There’s no word to describe a run like this. If I had to Mad Lib, “An Ultra Marathon is _______,” half of the adjectives in my vocabulary would fit, but none would come close to encapsulating the race. A poet could spend his entire life contemplating, and still never find the perfect word to describe an Ultra.
We arrived at Pennypack Park
Any excitement or anxiousness I was feeling was placated by the calm, mellow tone of the atmosphere. Chirps were more prevalent than uttered syllables, nothing drowned the whispers of the leaves, and even the waking sky seemed to be audible.
I made my way to the open-air lodge and gave them a name in exchange for my bib, shirt, and bag. Returning to the parking lot, I collected a few strange looks as I proceeded to stretch by myself on the dated asphalt. Was I the only one? Thinking back, I never saw another runner stretch that morning. But I did, in the middle of it all: runners like Buddhist monks, silently strolling through the grounds, respecting their hallowed surroundings. There was the occasionally interruption of excitement when a runner met a briefly lot friend, but there were no superfluous words. On this morning, nature spoke, and runners listened.
With about 40 minutes to go, I headed back to the car to Bull Frog up. I wasn’t sure how this whole super-long distance trail run thing worked exactly, but I figured that if I used the first mile as a warm-up, then it would really only be a 30 mile race. So I spent my pre-race time applying sunscreen, posing for a picture or two, and chatting with David and Christina, who after hearing me talk about it at a few AM runs, decided it was something they needed to do.
David and Christina are runners. In the purest sense. It’s very rare to catch them without an upcoming trail run (usually Marathon or Ultra) on their horizon. They travel to almost all of their “races” together and run for pure enjoyment. On this particular day, they were embarking on their third race of 26.2 or farther in four weekends. David (did I mention he was in the M60-69 age group) was going for the 50K with me, while Christina was striving for her first 50 Miler.
After I introduced my companions to my mom, she kept asking the three of us, “Why is this a good idea?” I had never had an answer before, other than “Well, it’s only a little farther than a Marathon .” But now, just a few minutes before go-time, even that didn’t sound logical. Spectator rule No. 1: Do NOT ask a participant “why” within 24 hours of the race.
So the three of us posed for one last picture, David and I by the “50K” arrow, Christina by the “50Mile”, and watched to the race director give his speech in full lederhosen. When he felt that he had explained enough, he ended with a quick, “ok, go.” We said our good-byes and started off in the same direction as our flocks were flowing.
By mile .50, my mind was struggling to record the scenes and data from the run so I might report it back to you. I realized very early on that without carrying a recording device to voice my thoughts as I ran, detailed analysis of this thing was going to be impossible. From the very beginning, all of the numbers - time, distance, place - were invisible. Like the vegetable components in a V8 Splash. These numbers were not completely irrelevant; they were affecting me, but in ways my mind could not quite understand in the moment. It seemed the more time I knew I had, the faster my thoughts raced, leaving no room for minutes, mileage, or any other man-made thought-consumer. That being said, keep in mind that any references to miles or times hereafter are approximations, and may be drastically wrong.
But I can tell you that that first mile was the longest. I took in more woodsy comfort in nine and a half minutes than on an average couple hour hike.
We started in a heap, ran across an open field to the road, then found the trail. The early stages were a bit rocky (man-laid), and David’s warning rang in my mind: “when you look up, you go down.”
After that first mile (which was my warm-up lap anyway, remember?) The thundering herd began to spread out. Well, they appeared to be spreading out in front of me, but somehow there was always a lengthy queue on my tail.
Aid station 1 occurred about 3 miles in, and oh, what wonderful volunteers there were. Having only run road races, I expected drinks and maybe some food to be lined on the table, and a few volunteers to be holding out cups of water for passing runners. Instead, I approached, opened my water bottle, and a man ran up to me and began pouring. “Just say when,” he told me. “Thank you.”
I was in and out of my first pit stop faster than Jimmie Johnson, or whomever your favorite Nascar driver is. I finally had a little room to myself, and was ready to make my first mistake.
A mile or so later, I found myself running peacefully on smooth single track, enjoying the view of the backside of the brick duplexes that backed up to that portion of the park. I heard footsteps inching closer, so I called back, “just let me know when you want to pass.” But the girl decided she was happy to follow me for a bit, and I made my first trail friend. She told me that her husband, who was running the 25K, had gone out too fast, and she was worried about him. I told her that this my first Ultra, and my first time putting in more than racing or putting in more than 11 miles on trails. “I have a pace in mind,” I spoke, “but I keep hitting well under it, and I don’t really know how to adjust. So I’m just going to run until I can’t anymore.” This was not my original plan, of course, but I really couldn’t figure out how to slow down when all I wanted to do was explore more of the park.
We ran single-file, and although we were talking straight ahead, I must have looked up. Faster than you can say, “Achtung!” the ground opened up in front of me. Managing to maintain control, I sped down the hill as fast as my feet could fly. Anticipating a small stream at the bottom, I was distressed by the 15 foot creek I saw before me. With little time to brake or maneuver, I took fractions of a second to scan the water for a rock crossing. Nothing appeared, so I checked the water level, a split second after jumping. My left foot landed in the middle of the 20 inch-deep midpoint. Barely upsetting my stride, the right foot followed, and in no time, we were on the other bank.
Right behind me, my trail friend (no, we never exchanged names) remarked, “well, you have the right idea on the downhills.” “Yes, I take what the trail gives me.” We scampered over rocks and decaying mini-dams and discussed the nature of the ultra-companion himself. “The best part,” she proposed, is that when a conversation’s over, you can just move on.” “Yup, nice talking to you, and there’s no hard feelings about it.” A few whatever you measure trail running time in later, I wished her good luck, and she finally passed.
Mile 7.5 (the map told me) brought another aid station. This one boasted its plethora of food, and I had to indulge in a few PB&J sandwich pieces. Once again, the volunteers greeted us with pitchers, ready to give us a refill. Have I mentioned how much I loved this race and the people involved?
By this time, however, we’d reached a portion of the course that followed the park’s bike path. If you haven’t figured out my big mistake yet, don’t feel too bad, because I didn’t figure it out until this point, either. I had been a strict roadie for most of the time I’ve been running, but this time, it was the last thing I wanted. Although my feet had dried a bit, the socks were still wet, and the hard asphalt was forcing even more friction upon my soles, creating a burning sensation. The next mile and a half on asphalt felt like a 10K on hot coals. Ultra runner rule No. 1: Keep your feet dry if possible.
Oh, the trails, such sweet relief. But upon reaching them, I fell in with a large line that I’d be following for quite some time. We leap frogged a bit; I sped through the downhills, they jogged past on the uphills. The whole thing was tiresome, and try as I might, I just couldn’t break free.
Eventually, we came to another creek crossing, and as the group waited in line to cross a concentrated line of rocks, I spotted another cluster a few feet further down and dashed across. Halfway up the proceeding hill, I realized that this was the same creek that had cost my podiatric comfort. If only I had seen that hill coming and braked a little harder.
After another glorious aid station, the course split again, and I wandered onto a new trail with more twists, turns, and exhausting inclines than any other section. The entire course, I found, was poorly marked. There were arrows at every turn, and pink ribbons to guide or reassure you, but the arrows always seemed to be in the wrong place. I hardly ever found them at the crux of the turn, but just around the corner instead. It seemed like whoever had marked them expected runners to stop and look both ways at every intersection. I signed up for a trail race to neglect that responsibility.
But despite my strict adherence to the course and its confusing misplaced arrows, I found myself coming up on the caboose of the group I thought I had left in my dust. I patiently trotted behind them for a while, but when there pace put my goal of all sub 10 minute miles for the first loop in jeopardy, I had to politely excuse myself and blow past them.
The sound of polka via accordion danced in the air as signs of civilization began to pervade the forest. I dodged, ducked, dipped, dived, and dodged a few more trees, logs, and overgrown bushes, crossed one more little stream, and the jungle finally spit me out onto another bike path. This time, however, I could see the calm hoop-la that is the Ultra finish area.
I had supplanted my drop back with extra PowerBars, extra sun tan lotion, extra water bottles, and an extra shirt, but there was only one thing I was stopping in for: a change of socks.
