What was it like?

In some ways, the answer has to be 'For those who have to ask the question, no answer will suffice'. Even for those taking part, I suspect the race differed radically, from those finishing first, to those struggling to beat the 12 hour cut off. Each person runs their own race and fights their own demons. With these provisos, I will attempt to give a flavor of what it was like for me.

The race started nice and early, on a cool clear morning with a full moon. The short ‘out and back’ on the Blue Ridge Parkway was an unearthly experience, as the light from the head lamps pick up the small reflective patches on clothing, making the race seem to be peopled by hundreds of pale fireflies, rather than runners. The pre-dawn glow soon made artificial lights unnecessary, and the joy of running through the birth of a new day was uplifting. Soon we were off the road and away from the dominance of the automobile, and onto the trails.

The first miles went by as a pleasant jaunt in the woods, moving at my own pace, hearing those around me, but feeling pleasantly solitary. Those first miles were the best of carefree

cross-country travel. No concerns with navigation, no pack to carry, no fears about pace, or even - at that stage – thoughts about distance. It is the purest joy of traveling, of movement for movement’s sake. The quality of the early morning light through the slightly yellowed leaves was quintessential autumn.

The aid stations represented for me contact with family, as well as a brief respite and refueling. The stops at the aid stations punctuate the run, like waking briefly in the night from a deep, dream-filled sleep. Or are they like falling asleep in the middle of the day? The aid stations represent a change of state, from moving to not moving. A change which is so profound it is hard to put into words. It is part of the difference between running, as something you do, and running, as something you are. When I run long distances, the rest of life fades into the memory of a dream, faint yet clearly defined. Life’s forces and paradoxes become clearer with the mental and emotional distance of endurance running 

The halfway point was a hard place. I’d been going a long time over ground that had given me a beating, but there was just as much to go. I understand why people drop out at that point. The physical weight of the first half, and the emotional potential of the second, combine to be overwhelming. My concerns with blisters triggered some deeper fears, as I know my skin condition means they may never fully heal. (Dystrophic Epidermolysis Bullosa - http://www.debra.org). But I carry on. Why? Because the emotional cost of stopping is higher than the physical cost of continuing.

After the halfway point, things started to improve for a while. My digestive system regained its ability to do its job and the nausea subsided, allowing some sugar into the blood. Feeling strong and quoting Shakespeare at the top of my voice (“For God and King Harry!”, “Cry havoc, let slip the dogs of war”, etc), I moved into the legendary five mile loop. I found the loop surprisingly simple, with little in the way of the technical sections that I expected. However, the back end of the loop is a steep decent, and I pushed the pace far too hard. I finished the loop with hammered quads and feel foolish. This is not a race that tolerates fools or their mistakes!

After the loop, I ran with someone who had far more ultra running experience, but was not having a good day. At this point in the race my fragile psyche did not hold up well to dismal talk. We stay together from the loop to the forest valley, enough time to become infected with his plague of melancholy. (This is my fault, not his; I could have done something to avoid this.)

I moved into the “4.1 mile” stretch along the forest valley in a bad way, both physically and emotionally. I am by nature a solitary runner, but this section of the race was very quiet and it was the first time I have felt isolated on a run. I saw very few people at this stage, all of them moving faster than me, which added to the sense of frustration at being so slow on such a fine path. With hindsight I realize that my blood sugar had probably crashed, as my sense of time became distorted and I was confused. My eyes started to play tricks on me, with red jacketed figures looking out over the forest resolving to the red blazes on trees when I blinked a few times.

At the last-but-one aid station I decided that I needed to take in more carbs, overriding the objections of my digestive system. Having put myself around a couple of gel packs, I felt, if not better, at least more sharply aware of my misery. I was able to get moving again at a reasonable jog, aided by the downhill slope. At this point I ‘tuned out’ and became disassociated, letting my body do what it does best, without worrying about the consequences. I watched the

“1 Mile to Go” marker go past numbly, only vaguely aware of the transition to asphalt. I passed another runner standing by the road quietly vomiting. My offer of assistance was politely rejected, possibly because of my obvious inability to do anything constructive.

Then, through my daze I saw my middle son, Joseph, running towards me and realize the finish line is in sight. We ran together for a few yards, as his presence inspired a final burst of speed, my pace rising from a death shuffle to an almost run. Over the finish line I was greeted by my family and the inimitable David Horton, organizer of the MMTR and an accomplished ultra runner. David’s grin shows he understand how I felt, both the pain and the joy.

The MMTR is a great race, very challenging and over a beautiful landscape. The organization of the race was exemplary. This is my first ultra, but the MMTR compares well organizationally with both the Boston and London marathons. The aid stations are close together and very well provisioned and staffed by cheerful, hardy folk.

Would I do it again? Yes.

John Savage