A Lot Can Happen in 31.75 miles

An ultra, because of the distance it covers, sets the stage for a
plethora of drama. Countless stories have been told about goals, dreams,
blisters, animal sightings, vomit, injuries, personal records, and etc.
Ultras certainly provide an opportunity for humans to experience the
limits of their endurance, will, spirituality, common sense, and etc.
Before I wax too far down the trail of the metaphysical ( and believe me
I can also wax too far down real trails), let me get on with the story.

This story has a beginning, a middle, and an end.  I am not sure of its
thematic value, but it does have a purpose.  Let us begin with the
beginning.

The beginning is really a muted editorial.  I live in Chesterfield, VA
just outside of Richmond, VA.  I am one the few runners in the Greater
Richmond Metropolitan Area who consistently run ultras.  This group
includes such regulars as Alton Martin, David Snipes, Quattro Hubbard,
Ken Hubbard, Bill Harold, Kevin O'Conner, Kevin Tobin, Chase Tunnel, and
others.  We are certainly a minority.  However, we have stirred up just
a bit of controversy in local running community centering on the debate
over whether ultrarunning is just some kind of stunt for those who feel
the need to fill some kind of void.  We have been labled as "stunts,"
bad "role models," crazy, and "ultraloonies."  Notice that I put some
quotation marks around some of the comments; these are actual labels
that others have printed on our behalf.  I have responded to such
comments with many stories of the joys of ultrarunning.  I have written
responses highlighting the fellowship of the runners, the generosity of
the volunteers, the dedication of the race directors, and the general
atmosphere of shared accomplishment among all ultrarunners.  In middle
of all this debate, I started my own pledging campaign called Miles For
Mortar and Missions.  I am running 500 miles of races from Feb 05 to
June 05 and asking for pledges of 1 penny per mile.  All proceeds go to
my church to help fund a new youth building and the development of
trails on 193 acres of newly purchased forest.

The middle is also a beginning, a countdown of hours one might say.  It
starts at 5:00 am on April 22 when I take my dog Cocoa for a short
morning jog.  I teach that day from 7 - 2.  I coach middle school track
from 2:15 - 4:00.  I worked my part time job at Runner Bill's until
7:00.  I end up home at about 7:30 and eat the spaghetti my wife has
left for me on the stove.  My family gets home from recital rehearsal at
about 9:00.  The girls go to bed about 10.  All is well.  I should have
known better.

Sarah wakes up at 10:30 with a nosebleed.  Then she starts coughing.
She coughs through the hours: 11, 12, 1, 2.  I begin to think I won't be
running.  Finally, at 3 am Sarah falls to sleep.  I am resolved to the
fact that I am not running.  My wife insists that I go, reminds of how I
will feel the rest of the day if I don't, reminds me that I have
committed to do certain races as part of my pledging, and finally points
out that I usually get to races at the last minute.

I leave at about 3:15 and in my mind, for some reason, I am only driving
to Lynchburg on a clear night with no problems.  I end up driving
through fog an extra 30 miles since Bedford is truly west of Lynchburg.
I pull into Promise Land and get caught in a herd of runners.  Yes, I
was the fool just sitting there in the car in the middle of all the
runners.  I picked up my race number at about 8 minutes elapsed time.
About 12-15 minutes after that, I headed out on the course.  My run had
begun.

The end is fairly simple.  Not all race directors would let you out on a
course after the start.  This is not the first time I have been running
behind because of family concerns.  It was the best feeling to just be
running.  I ran Promise Land with no concern over time and place.  The
aid stations were great; the volunteers marvelous; and my fellow runners
were friendly, humorous, and just plain nice.  I didn't get sick.  I did
fall down a couple of times (I hate running downhill).  I took a 5-10
minute detour on the trail just past Aid Station 2 and before you
crossed the Parkway and ran down to Sunset Fields.  I don't think I was
the only one who enjoyed that bit of adventure.  I ran. I walked. I
shuffled.  I came across the finish line feeling better than I have ever
felt at the end of an ultra.  I just pray that this bodes well for a 100
mile adventure out of Front Royal in two weeks.

The end has a footnote.   My fellow runners from the Richmond area who
seem to think that ultrarunners are strange might just be right, but
they have no idea what they are missing.  It is not about the miles; it
is about the trails and the great people.  As I left Sunset Fields for
the second time, I had a handful of gummi bears.  I started eating them
one by one as I ran through the woods towards the finish.  I was saving
the red ones for the end since I anticipated the downhill gravel road
might be a bit dusty and warm.  I passed the final aid station and was
heading for home.  I was down to my last gummi (and it was a red one).
I was  nearing the end, having just passed the 1 mile Final Kick message
in the gravel.  I dropped the last gummi.  I picked it up and tried to
brush the grime off while I ran.  I really wanted that last gummi.  I
popped it into my mouth, savoring the sweetness mixed with a bit of
earthly spice.  Soon, I was crossing the finish line, packing up, and
heading for home (I still had to go to work).  I am a bit strange, but I
would not have it any other way.

I end with this.  Thank you, David Horton and all your helpers for
putting together a marvelous race.  Thank you fellow runners for
continuing the ultra spirit.  Thank you to my wife for pushing me out
the door.  And thank you God for giving me the strength to keep running
(and not putting anything too gross on the ground where my gummi
landed).  Until the next one.

Christopher Calfee