Twenty miles. Six weeks until thirty-one.

It is the Saturday before Labor Day, 2010. I am attending another supported training run that Race Director, Tom Jennings is putting on for us, in preparation for the Oil Creek 100 races. It is, perhaps the last supported training run before the actual event. All of us newbies are starting to get nervous. We are now talking in realities and asking each other important questions. Excitement, hope, and fear are starting to settle in. No longer is the race months away, but a mere six weeks. When I hit that "send" button on the application in March, I knew my life would never be the same, but I really had no idea how drastically it would change.

I was a crazy road runner. Never fast, but tenatious. I'd do back-to-back races every weekend. If there were any races during the week, I'd do them too. I never trained for anything in particular because I was constantly racing. That was OK, though. They were social events for me and if I got the odd age group award, that was OK too. I have shelves of trophies and a few hundred medals, all from only 8 years of road running.

All of that changed when I got introduced to the trails. I loved the challenge of the trails. The intense consentration it takes, the ever changing terrain. I learned very quickly about falling. When I was out there, it seemed like it was where I belonged. Suddenly I found myself doing fewer and fewer road races. I haven't done a road race now, in a couple of months!

On September 4, 2010 I stepped out of the car into the chill of the morning. It was 6:30AM. It had been in the 80s and 90s forever, it seemed. Now it was probably in the high 50s or low 60s and it was threatening to rain. By the time we took the obligitory group pictures, made sure we had all of our supplies, and figured out who was running what distance and where, it had started sprinkling. Ughhhhhh... I really wasn't ready for the cool temps and rain, too. Oh well, I'm a warrior and I'm going to attempt 20 miles come hell or high water.

Thea, Mary, and I set out to do sections 1, 4, and 8 miles of either section 2 or 3, to make it 20 miles. We were all running well together. Thea started speeding up a bit, though. I am always cautious because of my fabulous ability to fall, also because I've been dealing with a brutal case of plantar faciitis all season long. Thea would wait for us at pre-determined spots. At one point we were at one of the soon-to-be aid stations (not sure which number) and it started really pouring. It was between two sections so we were on a dirt road out in the open. I looked at my two companions and said "well, we can't get any wetter"! As it turned out, it rained on and off the entire time we were out. Once we got to the 4 mile turn-around (the half-way point of our journey) on the odd section that we were doing, we just sent Thea on her way. Mary and I decided that we would run together. She thought she would hold me back, but it was actually the other way around. By mile 15 the plantar faciities was making my feet hurt really badly. I had taken some ibuprofin at mile 10 but my feet had taken such a beating that it wasn't touching the pain.

I remembered the first time I was at Oil Creek State Park, we had done section 4. I remembered thinking that there was no way I was going to be able to do this race. The terain was terrifying and the hills were killer. Running this section again, reminded me of why I thought that, six months ago. It's hilly and technical and was really hard on my battered feet. Once I got beyond 16.5 miles, I was in uncharted teritory. That is the furthest I had ever gone and I knew that I was going to hit the elusive 20 miles today! That was keeping me going.

When we crested one of the hills I was able to get cell service. I called Ed and told him that we were on pace to finish in 7 hours, probably a little earlier. I was in pain but excited by the prospect of finishing so quickly.

Soon Mary and I could hear the train. Then we heard cars. We knew our journey was just about over. We had been going downhill for about a mile and it was tearing up my quads. At one point I told Mary that everything from my knees down hurt. Suddenly we could see the road and the Jersey Bridge. I looked over at the parking lot and saw my car! Mary climbed over the guard rail. For me, that was an impossibility. I just ran (really slowly) on the bridge. In a pain-filled moment I coined the term "wogging". I wasn't jogging and I wasn't walking (and God knows I wasn't running). I was "wogging", a run-like walk that in all actuality is probably slower than a fast walk! But it simulatred running and actually felt better on my feet than walking (probably the way I landed was different than walking).

I got to the car, went to the window, took one look at Ed and instasntly turned emotional. I got tears in my eyes and I couldn't speak. I was overwelmed by my accomplishment. I had run/walked 20 miles on terrain that I never dreamed of running on before. I did it on battered feet. I did it at age 51. All of these emotions came bubbling up and I couldn't contain them. Poor Ed didn't understand at first and though I was hurt.

I called over to Mary and asked her if she could have done 31. She said she wasn't sure. I'm not sure either. But what I am sure of is that in six weeks, I WILL do 31!

Happy Trails, friends!

BR100 - It's not about finishng, it's about the journey

Last night (and this morning), I had the unique opportunity to volunteer for the Burning River Endurance 100 Mile Race. Now, I know it's a bold statement on my part to say that in a little over two months I am going to (attempt) to join the ranks of other ultra marathoners. OK, I'm only doing a 50K (31 miles) but it is 18 miles longer than any race I've ever done before, and to date, 14.5 miles longer than my longest run. I'm hoping to rectify that before the actual event.

I asked Julie if she wanted to meet me there. I recently joined Grunt Girl Racing and they were working the Covered Bridge Aid Station in Peninsula at miles 80 and 85.5. She agreed and I was happy. I'm sometimes worried that I got her "hooked" into running trails with me and I now belong to this group that she doesn't. I've been running with Julie for something like 4 or 5 years. Other runners have come and gone but we are the last remnants of the old "Team Freebie". We aren't fast, we are certainly back of the packers if not last placers on the trails. Just when we got ourselves firmly planted in the middle of the pack at road races (sorry, Jule)!!

Our adventure began as I got there at a bit before 7PM. This aid station's hours were 4PM-8AM. It was a critical station as it was around a tough section and they had to pass through twice. Julie got there about an hour later. We were kind of hanging around. A lot of runners weren't passing through yet. The elites had come and gone. We got familiar with where everything was and were told to go to the entrance of the bridge. At about 9PM the guy that was handling the clipboard passed it to us. Apparently he was unclear on the correct procedure because he didn't inform us that we were supposed to call in each runner so that it could be posted on the website. After looking at the site today, I saw that we were the only aid station that never reported. I felt really bad about that.

I can't speak for Julie (well, maybe I can) but this whole experience was incredible, emotional, and one of the most amazing things I have ever witnessed in person. Once dark descended on the trails the whole thing seemed surreal. We were located at the front end of the bridge. The "cool kids" were at the other end. The end where the runners got the "real" help, the bonfire was blazing, and the real comraderie of the race lied. Hey, we were new, gotta pay those dues. We were alone on our end with the generator literally roaring in our ears the entire night. The runners would come around a bend with their headlamps and flashlights on. Some were running, some were walking. As they rounded the bend, we were an oasis of light and warmth in the black night. I'm sure it was very difficult to leave when the time came. Julie and I were the first people they saw, their first greeting. Unfortunately all we could do was smile and scream "what's your number?" over the generater.

There were two basic types of runners. The ones who had one or two pacers and a whole crew to help them and the lone runners with no pacers. The latter sometimes had drop bags, sometimes not. They came into the aid station alone, got their nutrition and hydration from the volunteers and disappeared silently, alone, into the darkness. I was really impressed with both types of runners. Both types ran the gamut in their condition. Some were stumbling and barely coherent, some were in great shape. I saw three throw up over the edge of the bridge. As the night grew later and turned into morning and runners were fighting "Mr. Cutoff" as a Facebook friend called it, they had to fight the urge to stay too long in the aid station. A few stayed as long as an hour. I don't think I could have run after staying that long, knowing I still had 20 miles to run, half of them in the dark.

All in all, it taught me a lot about myself and my fellow runners. I am an early riser so therefore, I go to bed early. I found myself wanting to stay longer, fighting my own fatigue because I've been that last place runner that volunteers walk out on. I've been that last place runner that has no food or water at the finish line. I've been that last place runner that tries to get to the chute before it's torn down. I'm sure I will be that runner that is trying to beat "Mr. Cutoff" soon. It's not fun. I told Julie that the runners that need the most help, receive the least. I finally had to leave at 4AM but Julie said she would stay. We both did 9 hours. When I left there were less than 10 runners left on the course that hadn't been checked in at our station.

God Speed to all of those runners that can do ultra marathons. I will attempt to join the ranks of ultra marathoner on October 16th, with Julie. I learned, last night, that it's not about finishing, it's all about starting. It's not about finishing, it's about the journey.