MMTR 2004, My First 50 Miler

by Scott Pollard, Huntsville AL

My third wave of nausea came on quickly. It was the peanut butter Ritz cracker that finally put me over the edge, but I suspected the real culprit was the Conquest sports drink that I had been sipping since the start of the race. My stomach had never felt this queasy during a run before. But as I knelt vomiting by the side of the trail at Mile 18, I had to admit that this was a beautiful spot to get sick. The fall colors were at their peak, and there was a mountain stream roaring down the slope to my left. Quickly feeling better, I jumped to my feet and began running once again down the steep incline. Total time lost – only about 30 seconds. But I had made up my mind, no more Conquest for me. Water and Pepsi from here on out.

I heard about the Mountain Masochist Trail Run (MMTR) about 2 years ago while training for my first 50K, and was fascinated by the distance, the mountains, and race director David Horton, one of the finest ultra-runners in the country. But really I think it was the daunting elevation profile and the infamous "Horton miles" that kept my attention. Since that time I have run two ultras, both at the Mountain Mist 50K in Huntsville, AL, and felt the need to branch out. Since my wife, Wendi, had not returned to Lynchburg since her graduation from Liberty University in 1995, we felt that this would be a fun trip for both of us to make. I would run, and she would crew while having her own little homecoming. I felt prepared for the rugged terrain, but I was worried about meeting the cutoffs. To motivate myself during training, I entered early and told everyone I was running it. In parallel, I ramped up my weekly mileage to a peak of 70 (a lot of miles for me), including plenty of hills and trails. Coupled with my peak training was a lack of sleep, driven by deadlines at work. My body somehow thrived on all this, enduring consecutive weekend long runs of 20, 25, and 30 miles before my planned three-week taper. I had survived training injury free and felt stronger than I ever had before. With race day approaching quickly, I felt ready.

Then it almost fell apart.

Only a few days into my taper, I lost all motivation to do anything but sleep. I couldn’t get enough of it. Guessing that my body needed to recover from the 30 miler, I decided to take several days off from running. However, after a full week, I still did not feel back to normal. I even started an iron supplement and a daily vitamin, trying to find the solution. And I made sure I was getting enough sleep. Another week passed with no improvement in motivation or energy level. To top it off, the Sunday before the race, my brother and I ran a trail near the Stump Jump course in Chattanooga, where I skated out of control on a wet rock and tumbled down a hill, severely jamming my thumb in the process. Amazingly, my legs and ankles were spared injury. A few days later, my energy level started to rebound, accompanied by a strong urge to run. My legs literally began aching to run in the evenings (I resisted the urge), and I nervously shook my legs most of the day at work. Only a few more days to go, and the timing couldn’t have been better.

The prerace dinner was a wonderful event. I was immediately impressed that David Horton made an effort to greet each and every runner in the packet pickup line. Although I already knew Dink Taylor and Forrest Callicut from Hunstville, I purposely sat at a random table, as I always do. I love meeting the people at these events. I chatted through dinner with Dennis Herr and another runner who introduced himself as "Dave." I felt like an idiot when I found out later that it was Dave Mackey, winner of last year’s race! This again confirms my suspicion that ultrarunners are some of the most modest people around.

The morning of the race provided a little excitement when we had trouble finding the start in the dark. Everything else went according to plan, except that I saw no water at the start, so I began the race with an empty bottle. The race started in the dark, promptly at 6:00 AM. Since I knew the pace charts at the aid stations would reference "time of day" and not race time, I chose not to set my stopwatch. I also hoped it would keep me from concentrating on how many hours I have been running. With no flashlight, I relied on the lights of others of light my way during the initial mile or two.

 

The race starts on six miles of rolling pavement. This was uneventful, except for the uneasy feeling of being at the back of the pack despite struggling to maintain an uncomfortably fast 10-minute pace. This was not the time to be pushing my pace, but I was determined NOT to be the last person into the woods. Before the second aid station, we ran across a beautiful dam as daylight approached. My anticipation was high that the beauty of the course would keep my attention throughout the day. Once we hit the trails, my fears were confirmed. Dozens of folks who had started too fast were now walking at a snail’s pace up the long steep incline that followed. At every opportunity, I moved up a few positions. My walking pace is much faster than this, and I was frustrated until able to break free from the logjam.

The crest of the hill was followed by miles of rolling jeep roads, interspersed with downed trees, creek crossings, steep dirt berms, and dangerous leaf-covered wet rocks. But so far, so good. I was just plodding along, trying to make it to Route 60 (the designated "half-way" point) on fresh legs, after which I was sure the hills would get much worse. Near the Otter Creek aid station, a Bible verse asked us to "look to the hills, from whence our help cometh." Bible verses were similarly posted all along the course, offering encouragement to the weary. It was a nice touch.

Wendi was to meet me for the first time at Route 60. As I neared that aid station, I reached the low-point of my day. Yes, this was much worse than the nausea at Mile 18. This was FATIGUE. My walking pace was still comfortable, but was getting too comfortable. The urge to run at every opportunity was waning, and it became a struggle to run even the downhills. However, the scenery continued to amaze. As we passed the entrance to George Washington National Forest, a large grassy valley opened on the right. There were terrific views of the rolling mountains beyond, ablaze in color. It was almost enough to motivate me to run again. Almost.

I hit Route 60 in 5:41, ten minutes off pace to finish in 11:00. I was a little disappointed in my time, but was glad to be well ahead of the cutoff. Although Wendi said I looked great at the time, she later told me I looked worse there than at any other point in the race (she met me 4 times). Knowing that Buck Mountain lay ahead must have contributed to my weariness.

Buck Mountain, for all its hype, was not what I expected. In retrospect, I could have run much of the climb. It never got very steep, just relentlessly long. Fortunately, other race reports had prepared me for another ten minutes of climbing after initially hearing the Rocky theme blaring from the top of the mountain. This was my longest aid station stop of the day, necessitated by the call of nature. I don’t recall much of the run between Buck Mountain and the five-mile loop, except much of the same, rolling jeep road. I do recall getting worried more than once that I was running the downs too fast for my quads to survive the final descent into Montebello.

Wendi surprised me by showing up at Aid Station __, which really helped my morale. I accepted her offer to follow me up to the 5-mile loop aid station. The climb to the start of the five mile loop was 1.5 mile uphill, and I am ashamed to say I walked every step of it, not knowing how bad the trail ahead would be.

Everything I had read about the 5-mile loop was false. I loved every bit of it. Does that make me super Masochistic? With the exception of the opening mile, the trail reminded me of Huntsville, and was the first real singletrack we had experienced all day. After 30+ miles of jeep roads, I was finally at home. The start of the loop is soft and moss-covered, luring you and your blistered feet to run on her spongy-soft surface, a welcome respite from the miles of rocky pounding. However, after crossing a creek early in the loop, the trail narrows and begins a long, steep, and ill-defined climb to the peak. Just when I thought the trail had crested, it would take a hard turn and keep ascending. I could have sworn the mountain was growing as we climbed. We passed a few tents in the cold rain, and I realized that many folks only see that part of the wilderness with a pack on their backs, and here I am in shorts and running shoes, carrying only a water bottle. I think that sums up why I love trail running. Near this point in the race, the drizzle turned to ice, and started to bounce off the rocks around us. It was really wild. For the first time on the course, I felt like I was OUT THERE. No Rocky music at the top of this mountain. A steep descent deposited us back at the aid station again, where I warned Wendi that she’d better hurry to make the next aid station. Although it was only __ miles for me, it would be more like 10 miles for her, all on rough dirt roads, since the crew are not allowed to follow the runners down the trail.

Salt Log Gap would be my last chance to see Wendi before the finish line. With an 11 hour finish out of reach now, I could just focus on enjoying the last miles of the race. I sat down in a chair momentarily while an aid station worker poured me a cup of soup. The temperature had continued to drop all day, and the cold was starting to seep into my bones a little bit. It hurt a little to stand up, and a little more to start running again. The road continued to wind downhill in the wind and rain, but the end was in sight now. I had not read much about the four-mile trail ahead, but couldn’t imagine it would be as steep as the 5-mile loop. Up ahead I could see the road making a sharp right turn, but the streamers continued straight up the mountain ahead. This should be interesting!

Even on my fatigued legs, the four mile trail was my second-favorite part of the course. The initial climb was steep but short, followed by enjoyable singletrack. The only tough part was not knowing what the dead leaves were covering. Sometimes I winced as a foot landed, bracing myself for a non-existent ankle-turning rock. I think the fear lay mostly in the unknown. For the most part, the footing was sound even where the trail was sketchy. I will agree that the four mile trail may have been a tad longer that four miles, but at this point, what are a few miles between friends? We all ran the same race. The aid station worker at the final stop told us that the high had been in the upper 30’s down in Montebello. Yep, that must explain why my long sleeves had felt comfortable all day.

The downhill into Montebello was punishing. I picked up my pace, which really just meant I leaned a little more forward and let gravity do its work. There was a woman walking uphill calling for her dog, who was probably running willy-nilly through the mountains like we were. Finally, after an eternity of descent, telephone poles appeared out of nowhere next to the trail. Must be getting close now. A little later we passed the one-mile-to-go sign, which is rumored to be the only accurate distance on the course. When I finally hit pavement for the first time in about 45 miles, I stopped still for a moment, unsure which way to go. Imagine the irony of navigating almost 50 miles through the forest only to get lost on the asphalt within a mile of the finish line. Fortunately, I quickly located the streamers and turned left. My pace quickened when I saw the parking lot, and I finished strong in 11:18.

Everyone back home wants to know what it is like to run 50 miles. It’s hard to say. Any way you slice it, that’s a long way to run, and I still can’t believe I did it. The human body is an amazing thing. I felt like I could have run farther, even at the finish line. Yes, there would have been pain involved, but I could have kept going. And if the MMTR is really 54 miles, that is not too far short of a 100K race distance. Hmmm…

But for now, I will be content to savor the experience, rest my weary body, grow a few new toenails, and start making plans for next year’s MMTR. Oh, you know I’ll be back again. Thanks, David, for putting on a great event. You made my first 50-miler and unforgettable experience.