and I bailed to the car (yay air conditioning) to head back down state to my uncle’s house.  On our way out of the park, I saw the woman with the cut leg coming in to the finish.  Her leg was wrapped up, but she was finishing.  Rock on, lady.

True to my warning, I passed out for an hour or so.  When I woke, it was CRITICAL that I get Burger King chicken tenders.  Val was prepared, this time, and the hungry beast was fed.

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