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Living Large in the Blue Ridge By Sylvana Smith
Two years ago I stood at this start line,
anxious because I didn’t know what to expect. For me, Promise Land 50K presents a course that will sap ambitions for a PR or an all-day sense of triumph. But it suits me anyway, because I run these events for different reasons. There are lots of theories about why ultrarunners run. Some do it for the competition, others for the camaraderie. Some run to dodge the impending advance of age and weight, others to pursue adventure within safe parameters. Some run because our modern culture, with its perennial comforts, does not satisfy the human soul’s need to confront and conquer hardship on the blurred edges of survival. I run because I love to hike and see wide open territory, and if you do it at a 12- to 15-minute pace, you can see more of it before lunch than most backpackers would see in a three-day weekend. Back in the day, I plodded such trails as a Woolrich-clad turtle, wearing my Kelty home on my back while we hoped to trek maybe 10 miles before setting up camp. Then do it all over again the next day, weighted by our packs, at a mind-numbing walk. Traversing this same type of territory unburdened, free, running… what liberation by comparison! Aid station angels give you Twinkies and Coca Cola… what joy compared to freeze-dried rations and Tang! Seeing 34 miles of Appalachian springtime in a single day and then sleeping in clean sheets at the Super8 at night… what luxury compared to a damp sleeping bag on a half-inch of Ensolite. So at whatever pace, Promise Land suits me. I know even as I stand at the start line that I will be forced to march much of it, gasp for breath through all of it, hurt after it-- and even then I will be solidly back of the middle-of-the-pack or middle of the back-of-the-pack. Yet it is one of the most beautiful turbo-hikes around, and certainly the most exhilarating. It even offers a few miles of opportunity to actually run. At 5:30am, David Horton sets us off, and 268 of us jog up the wet grass to begin the long, dark processional to Aid Station 1. I’m secretly grateful for the opportunity to wake up at a walk, knowing that I will probably not have to run a step until the sun peeks over the mountains. The first four miles climb up, ever steeper, then rocky and steep, and finally spill us out onto the Glenwood Horse Trail, where we turn and drop downhill. Here comes one of the best sections of the run: miles of grassy lane high up near the ridge. Some 2000 feet below us, the valley is filled with fog, a polyfil lake swirling up the coves. I’m living a Nike commercial. Just do it. The day is young, the legs are fresh, the sun is filtering through the treetops across the valley. The track is a springy downhill, and I just know I can run like this all day. Until things change. After Aid Station 2, the trail turns sharply uphill for a wearying climb to the Blue Ridge Parkway. It seems longer than I remember. Harder. But fellow Mangum Track Club member Marie Lewis and I meet up at exactly the same place on this hill as last year. We both reassure ourselves that this must be a very good sign. We must both be doing okay. We’re rewarded with an easy downhill into Aid Station 3 at Sunset Fields, and then another favorite part of the course-- a fast little stretch of technical downhill where I can usually put some distance on anyone I’ve been running with until that point. I may be a pitiful uphill runner, but I can sure scamper the downhills like a goat, even a steep grade of roots and rocks. I will ditch this woman in front of me, I thought. I know it. Not today. I chase Peggy Ankney down this hill but never catch her, and when the trail smoothes out and heads toward Cornelius Creek, she pulls away and is soon out of sight. Here comes my absolute favorite section of the course: shady downhill dotted with wildflowers, running along Cornelius Creek as it tumbles over boulders on its way to Aid Station 4. This stretch always restores my confidence. I am a runner. I can do this. I will pass runners who are protecting their quads. I’m living a Nike commercial. Just do it. I’m doing it. In and out of Aid Station 4, and then I’m trotting down the road with some youngsters who are altogether too chipper for Mile 17. They are soon ahead out of sight, so I settle in to run for a while with Byron and Joseph Gordon, father and son. They may not have needed a third wheel, but they were perfect pace partners. When I started to run low on fuel, Byron gave me one of his gels--an act of kindness that will never be forgotten. How can you put a price on renewal, when there are 14 miles still to go? Perhaps it’s Pavlovian or placebo effect, but whatever…that gel picked up my energy for miles, carrying me through the long, winding grassy road between aid stations. By the end of that stretch, I had caught or passed seven other runners, thought evil thoughts about the portly birdwatcher who told me to “go faster, go faster,” and trotted into Cornelius Creek aid station feeling pretty good about life. It’s 11:45, the day is young, and I just might hit a CR. I’m living the Nike commercial. Just do it. I can do this all day. Until things change. It has been well-documented that the two necessary attributes of an ultrarunner are: a high threshold for suffering and a short memory. I have at least one of those two traits. My memory of hardships seems to fail me. The tough stretches are always twice the effort of my recollections. Apple Orchard Falls. It’s a long, slow, hot and sometimes demoralizing march. I try to calculate the pace of Scott Jurek’s record-setting jaunt up this section. How many minutes per mile would he have done? I find I cannot calculate it, because the Horton sign says 2.8 miles but the Forest Service sign says 3.4 miles. Which distance should I use? Would that have included any walking. Any at all? This would be superhuman to jog, even a little bit, I feel sure. My compadres on this stretch look about as I do. We’re silent, steady and determined. We will all put on a triumphant pose for the photographer at the waterfall, but we will then resume being silent and determined-- and a little less steady. I’m passed by a Western States 2008 entrant. I pass a Mountain Masochist finisher. These people have achieved far beyond me, but for now we’re all struggling together. This information assures me that I must be doing okay. I’m still moving. Heading up. I don’t know what time it is when I top out at Sunset Fields, but it has been a long time since 11:45. Tammy Gray is there to hug me, which is great. I needed her enthusiasm. Now I’m okay. I’m still in it, even though there will be no CR for me today. The last climb is grassy doubletrack, groomed enough for baby strollers--and it’s short, very short--and yet every year it seems the most challenging achievement of the day. I am glad the photographer is not here. I am glad I see Montrail streamers up ahead. I am glad I know that after I turn into the woods, everything from here to the finish will be downhill. Living the Nike commercial… really… will be soon… just… gotta make it… to the Montrail ribbons… Downhill is good for the soul. And good for the last few miles of an ultra. I turn into the woods and pick up a modest jog. That feels okay. I’m still doing it. So I jog a little faster. That feels okay. The track turns more sharply downhill, where it’s just as easy to run as to hold back. I’m running. Really. I’m living the Nike commercial. Just doing it. And I do it with vigor all the way to the last aid station, where even this late in the day, the volunteers make me feel as though they were waiting there solely for the opportunity to cheer me on. It’s great. I can practically feel the finish. This will work out. I have no clue what time it is. I’m not wearing a watch. I once had a pretty gold Timex, but it is permanently frozen at 5:35am, the moment the skies opened up and drenched us at this same race two years ago. I tucked that watch into a keepsake box on my desk. I look at it every now and then. I’m not sure why. I’m not sure what life lesson it holds. “You persevered when the conditions seemed impossible.” “You faced adversity that you were not sure you could master, and you prevailed.” “You were an idiot to wear a gold watch at an ultra.” I dunno. Life lessons aren’t always clear. I head down the hill from the aid station, trying not to spill Coke on my shirt. The road is steep, rocky. It hurts, but I keep running. I am determined to run every inch of these last miles. To my surprise, I cross the magical mile marker, and my body does not try to quit just because adrenalin has always failed me at this point before. I keep running, and it doesn’t feel bad-- not as great as it did when I was gazing down the fog valleys seven hours ago-- but not bad. I kept just enough in reserve to dash a jubilant finish. A finish line banner, a feeling I never dreamed of a few years ago… a genuine hug from David Horton, who makes everybody feel as though your personal triumph is the whole reason for the day. At 8:46, my time puts me solidly in last place in the Lynchburg Ultra Series, but I’m elated. I’m 17 out of 11.5 million women who live within a half-days’ drive of Lynchburg --and are eligible to contest the series but mostly choose not to. I’m proud to be in such good company, in any standing. To try is to succeed; to finish is to win. To complete Promise Land for the third year in a row is to live large in the Blue Ridge indeed.
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