Pittsfield Death Division 2008

It’s early on a cold Saturday morning in February 2008. I’m heading due west out of Boston on a training run for the Holiday Lake 50K++, an ultramarathon in Virginia. Just before starting up a long hill near Boston College, I notice several women running on the other side of the street. I cross the street, accelerate and begin to stride past them. As I crest the top of the hill, my ego casually glances over my right shoulder to see how much of a gap I have created, only to find all three of them directly behind me. I ask them what they’re training for and we run the remainder of the 15 miles together. When we arrive back at MIT in Cambridge I meet others in their running group and am adopted by my newfound running family.

Several weeks later, Audrey, one of the women in this running group sends me an e-mail with a link to www.peakraces. Reading through the site quickly, I am drawn to the Death Division because it seems shrouded in mystery and adventure.

My 2008 spring calendar is full of running events and I don’t really focus on training for the death division other than doubling my daily push-up, sit-up and squat routine. From time to time, I sign onto the Peak site and read some of the training suggestions with some combination of disbelief and awe. I don’t mention the event to many people; to those I do tell, all I can really convey is that it’s going to a weekend of uncharted suffering. Interestingly most people are satisfied enough with this answer not to inquire further.

Each time race director Andy Weinberg publishes an e-mail I drive over to Home Depot and purchase more equipment. After all, what is a person to do when the equipment lists read – “Mandatory Gear - Helmet (bicycle, football, hockey, motorcycle) or Construction Hard Hat, Ball Point Pen, Tape Measure, Lights - Headlamp, Batteries for Lights, Egg. Optional Gear - Hand Saw, Duct Tape, Hand Loppers/Pruners, Hatchet, First Aid Kit, Backpack, Food, Bicycle, Extra Eggs, Bug Spray, Life Jacket.”?? Later, the list expands to include several hard stone carving chisels – another foray to Home Depot. Several weeks before the event, I break down and buy the Camelbak HOSS backpack I had been ogling at Wheelworks. Loaded with the mandatory gear, my pack weighs a little over 30lbs.

Heather and I take Friday off work and drive up to Pittsfield VT through intermittent rain. We arrive at Casa Bella early in the afternoon so that I can get an hour or two of much needed rest. Heather has invited a girl friend from high school who currently lives in VT to join us for Friday night. The keepers of Casa Bella ask several times how the three of us are going to sleep in the single bed. It takes several attempts for me to explain that I will not be sleeping on Friday night. Heather dresses in running gear and heads out for a run. I jump into the bed for my sleep.

Five minutes later or just as I begin to relax, there is a knock on the door and Susan informs me through the door that Heather’s friend has arrived – so much for my nap. I meet Tina and her boyfriend Skye and we chat in the living room of Casa Bella until Heather returns from her run.

We all walk over to the general store and run smack dab into Andy Weinberg and his ice cream eating family. Andy is brimming with excitement and gives me a quick synopsis of the events leading up to the registration at 9PM. I ask about the race course a bit but he is unwilling to give much information other than it is going to be challenging and several of the later stages aren’t completely finished but most likely no one will get to them anyway.

We return to Casa Bella and I begin to pack my bag and prepare for the race. Heather, Tina and I eat a wonderful meal at Casa Bella and I cannot resist one of my all time favorite desserts – panna cotta.

When I head over to registration at 9PM, the rain has returned and dense fog has set in for the night. The general store is bustling with people. I sign in and receive my number, 745. My number is then also written on my body and the number 207 is written on the nape of my neck. I walk over for my interview in front of the camera only to find it is a series of disclaimer questions to which I answer “Yes” several times out loud and “shit” several times in my head.

Looking at the other entrants, I find myself intimidated by their gear. Several have shovels and woodsmen saws lashed to their packs. I have no shovel and my saw in comparison is for cutting soft birthday cake. Suddenly, I feel unprepared and wish I had thought more about what I may need during the next 24 hours. I am also wearing long pants and a jacket, while most the others are outfitted in shorts and t-shirts. I hate being cold but seeing the others I make a mental note to shed a layer or two of clothing before we start at 3AM.

We gather into the front of the store for a race briefing. We are asked to produce the eggs that we were required to bring. We are thanked for bringing the eggs and informed the eggs will be used for our morning breakfast and enjoyed by all. We hand over our eggs and their cases. One person has their egg securely packed in 12 inches of Styrofoam. He births it from his pack and he would have won the whole race had it involved dropping an egg from an airplane – no such luck. As for me, I gladly hand over my water tight, shock proof $18 egg protector purchase from the Kittery Trading Post in Kittery Maine made weeks earlier for this occasion.

Next we are informed we will need to complete several practice drills before the official 3AM start. We are instructed to grab our gear and go outside where stacks of wood await us. Some stacks have three pieces of wood but most have four. “Pick up a stack of wood and follow me” says Joe, one of the race coordinators. We turn on our headlamps, pick up the pieces of wood and start marching down the side of the road into the dark fog. With cars passing us at 55 miles per hour, it occurs to me that we may get into the death part of this fairly quickly.

We cross the road and march directly into a 10 foot wide, 25 foot long trench. As cold water reaches my knees I hear someone say “so much for my keep the feet dry strategy”. I think to myself, if that is my only regret this will be an easy race. We leave the trench and bushwhack right into the woods and begin to ascend a very long and steep hill. We stop several times to wait for slow walkers. During the waiting periods we are told we are not allowed to drop our logs to the ground. We can squat to rest but have to keep our logs off the ground. My arms are burning and the local mosquito population has found its way to our blood donor clinic. We are being devoured by these insects and can do little but shake our body parts to limit the number of bites.

After trudging through the mountains for an hour or two, we arrive at the top of a steep trail. The rain has made the footing very slippery. We fall with the logs in our arms and our knees take the full weight, into the mud, into the rock, into the downed timber, into whatever is beneath. Several people are gathered in the center of the trail. I approach, am handed an egg and told that if I break the egg at any point I will need to return to this place and get another. Now I am no hen, but I am as dedicated from this point forth to protect my precious little egg.

By placing the egg in the middle of my roll of duct tape and taping up both sides, I create a nest. I place the tape roll deep into in my pack, pick up my logs and head back down the hill. Falling up hill was gentle, falling downhill is not as easily recoverable and several people are walking back up the hill for their replacement egg as I descend. We stop at another manned area and are given a large plastic bag. I think body bag myself but don’t say a word to anyone. We are also allowed to drop a log. I am conserving everything for what is ahead. We follow Joe further through the woods to a lake.

We spread out around the edge of the lake and have to count off. I am number 21 which means blackjack in a casino, but I am in the woods of Vermon which 21 simply means stupid. There is a large spotlight on us and it feels like I am in some kind of prison. We are told to drop our gear, take out everything in our packs for inspection and then get into the water up to our chest. When we are all in the water something starts swimming towards us from the other side of the pond. Some say it is a snake, others a turtle and others a moth. It never swims close enough to me for identification but it clearly has some scared. We stay in the cold water for 15 minutes. Before getting out, we are required to fully submerge. Cold, very cold. I hate being cold. My body trembles and the chill running up my spine shakes my whole body. We stuff our gear back into our bags and are allowed to drop another log before we start marching down the mountain to the Aimee Farm.

We march to a very large barn – which is basically base camp for the remainder of the race. We will complete tasks and return here several more times. There is a large fire in the fire pit. I walk over and try to hold back the convulsive shivers which now come and go with greater frequency. I tremble and stare into the embers. Our support crews have been waiting here since 9PM. They were told we would return any minute but it is already past 1AM. Apparently they too are being tested.

We are told to hurry up with these last practice events so that we can get some rest before the official 3AM start. Mentally, I am still curious and amused. Physically, I am very cold and starting to fatigue. Heather feeds me some sandwiches we prepared the night before and offers a couple words of encouragement. I stare at her and shake my head side to side.

We are told to drop our back packs.

In front of us is 25 feet of mud traversed by barbed wire immediately followed by a large hill of dirt also strung with barbed wire. We are now instructed to crawl through the mud, over the hill and down the other side. We are told we will have to crawl through this obstacle three times – although there is not truth in these words, I cling to them. I crest the top of the hill and start crawling down the other side. The bushes are loaded with thorns – ouch. Some break off into my knees but I was fortunate enough to put on my work gloves and my hands are protected for the moment. We crawl down the hill on all fours and into a culvert which has more barbed wire strung over it. I am on my hands and knees in the creek. The water is actually warmer than I expect and the mud feels soft. My body welcomes the softness of the mud. We crawl to a corrugated metal drainage pipe and then into the pipe.

I think it is about 20 feet long. It is not soft like the mud, not inviting. I drop to my belly and pull myself along through the muddy water with my elbows. As I drop out of the pipe I find myself under a log bridge. I crawl through more nasty and then through another garden of briar and scratch to find myself back at the barn.

We are divided into teams of three. Each team is to mix three 5 gallon buckets of concrete. We are shown a pile of sand and given instructions on where to find the 90 pound bags of concrete. I grab three buckets and the other two on my team work on the other ingredients. I have to fetch water which means going back down to the culvert. I make two trips. We also put some large rocks into the mixture. The mixture is inspected and we pour all three buckets into what seems to be a foundation for a hot tub or some structure which will be adjacent to the barn. With my bucket empty I ask Andy what is next and he says, “the start of the race”. It is 2AM.

Heather and I make our way to the car. I am shaking and muddy to the core. I put a blanket down on my car seat and she drives me back to Casa Bella. I stumble out of the car and we walk up to the front door, take our shoes off, and shed some of our muddy clothing. We walk up two flights of stairs and Heather turns on a very hot shower. I spread my clothes out on plastic bags on the floor in the hallway. Tina wakes up and I don’t feel terrible until I see the way she is looking at me. I walk into the bathroom and in the mirror witness my state of being. Not pretty. I shower and absorb as much warmth as possible. Return to the room. Scrape together a second pair of race clothing. I didn’t prepare for this and have to make some decisions I hope I will not regret later in the day. I lie down on the floor and pull a blanket over me. It is 2:25AM. Tina sets her phone alarm for 2:45. Any other day, twenty minutes of sleep wouldn’t be worth it, but I am thankful to lay my head on the hard wood floor.

I don’t know what wakes me or if I was ever asleep. I hear Heather say, “it is time to go”. I get up. I put on dry clothing but don’t have a second pair of shoes so I step back into the wet and muddy trail runners.

It is 3AM when we arrive at Aimee Farm. There are people hustling about in all directions. I walk directly back over to the fire, step onto one of the rocks to draw some warmth into my feet.

We are instructed to get a 5 gallon bucket and load it with sand. My fully loaded number without my back pack is 207. This is the number on the nape of my neck. I weigh 165. My bucket load will be at least 42 pounds for the remainder of the race.

With the race officially started, we crawl back under the barbed wire with our backpacks and our new friend: the five gallon bucket loaded with sand. We are told that we will be weighed at random times during the race and if our weight is not the same as the number on our neck we will have to repeat our last task-- maybe something worse.

Squirming under the barbed wire is much more difficult with my pack and bucket. I get snagged several times and quickly discover the people who test the clothing at North Face haven’t done this type of testing. My bright orange techno, breathable, water resistant jacket is no match for the barbs. At one point a single barb has my shoulder and I can’t move. I try to back the barb out and it only sets the second barb deep into the fabric and the skin beneath it. I grab the jacket and give it a big old fashion yank. I am free; the fabric is shredded. Freedom doesn’t feel great but it is better than the alternative at this point. Down the back of the hill and into the culvert I crawl. I remind myself that this is the second of three times I have to do this. Ration is great short term medicine. I push my bucket through the pipe and we are led to the river.

The field is starting to spread out. Although there has already been some attrition, I am not thinking race but merely completion. I am focused on not earning the distinction of being the first person to die in a Death Division event. Let someone else be the famous donkey.

Moving downstream over very slippery rocks with my backpack and bucket full of sand is a great place to make a movie. The river is shallow for the most part which isn’t ideal. My feet smash into rocks trying to find traction. Several times I fall into the water. These are not gentle, ease-yourself-into-the-water falls; these are try-to-save-yourself-and-your-bucket, ankles-over-ears falls. Every so often gravity wins and I cannot tip toe on enough slippery rock to gain my balance and down I plunge again.

On one fall I manage to smash my knee directly into a rock. I stop. A deep scream goes through my Being like when you get hit up under the bearings and there is nothing to do but stand there and grimace with pain. I swear at myself for not being more careful and then remind myself to take it easy. The next step I fall completely backwards into the water. Bucket goes one way, me and the back pack go another. That’s what happens when you take it easy in the Death Division. My bucket starts to float downstream, otherwise I may have just stayed seated for a minute to question what I am doing. Furthermore, it is still dark out so each step is a mystery. I grab the bucket which now is half full with water. I dump out the water quickly and see some of my mandatory weight also fall into the river. More curses. I take a couple of river rocks to make up what is lost and then add a couple more for good measure. I am not going through this again – little do I know.

I emerge from the river and head through a field to a barn. Here we are to chisel our race number into marble. The catch – the number is not going to be chiseled into the marble but all the marble around the number is to be chiseled away at a depth of ¼ inch. Later I learn that this is called a relief – whoever named it that should be digging coal in hell forever. The technique is to put the sand from my bucket into the black plastic bag we were given the night before while carrying our stack of wood. This bag is to absorb the shock of me chiseling on the marble. If I crack the marble I start over. I pull out my Home Depot chisels and get to work among the other racers. My number is 745. It is not the easiest but also not the most difficult.

My true relief is that we have to carve our numbers in the rock instead of the profiles of our faces like Mt. Rushmore. In order to get my nose to scale in stone as hard as marble would have caused an irrecoverable delay in my time not to mention a very large number of broken tablets. Maybe next year we can carve the 10 commandments carry them to the top of the hill and all be holy – this must be easier than carrying the wooden cross up the mountain. Moses or Jesus?

I chisel away, adjusting my technique as I go. Marble is harder than I ever thought or maybe I am just weak and my talents crude. Several racers were here before me and finish quickly. I chisel harder, I am happy I picked a thick piece of marble because I can really bang on it. I ask a judge if it is enough. He says “done” and writes on the back of it. I ask Andy for my next task. Andy says “go back through the river and return to the farm”. I start to walk away and he says “and don’t forget your number”. I look at my large thick piece of work and shake my head. More curses. I load the “relief” into my backpack, grab my bucket, and begin to jog through the field. A volunteer offers: “Slow down. It’s going to be a long day”. Buddy, it’s already been a long day.

Back into the river and I start upstream. The darkness has given way to some light, but I barely notice. I can now see all the rocks in the river but it doesn’t help my footing. I fall several more times and make what feels like hamburger of my feet and shoes. When I get back out of the river and start walking towards Aimee Farm I am convinced my toenails have all been ripped off and are now stabbing my feet – ouch. I think I should take off my shoes and remove some of the rocks and my toe nails but I know that once they are off I will not be able to get them back on. I crawl back through the pipe, the culvert and under the barbed wire.

The next task is to take 20 large logs from the pile. 10 of them I have to saw in half; the other ten I need to quarter with an axe. I set up my 20 logs and get to work. The grill is working and they are serving eggs on toast. I alternate arms while sawing and also start sawing with my whole body to give my arms a break. When my arms no longer work I start quartering and then back to sawing. When both seem too difficult I go and get an egg sandwich. I take some time to eat this sandwich. It is the only pleasure I have had for hours and I savor each bit. Now that my stomach is active I realize I am very hungry and start eating a Clif Bar. I get back to work and put the other half of the bar on a log. I bury the axe into the next log and it absorbs the axe. I lift the axe handle high with the log attached and smash it onto the top of another log to free the axe head. Just prior to impact I see the remaining half of my Clif breakfast and then no more – the people who test Cliff bars don’t do that type of testing. For a brief moment I chuckle that I am the first person not a star trek mission to vaporize half a Clif Bar – Oh how I enjoy destruction.

We have to stack all this wood on a palette which we retrieve from a pile of palettes on the other side of the barn. I stack my wood. Heather shows up and offers me food and drink.

Next task, fill my bucket up with sand again. Go to the river, this time go upstream. There will be a house on the left with people in the yard, they will tell me what to do. Back under the barbed wire and through the culvert – routine at this point. I enter the river and within minutes my aching feet beg for me to go slow or stop. I try to be gentle in their already tendered state but it only unbalances me further and I fall again. The river is actually beautiful and on any other day would be a pleasurable soak. I trudge over the rocks – I make up new curse words.

The house on the left is a mile or two up. At this point both distance and time are distorted by pain, lack of sleep, bites and other factors. I walk out of the river and am instructed to dump my bucket of sand on the tarp -- cool. Now I have to roll in it – not cool--and then go lay down in the river for 5 minutes. I miss the roll in it part and go right over to the river. The ladies count down my time and I return to the yard. I am offered a bucket with pieces of paper in it. Each piece of paper has a number that corresponds to a log in the yard. I tell the volunteer to pick one for me. I would not be able to forgive myself if I chose a number which corresponded to a 2 foot in diameter log. He picks 29. I go over the search for 29, find it and drag it into the clearing. There are four other racers already sawing away. One has a very large log, another has a small log. Me and the fourth guy medium – about 12 inches in diameter.

There are 4 marks on the log where I am to saw through it. Before my saw touches the log a band of ferocious mosquitoes are on me. I alternate killing mosquitoes and cutting wood. I get much more satisfaction killing the insects but I don’t think it is a qualified task so I let them bite away and focus on the log. Maybe next year one of the tasks will be to kill 100 mosquitoes on your body. I finish one cut and a racer finishes his last and heads off up the road. I crack a joke or two with the other racers and spectators. I finish the other three cuts and ask for my next task.

Take my bucket and go up the road till I see a house on the left with people in the yard. I grab my bucket and walk for a couple hundred yards and then convince myself that I am a runner and as such should run to the next house. I start to jog and my legs let me know immediately that all the events leading up to this moment and the pack on my back are too much. I don’t listen and open my stride a bit convincing myself that if it is too much I will soon find myself on the ground. Ultra events are interesting for me as they make me more mentally flexible – a life lesson that comes through these types of experiences for me. I would rather glean them from a book but I haven’t been able to find that book yet. I come upon a barn on the left. There is the racer who is in first place and he is running while completing his task. “See I told you so” I tell my legs, it is possible.

This next task is to go around into the barn and fill my 5 gallon bucket with hay from the sheep stall, come back around the front of the barn, climb the 8 foot ladder and dump the hay into the dump truck – 30 times. I take off my backpack and jacket. I start to run between the stalls and the truck. The hay is moist and ripe. Each time I get to the top of the ladder and dump the bucket I throw the bucket back to the ground and climb down. This little act gives me some joy until while dumping the bucket on my trip number 19, I drop the bucket in the truck and have to jump into the back of the truck and retrieve it from the sheep-soiled hay.

I finish with this task and run back to the house on the river. Several hundred yards prior to reaching the house I run into Heather and she informs me that she will be joining me for the remainder of the event. I smile.

As we run back downstream to the farm she feeds me peanut butter and honey sandwiches and I worry that she is going to hurt herself on the rocks. We fumble around and laugh. It is all I can do to block out the foot pain. Back through the pipe, the culvert and under the barbed wire.

I am instructed to drop my backpack. I say thank you. I am then handed an egg. Mentally, I retract my thank you.. I have to carry the egg and now take all the wood from my palette and stack it neatly in a pile 50 yards away. Done.

Next task, go to a pile of trimmed pine trees and find two. Build a cross using no more than 8 wraps of duct tape. I go to the pile and spend too much time trying to find the smallest trees. I construct my cross. I fill my bucket again with 42 pounds of sand. I am to take the cross, the bucket, my back pack, my egg and my sorry ass under the barbed wire, down through the culvert, (get to skip the pipe because the cross won’t fit through), and then climb through a slippery stream bed to the top the mountain on the other side of the river. At this point if they had asked me to get that cross through the pipe, I would have thought of a way to do it.

I drag everything under the barbed wire, down the hill through the culvert and then try to lash the cross to my back with rope unsuccessfully. I end up hanging the bucket from the cross and carrying the cross over my shoulder. I use the rope to hold the cross together because if the 8 wraps of duct tape fail I have to return to the Aimee Farm for more tape. Heather is with me and Joe has decided that he should accompany us to the top of the mountain. Heather and Joe talk and I walk with my load behind them.

The trail goes right up a small creek fraught with slippery slabs of rock and overhead trees. Half way up Joe goes ahead and I start to travel very slowly. I walk a couple of steps and then rest. A couple more steps and rest again. Heather encourages me but we soon have to trudge through waist high stinging nettle and I become very frustrated. It is demoralizing me and I get testy. Twice I am almost pulled backwards by all my gear or the cross becoming stuck on an overhanging branch. Both would have resulted in a very long hospital stay or the first to die a Death Division event.

I begin to groan each time I pick up the cross. Then I hear noise coming from the woods adjacent to the stream. I look over my shoulder and here comes this guy who is taking 10 to 15 steps between each rest. I ask him if he wants to pass and he declines. When it becomes very apparent I am holding him up I step aside. He goes right past – WOW.

Instead of being inspired I find myself drained, tired and my legs are in a nettle fire that I can’t even describe. I trudge on for some unknown period of time until I hear Joe’s voice calling through the woods. He is calling “Chris” but he is actually looking for the person who was far ahead of me. He must have missed a trail marker and continued in the wrong direction. Joe is trying to get him back on the course.

The trail breaks from the stream and becomes single track. I move at a greater speed now but still can’t see the top the mountain.

When I do see the top I am moved inside, but still cannot gather much more strength. The last 200 yards is through briar and a small scree field. Meanwhile, Heather has asked me for my sister Carrie’s number and she apparently has dialed Carrie on her cell phone. Heather puts the phone to my ear and I mumble something. Or so I’m later told—I have no recollection of the call.

I reach the top. I am told that I have to dig a whole and plant my cross. I pull out my hatchet and get right to work. The guy who marched right past me with his cross is standing there watching me. His name is Stever and I am wondering why he isn’t onto his next task. He is taking a little break, eating pretzels and hydrating.

I plant the cross about a foot into the hard rocky soil, slam a couple of rocks to brace the base, check if for stability, walk over and force down a couple of pretzels. I have no appetite but allow myself for the first time to think about crossing the finish line. I look across to view the other mountain tops and for a minute I feel no pain and absorb the view. I pay for the lapse almost immediately as I hear the next task.

We have to go back down the mountain to a half-way point. There is a New England rock wall. The task is to carry my body weight in rocks from the wall back up to my cross. I can take as many trips as necessary. I look at Stever, he looks at me. We repeat the instructions as if they are not real or coming from some distant voice. We empty our packs and start back down the hill.

I stop and let Heather know she can stay on top of the mountain as we will be returning here several times. She just smiles and falls right in behind me. Her legs are visibly bitten, bruised and battered. There is blood and rash covering what is exposed and I am sure her sock covered ankles are destroyed like mine. She smiles. I smile. Down we go.

Stever is leading the way and I notice the single track is wet, rocky and hazardous in places. I didn’t worry much climbing up the trail because I was moving so slowly but now I will need to be sure about my footing or risk a nasty fall. We follow the signs to the rock wall but walk right past it and spend 10 minutes backtracking. We load our packs with rock and then gather additional rocks in our hands.

The walk back up the mountain is difficult but knowing we will need to make several trips brings additional complaints from my body. Stever leads the way and I follow closely on his footsteps. We reach the top and dump our load at the base of our respective crosses without much conversation other than a couple of grunts and groans trying to estimate the number of trips it will require. We look at our rock piles, shake our heads and head back down the mountain.

On the way down we run into a couple of cross-bearers heading up. They, perhaps thinking we are on our way down to the finish, smile and show signs of happiness. We exchange “good job” and continue. The sighting of the others quickens our step. We reach the rock wall again and increase our load. On the way up, we stop several times to rest and catch our breath. I try to keep my heart rate below 150 knowing the end is nowhere in sight and my legs are burning deeply with each step from the steepness of the climb. I focus on Stever’s heels and when I am leading I look directly at the ground in front of me. Heather continues to offer cheer and provide critical food and hydration provisions.

Stever mentions that all he wants is a Snickers bar and Heather volunteers to run all the way back down the mountain to base camp, find his cooler and retrieve the necessary item. She runs off and Stever and I continue our pilgrimage from our crosses to the rock wall.

Heather returns on our fourth and final ascent. She runs up on us with ease bearing food treasures. We wait till we drop our load and partake of the snacks before asking for our next task. Joe takes me over to my rock pile and lets me know that I would have had another full trip because while I was down picking up a load of rock one of the other racers was about to use some of the rocks I brought up from the wall to stabilize the base of his planted cross. Joe weighs our haul. Stever and I have now completed the task of hauling our body weight in rock to the top of the mountain. In addition, we learn some racers have started arguing about the race, the course and its integrity. Joe is visually troubled and we silently take in some of the drama. Looks like the Death Division is becoming a tribulation for its leaders as well as the racers – how fitting.

Next, we are to take our 5 gallon buckets down the back side of the mountain. Under another barbed wire arena to a stream. Fill the buckets with water from the stream and return. Stever, me and Heather are now given a guide/chaperone to make sure we don’t skip any of the obstacles. The guide has a dog named Buddha and the dog likes to run into our knees as it runs circles around our little party.

We go down to the stream without incident. The bugs are becoming even more aggressive and a single hit doesn’t even deter their biting. We start talking a bit since the trail is wide and there seems to be an end in sight. We get to the stream and actually have to slide down the inside of another pipe to the place we fill up our water. Stever goes through and gives a big Wahoo!! We fill the buckets and start our ascent. We are moving uphill when we come across Chris who was in first place by a large gap for most the day. He is heading down the hill with his head down. We spend a couple of minutes listening to how he spent 3 or 4 more hours dragging his cross across hill and dale before he abandoned the cross and returned to the Farm. I feel very bad for him. He would have taken first place but now he is not even going to finish. I think of how easy it is to lose focus or make a small mistake which has a major impact. We move on and up.

Joe has given very specific instructions for how full he expects the buckets to be with water. The trail is steep and untamed, almost immediately we begin to spill water. We discuss our dilemma. We decide that should cover the top of our buckets to avoid being told we have lost too much water and being sent back for another bucket full. I take off my jacket and use it to close off the top of my bucket. Stever only has a long sleeve shirt on. If he takes it off he will surely be eaten alive by the swarm of bugs which are currently using us as a buffet. He takes it off and wraps it around the top of his bucket – I grimace knowing the price he will pay.

We get to the barbed wire with our 50 lbs of water and Stever has a great idea. Instead of trying to drag our buckets while on our bellies under the uphill barbed wire field we will stand up between the barbed wire, move the bucket, lay down and crawl and then repeat this for the entire barbed wire field. This greatly lessens the possibility of dumping our bucket or dislocating our shoulders trying to move 50 lbs of water while on our bellies. Before we begin, I walk around the back of Stever and kill a dozen mosquitoes on his back. No words are spoken but I am not just killing them to help his sanity, these same mosquitoes would most likely have started their meal with him and then headed over for my sweet blood. The ones I crushed on him, I crush for both of us. I feel better. I drop into the mud on my belly and start crawling.

Heather and our guide continue chatting as if they are on a gentle stroll through Vermont’s rolling hills. Heather’s thigh is now showing a bruise the size of Beirut. She shares her story with us. While running down the mountain to get our snacks she lost her footing and took a NASCAR style crash. Looking at her leg, I am sure whatever she landed on or bounced off is also in bad shape.

We negotiate the barbed wire with our water load and it gives us some positive energy. We pick up the pace and start walking fast. We hear voices coming down the trail and it is the second group of runners. We consider taking our shirts back off our bucket so they will have to find their own creative advantage. We don’t. They pass by us and comment on the good idea. Once out of sight, we begin to jog with our 50 pound water buckets.

We reach the top of the mountain and are very proud that the water level in our buckets is close to the top. We approach Joe for verification but he is more focused on the race drama issues which are gaining momentum. Stever and I each I pour our bucket of water onto our planted crosses and body weight of rock. We turn and high five each other and then high five Heather. We listen to Joe struggle with race details. Stever, Heather and I wait patiently and then become impatient.

Stever and I chat and agree there is no reason to compete for first place. I am relieved and would have settled for second without regret. I believe Stever felt the same way and although he would have been a formidable competitor I like it much better that we have bonded during these difficult hours and will be able to finish together.

It is clear now that if nothing changes Stever and I will be the first two across the finish line. We have gained a solid margin from the others but we have also been standing around for some period of time and from other endurance experiences I know that I cannot afford to sit or remain unfocused for long. I am running on adrenaline alone and if my body is allowed a little rest I may not be able to restart it. We are on top of the mountain, the view is magnificent but no longer my focus. Joe walks over and has Stever and I fill up our 5 gallon buckets with our respective sand loads.

Joe dumps a several more rocks in each of our buckets as a parting gift and gives us a smile. Our remaining task is to get back to the finish line at Aimee Farm. I shake Joe’s hand and tell him I grateful for the adventure and challenge. I grab the handle on my bucket and haul it onto my back – a method of carrying it which isn’t ideal but works. Stever, Heather and I are off again down the mountain.

In relief that we are on the final descent, we begin talking and not paying attention to the trail markers. We become disoriented and find ourselves at several trail crossings. We follow a trail downhill for about 500 yards and still don’t recognize anything. Heather says that we should go back up another trail which will definitely get us to the main trail. Stever and I look back up the hill. Something deep inside of me refuses any suggestion if it involves an ascent. Stever and I decide that going straight down the mountain will eventually put us back in the river. From there we can decide which way to go.

Time is relative and Stever and I are becoming alarmed that we may be passed by the other racers. Whether I’m first or second place means little, but fourth or fifth place would haunt me. Heather is about 100 feet away walking up the trail and trying to convince us to follow. Without delay, and in unison, Stever and I drop right off the trail edge into the bush. We are now running down the side of the mountain with 50 plus pounds of dirt and rock in our buckets on our backs. We jump over some fallen trees and run right through others. We are frantic and worried that we will run into the other racers and have a death match finish on our hands.

We trip several times but never completely fall. At times I am running through waist high ferns and know the consequences of a rock or fallen tree that I cannot see – hospital and months of therapy. We run. Heather catches up with us and she can’t believe that we are bushwhacking full speed down the mountain.
We hit the river and can’t recognize enough in either direction to make a decision. More panic. Stever recognizes a field to the left and we jump in the river. Ouch, my feet on the rocks again. I move slowly and painfully. I won’t be able to stay in the river long given the condition of my feet. In addition, we are in a hurry and the slippery rocks make a fall at this point inevitable and possibly crippling. Heather advocates we travel down the river. I head for the other shore and splash right up the steep river bank. I can smell the finish but don’t know which way the wind is blowing – not a good feeling.

We head downstream and start running again through the woods. I run across a large decoy of a Canadian goose. Heather is moving down the river and trying to coax us back in but I am in full panic mode. We travel for close to a mile before seeing something we recognize. We look across the river trying to determine if the other racers have passed us while we were lost off course. We start to jog up the quarter mile trail to the Farm. We slow to a walk and realize if they have passed us we will not be able to catch them in the remaining distance. We also continue to look over our shoulder for the whole quarter mile knowing that if we were sighted it would motivate the other racers.

Back through the culvert and ditch. Stever is leading the way and I get stuck in the culvert. I have to drop my pack and my bucket seems heavier than ever. My body is now water logged and I stop for a second to rest. I giggle. I am stuck in a drainage pipe – my mother warned me when I was a child that I could get stuck in these things and here I am. Thanks Mom. Stever is out and waits on the other side of the culvert. He could easily head up the hill without me, go under the barbed wire and finish first, but instead he waits. A spectator sees him and begins calling to the others at the finish line. Stever ducks down in the weeds in order to not attract attention. I drag myself through the remainder of the pipe. We climb the hill together. We are relieved to hear that we are still leading and soak in the moment. Then onto our bellies, dragging our packs and 5 gallon buckets to the finish line.

Andy greets us as we stand up and we are awarded with applause and some cheers. I hug Stever, I hug Heather. I drink and eat pizza. We talk to some observers and are amazed at our own stories. We receive the Death Division hammer awards and are very honored. We also receive necklaces which are hand made and very very cool in a Death Division way.

I feel good, but within 15 minutes my body starts to stiffen and then shake. I eat more pizza but the shaking takes over. We chat a bit more with others and then I tell Heather that if she doesn’t get me into a warm shower soon I may expire. My race is over but her support role is not. We exchange numbers with Stever and I give Andy my rock chisels telling him to find a good home for them. I look back over the scene, the barbed wire, the stacked wood, the fire pit and the mountain. I am very grateful to finish and think of the others still on the mountain. When asked if I will do it again next year reply “maybe”.

Monday morning, I wake to soft sheets and climate control in my apartment. I am a very different person than the one who entered the Pittsfield General Store Friday night. Physically, my neck, waistline and ankles are swollen with insect bites. My right foot is deeply purple with bruise and I ache in places a body should never ache. I have lost five pounds over the weekend from the Vermont Woods Diet. Each of these small payments, a reminder of my weekend spent living without limitations.