Promise Land 2004

By Bill Potts

A car door shuts. I hear voices in the distance. It’s 4 am. “Don’t they understand?” I think to myself, “It’s probably him.” “He most likely spent the night staring into the embers of a glowing fire quietly plotting another course, occasionally letting his mind rest to appreciate the humor in those who will find today’s event difficult.” 

It doesn’t  matter anyway. I’ve been up since 1 am. Doubts haunt me. “Where will it happen?”  “Can I talk myself through it?” The anticipation of the ceremonial 04:30 reveille  brings me to my feet. The Star Spangled Banner played on a French Horn gently echoed through the valley, but was quickly muffled by the grinding of gears. The generator sprang to life and an inferno of energy illuminated the grassy resting place. Heads popped through nylon igloos like ground hogs emerging from a winters nap. Conversation was sparse, but the anticipation was festering.

“Why the 05:30 start?” “Heat?” “Time?” “Permit constraints?” The build up to the start was dizzying. I could not hear the prayer, but silently said one to myself. Like a pack of Tasmanian Devils, we  escaped into the darkness. My eyes constricted while my pulse quickened. I made conversation with the nearest person. She said it was around her 30th ultra. “Third attempt for me”, I replied. She wouldn’t slow down. Thankfully the group ahead of us started walking. “I better pace myself.” “Walk the hills, run the flats, control the down hills”, a little voice reminded me. She disappeared into the predawn dusk. “Up and up and up, will it never end?”  As we crested Onion Fields and began our long descent, the sun began to illuminate the eastern ridge. “Now I understand.”  The small group of runners gazed around the ridge line in amazement.

Leaving aid station number 2, Nat remarked, “This is taking longer than I expected.” He quickened the pace. I tried to keep up. “Walk the hills, run the flats and control the down hills.” The wild flowers were a pleasant distraction. The eastern facade of the Blue Ridge Parkway reminded me of a tour book of Ireland. “This must be it”, I thought, “it couldn’t get any better.”

We are now at Sunset Fields and I haven’t even looked at my watch. Didn’t bother to set the chronograph this time. Splits were my demise at Holiday Lake. A kind young student filled my bottle, wished me good luck, snapped my picture and chuckled, “I’ll see you back here soon.” My stomach sank. The technical down hill kept me entranced. I came to a dead stop 15 minutes into the decent. “I’ve forgotten to look for trail markers!” “Am I on the right trail?” “Should I go back?” “Keep running!” Walk the hills, run the flats and control the down hills. “Down, down, down, will we ever reach the belly of the Beast?”

“Two more miles and you’ll turn around . . . it’s a beautiful day . . . great day to be running”, she kindly remarked. “Thank you for being here”, I replied. “Time to stretch out the quads.” “Wow, that feels good!” No rocks to reach up and bite your ankles. At Colon Hollow we were back to trail running at it’s finest. The climb out reunited me with Nat. “This is my first Ultra . . . I saw a bear . . . this is beautiful, not like running a 5k in Baltimore!” We pushed and pulled each other over the rolling hills. A turkey hunter remarked, “that’s a haul outta there ain’t it?” I replied, “You don’t even know the half of it brother!” I said to Nat, “Hey, even if I have to walk the last ten miles, I’ve had a heck of a day. It’s a privilege to be here.” He agreed.

Cornelius Creek at 23.89: I feel darn good. Nothing could ruin it now.  I heard it  took the elite runners 41 minutes to go 3 or so miles. “Wonder what it’s all about?” I began an easy jog which quickly slowed to a walk, which quickly slowed to a crawl. The trail was not familiar, it seemed steeper, with more rocks. One guy in Colon Hollow said, “wait till you get to the stair case.” A half mile into the climb-out it began. “It’s happening to me.” “Why?” I knew it. The  wheels are coming off. “What to do?” “Should I stop or continue?” “What’s that I hear up ahead?” “Water?” I peak through the dense bush and see a trickle of water glistening through the morning sun. “Is that an apparition?” I take a moment to think. “Apple Orchard Falls?” I continue to climb. “I can’t believe it!” “It’s calling me.” “She’s  a sweet siren luring me ever upward.” “I understand now.” “It all makes sense.”

The beauty that is the Promise Land 50K can only be experienced. Horton has generously shared some of the best he has to offer. Something secret, removed the public, sacred to all who run the trail. For those willing to endure the discomfort, the Promise Land will offer a bounty of pleasant memories. I didn’t want it to end.

So there we all gathered in the mid day sun. It reminded me of a family reunion Like a father welcoming home his children, he greeted every runner with the spirit of a first place finisher. I was so tired I could barely applaud, but made every effort to yell. Some mistake Ultra for meaning distance, ask anyone Saturday, It’s more than distance.  I hope I can return to the Promise Land. 

Bill Potts.