Grindstone 100 Mile Run

100 miles. 23,000 feet. 100 miles. 23,000 feet. Just numbers Chris, numbers. There is a wonderful and unavoidable component to these ultra events for me, the unknown. For the known, I plan (my crew would argue with me here). For the unknown I simply remind myself to 1) roll on the way down, and 2) get back on my feet quickly. Everything is temporal, so enjoy, it will be gone shortly.

Heather (#1 crew and #2 pacer) and I drive from Boston to Staunton, Virginia on Thursday, October 2 because my plan dictates I should start the Grindstone 100 well rested. It is also part of my much needed taper. I have spent the last 14 days pedaling from Vermont to California helping a friend of mine train for the Furnace Creek 508. I believe tapering is a good idea for ultra events, so I officially taper for 3 days. The first day I taper by flying back to Boston from LA. Second day by packing my running gear, and the third day driving to Virginia. Shortly I will find out if biking for two weeks is suitable training for running 100 miles.

This is my first attempt at running 100 miles and I have the following information somehow in my head from talking with other runners and what I have read online. The run doesn't start till mile 70. Watch out for bears. 23,000 feet is going to destroy your quads. You will need to replace your knees if you run that far. Take it very slow and conserve your energy. Walk all uphills. Drink milk if your stomach doesn't feel good. Stop if it hurts. You’re too old to run that far. Run it one step at a time – no kidding, as if I had wings and the choice to fly for a couple of the more difficult miles.

The Grindstone 100 starts at 6 pm on Friday night at Camp Shenandoah, Virginia. Check-in is at 1pm and we listen to the race director Clark Zealand talk about race details but it is David Horton's description of the course that starts my nervous leg twitching. David ran the course earlier this year and spares no details about the elevation challenges with phrases like “you will lose you lunch here” and “here you will find some fine climbing opportunities.” David is known for some drama but with 23,000 feet ahead of me I can't imagine he is too far from accurate in his descriptions and warnings.

Heather and I go back to the bed and breakfast. I fill my Camelback and change into my running gear. Heather urges me to leave the cold weather running gear with her and most of the food I am packing. She wants to meet me 23 miles into the run at the third aid station. I explain that I am more comfortable carrying these things because there is always a chance that we won’t meet at the aid station, and I can’t risk not having food or warm clothing while running cold mountain trails at night. She squares me up and insists that she will be there. Hesitantly, I return the food and clothing to the support bags.

I struggle with my gators in the parking lot before the start. Gators provide protection from rocks and other trail debris by covering the area from my lower shin to the top of my shoe. I can't seem to find the right material for a securing the strap across the bottom of the shoe that the rocky trail won't wear through within the first 5 miles. I end up searching the back of my car, finding and securing a steel fishing leader across the bottom of each shoe to keep the gators in place and working properly. Foolishly, I am worried about only two things 1) keeping my feet in good condition and 2) keeping my stomach healthy. I figure if my feet remain in good shape, I can walk if necessary and if I can eat and drink I can continue walking for a very long time. Sounds reasonable doesn't it?

Monte (Crew #2 and Pacer #1) drives from Richmond, arriving 10 minutes before the race starts. We have time for quick greetings, a laugh, and a picture. The race starts and I run off into the woods like a good little monkey on my way into the banana trees. My strategy is to run at a moderate pace and walk all steep uphills. Conserve for as long as possible and then damage control when the unknown comes to play. The field spreads out quickly and I find myself running in between two groups. The slower group requires me to be patient and the faster one requires me to chance burning too much fuel and muscle early. I opt for the faster group and stick to the tail of a 3 person pack.

Mentally, I am optimistic but I know this will not last. On any given day concentrating for 30 minutes is difficult for me and I cannot imagine keeping focus for 30 hours. My mind drifts a bit but the steepness of the grade and rocky trail bring me back quickly. My thoughts are all over the place and I try to reign them in. I find with some thoughts I am running easier than with others. I decide to manipulate this in my favor and begin picturing and reciting the word Joy. Each time the running becomes difficult or I feel challenged, I focus on the word Joy. This works, or appears to momentarily, and I bound along down the bunny trail.

After 15 miles our pack of 4 has thinned. Two runners accelerated, Larry and I continue to clip along at a good pace. Larry is a talker and on these long runs I don't mind being a listener. In addition, Larry's eyes are not good in the dark and the reflectors on the back of my Camelback make it easy for him to follow me. Larry lets me know that he has a tendency to get off track in these longer runs but the course is extremely well marked with pink streamers and reflector tape. My night vision strategy consists of a Princeton Tech headlamp and a Cat Eye bicycle torch (love this word). I quickly find holding the Cat Eye in my hand gives steady light on the trail while the headlamp bounces too much like a Blair Witch movie. I opt for the hand torch and return the headlamp to my pack.

Larry has experience in the 100 mile range and I listen intensely to any advice. I ask many questions and Larry has answers. The pace is good for both of us and we chat about everything from politics to pain.

We run into the third aid station at mile 23. There are many people there and so many headlamps that I am blinded and start stumbling around. Larry goes immediately for his drop bag and I begin looking for my crew. It is dark and I see many faces in my light. I call “Heather”, “Monte”. “H, where are you?” I yell, “Hello, is my crew the only one asleep?”. “I lost my crew, is anyone missing a runner?” No response. I walk to-and-fro calling their names. Larry stops me finally and asks what is going on? I explain that my crew isn't here. He shrugs his shoulders. The lady next to me hears this and asks what I need. I say, “I need my crew”. She laughs. I laugh. Then I realize, she understands what I haven't yet accepted. My crew is not here but she is. I stare at her for a long time. Not in the eyes but in awe. She is patient with me and realizes I am way too focused and looking for the little leprechaun at the end of the rainbow. At 23 miles, I don't know it but I am starting to lose mental dexterity (some would argue that I have never had any but that is part of another discussion).

Finally after a full minute of disbelief, the words come out of my mouth, “electrolytes and body glide”. She opens a large Tupperware container and there are Hammer electrolytes. I open the bottle and spill 5 or so into my 1950's coin gizmo. Now for the hard part. I see the body glide but this goes on parts of the body that people, yes runners included, don't like to share. She looks at me and says, “go ahead, I won't tell my husband”. I open the body glide and apply it liberally to my inner thighs which are already starting to chafe. I want to hug her. I want her to understand she has just enabled me to continue, but there is no socially acceptable phrase or hand shake for such kindness. Her generosity comes at a critical time. At 23 miles this isn't a deal breaker; emotionally, however, her kindness when I am absent my crew is the complete world to me. I thank her with my feeble words and run to Larry who has waited through all of this. “Let's go”.

For the next 5 miles, 1000 thoughts go through my head. “I knew I should have never listened to Heather”, etc. My mind spews blame and chatter in every direction. Now I need to keep my thoughts in check or they may find an excuse that I didn't have warm clothing or the right food in order to continue running through the night. I bring Joy into my thoughts but this gives no relief. I take inventory of only the necessary and conclude that I have all I need to get to mile 50. I tell myself “Run Chris, just run”.

Larry and I continue our discussion. He apologizes for talking and I keep reassuring him that it is helping pass the time and mileage. Larry is older and has more experience than I in running ultras and in life. He tells me about businesses he had owned and run. I listen and focus on making sure my feet are finding their way over root and rock. At one point, I lift my foot to clear a chunk of ledge but my toe catches the underside and I feel a hot flash of pain in my right shin and ankle. I block it out by trying to focus intensely on Larry's words.

We run through aid station 4 at mile 31 with me eating salted baked potato and anything else that looks healthy and caloric. Larry has a Hammer pill program that works for him. He won't eat any food for the first 50 miles so I eat his share at the aid stations. He will only drink liquid and take a number of different kinds of Hammer pills to the tone of his watch alarm every hour. I also use the pill breaks to get electrolytes into my system.

Aid station 5, mile 36. Heather is waiting and very apologetic. She moves sheepishly towards me. “Fired, is there another crew that would like employment?”, I ask the crowd. I introduce Larry and let Heather know that another crew took care of me at the earlier aid station. I am feeling relatively good and tell her not to fret over what was missed. Make sure you get me some “body glide” from Monte and I will need milk when I see you again at mile 51. I also tell her to get plenty of rest as the course is very hilly and I am going to need someone to carry me later. My hamstrings are very tight so I lay down on the ground and have Heather stand on each one for about a minute. I also grab “The Stick” and try to crank out the ever growing cramp in my right calf without success. The hug feels great and for a moment I close my eyes, forget about running and curve into the warmth. Larry is waiting. “Let's go”.

On top of a long uphill we encounter a runner sleeping on the trail. Larry stops and asks if he is alright. He responds positively. Larry encourages him to get up and continue running with us. His name is Brian. He is dressed in shorts and a long sleeve shirt, he is under-dressed for the 40 degree night and visibly shaking. Larry chats with Brian and we find out this is also his first 100. On the uphills Larry and Brian walk faster than me, my pace is a bit quicker on the downhills so I take the lead on the flats. We pass through the night slowly marked by hourly watch chimes and scrambling feet. I am very alert.

We arrive at aid station #7, Reddish Knob. We have to run ½ mile up to the top of the knob and stamp our numbers with a special hole punch. The volunteer at the aid station says she will refill my Camelback while I run up and stamp my number. Larry, Brian and I run up the hill. There is a camera crew on top taking pictures. I grab the punch and stamp Larry's number. I reach for my Camelback and realize my mistake. My number is on my Camelback. I look at Larry. He smiles. Shit! I start running back down the hill. It doesn't hurt much but my legs have 50 miles on them and there is no such thing as a couple free steps. I get back down to the aid station and grab my Camelback. I run back up the hill and stamp the number and get my picture taken with the sunrise on the mountains in the background.

Monte and Heather are waiting. We do a quick exchange of greetings and Heather is quick with a hug and food offer. Monte is without his usual running belt and is carrying a plastic water bottle filled with colorful fluid. I look at him and know better than to ask questions. Monte gives me a serious look followed by his Southern smile and we start walking back up the hill from the aid station. I tell him that my ankle is really starting to bother me and he will have to kick me twice to get me motivated. It is great to see him and I am grateful to be running with him for the next 16 miles. As we crest the top of the hill I start shuffling. Monte runs along side of me and we talk about everything but nothing important.

Several miles later, Monte completely stops in mid trail and says “listen”. I stop. I hear nothing. Silence. Pure uninterrupted silence. He smiles. I look over at him and slowly feel the smile creep fully across my face. I don't want to leave the silence; it is restful, warm, and filling. I close my eyes for a moment and find eternity. I open my eyes, Monte nods forward and I return to the noise. Pain is noisy. Noisy to my body in sensation and noisy in my mind with complaint.

I want to run but the radiating pain in my ankle is becoming severe. I apologize to Monte for not being able to run. Walking with Monte isn't a bad way to spend a day but my intention is to run as much of this 100 miles as possible. My ankle is trying to make this decision for me and I rebuke it. I struggle to shuffle along several more times but each time end up walking. Monte has brought a “pick me up” surprise and pulls a piece of gum from his pocket. This is a special electrolyte gum and I chomp on it as my ankles continues biting into my shin. I continue the walk/shuffle/walk routine to aid station #11 at mile 66.

Heather and Monte have the first of several private crew discussions. I hear the word “ankle” and start thinking conspiracy. I gave Heather my word before starting that I would be reasonable if my condition deteriorated to a state that I was damaging myself. What I didn't consider was my ability to make any type of sound judgment would deteriorate quicker than my physical state. This is exactly what is happening. My ankle is throbbing and I realize every minute I remain at the aid station the higher the possibility I will not be leaving it. I stand up and brace myself. I limp a couple of steps. Heather is going go replace Monte as my pacer for the remainder of the run. I say “Let's go” and I start to shuffle down the trail.

Heather easily catches up to me. I look over at her to smile and show her I am not in enough pain to stop. I look over but never get to my smile. She is wearing some weird cornucopia of clothing. I look again, up and down and then back to the trail. She starts explaining that she left her running gear back at the bed and breakfast and has borrowed clothing from the other runners’ crew members. I shake my head. For a moment I realize my ankle may not be the only issue working against me and my crew. I look over again and let her know she looks great in pink running shoes.

The next aid station is less than 6 miles and I am struggling to shuffle. Finally, I submit to walking and try to make up in conversation what I cannot in leg speed. Heather asks about the pain and I talk about anything but my ankle. She backs off the questions and we move along the trail. She says the advice given to her about pacing is to “stay behind me and shut up”. Two guys gave her the advice and I laugh when I hear it.

We make it to aid station #12. We are 72 miles into the run and I immediately sit on a chair and put my leg high up on the back of another chair. The guys at the aid station are fantastic. They get me soup and fill my Camelback. My right ankle and shin are very swollen and painful to the touch. I look at Heather and her eyes are pleading me to surrender. I look at my ankle. I remember the words I have heard “a 100 mile run really starts at 70 miles”. I think to myself, nice work Chris, you made it two miles. This is a remote aid station. It is 1pm Saturday afternoon and I have been moving for 19 hours. I ask the guys what stopping here would mean other than relief.

“The earliest a truck is leaving this aid station is 8pm tonight”. Seven hours. My body is already starting to chill and I haven't been here for 5 minutes. I could sit by the fire for 7 hours. I consider my options. I ask them what the topography is to the next aid station 8 miles from here. A long uphill, some flat and then a short and steep downhill. Uphill doesn't hurt my ankle nearly as much as the downhills. I look at Heather. She growls. I open my Camelback and take out three extra strength Bayer aspirin. 1500mg of courage. I gulp them down with some noodle soup and look back at Heather.

“I need your help”. She listens. “I just took 1500 mgs of aspirin”. In 5 minutes, I need you to lift my leg down off the chair and get under my shoulder to help support my weight. She shakes her head. “Listen”, I say, “If it doesn't work we can always come back here and get a ride”. She shakes her head. It takes me the other 4 minutes to convince her and we are up and moving. Step. Stop. Breathe. I repeat this sequence several times before my ankle reminds me with certainty that we are not going anywhere. I stop. I look around in desperation. One of the aid station volunteers is stirring the fire. I ask him for his stick. He and the other volunteer scramble to find me a better one but I am quickly running out of time and forcefully say “just give me the burnt one you have”. He shrugs his shoulders and hands it over. I have Heather under my left shoulder and use the fire stick as a cane to support my right side. We limp, one slow step at a time out of the aid station and down the dirt road.

Aid Station #13 is 8 miles away. At some point I drop the burnt stick and reduce my reliance on Heather to a conversation. Rules are that your pacer cannot sherpa food or gear. For several steps I think Heather sherpa'd the majority of my weight. I walk with a limp and then begin to shuffle. My ankle is screaming. I pretend not to understand the language and then my ankles gets smart and starts speaking in tongues. I retort by starting to run. I am willing to go to a point of complete physical failure if necessary to prove a point to my ankle.

I am ahead of Heather who cannot see the tears streaming down my cheeks. Pain is a universal sound and there is a symphony playing in my body. I allow the pain space but refute any complaining. I push forward but know I cannot keep jogging under these conditions. I return to walking and we enter aid station #13. Monte greets us and I want milk and food. Heather and Monte scramble to find the milk but it is back in the car. I complain but without sincerity. I am entertaining myself and happy to simply be taking a break.

It is very hilly between Aid Station 13 and 14. Hilly is misleading. It is a very long uphill and then a steep downhill. I struggle and my walking slows. Heather is very patient and keeps me entertained. We chat about nothing memorable and she is skillful in trying to make me realize I should stop. Several runners who stopped running long ago pass me walking. I shuffle past them a couple of times on the long uphill but eventually they pass me and disappear. It is very dark and the temperature has dropped substantially. I am walking and stopping. Sitting at times on tree stumps or rock walls. Heather is dressed for running and the slow pace and frequent stops has her cold and shivering.

Aid Station at Dry Gulch Gap is populated with a big fire and good spirited volunteers. Monte and Heather have another private conference. I stand near the fire and look deep into the embers. The warmth feels great and those parts of my body that are able, relax. Monte comes over with a very serious look on his face. I fear he will ask me to stop. As a fellow runner he simply says “you are doing well, keep it up”. I can see he thinks differently but knows there is no stopping me if I do not want it to end here. I drink some noodles soup and eat some food. Over the last 5 miles my stomach has said “no” to any liquids and now Heather and Monte tell me I need to drink. They tell me I am dehydrated and I know they are right. I drink the broth from another noodle soup and step away from the fire. The cold hits me with such abruptness that I stop. Looking at the dark path ahead I call for Heather, “Let's Go”.

I limp up the trail and the noise disappears behind me. Heather is by my side and trying to remain positive. I am not happy keeping her and Monte supporting me under such conditions but the only alternative is to stop. The next nine miles are very long. The darkness isn't an issue as much as the cold and hills. I don't remember much changing during these miles. At one point we crest the top of a trail and see lights below in the valley. I sigh a quick relief that the end is in sight. We start a very steep descent littered with gravel. Traction is almost impossible and with the condition of my ankle and tired legs I verbalize every slip and almost fall with noise. We traverse this steep road knowing that a fall could easily end the run. My worry is that if Heather falls it would take me an hour to return with help. I am sure she is thinking the same. Finally, we follow the markers onto single track trail.

We arrive at Aid Station #15: Fall Hollow. Monte is there and he reminds me I am almost there. Heather is now looking haggard from the cold, hills, night, and worrying about me. I sit for a moment. I get up. “Let's go”. I don't feel excited or relieved to know there are only five miles remaining. I am numb to most all sensation. “Number 33 leaving” I announce. The guys says “ok” and marks his clipboard. He says “The remainder of the course is downhill”. I suddenly feel relief. I look at Heather and smile.

We walk across the road and down through the ravine. The next five miles should take less than hour. Instead they last forever. My mind is completely insane. At the “1 mile to go” sign I think the last aid station was really the 100 mile marker and this sign will inform us of the joke. It is very hilly and I walking so slow I am convinced there is actually no end and we have just been walking in a circle since the sign.

We are following pink streamers and we come to a point where we cannot determine the direction. There are several streamers near a tall igloo looking briar patch. I shine my light into the patch and think I see a corrugated tunnel opening. Heather is meanwhile shining here light in the other direction looking for the next marker, when I announce “I am going in”. I get on my hands and knees and begin to crawl. She hurries over and grabs my leg I pull, “let me go” I say. She persists and I surrender and retract my body from the briars. I am standing myself up and she says, “This way”. I follow but not confident in any direction but the one I was taking. We walk for another 100 yards and she shines her light on a pink streamer. I realize I am conscious but only in a way that would bring me quickly to a Darwin award.

We come to the parking lot of Camp Shenandoah. Monte jumps out of his truck and greets us. The finish line is within 100 feet but I don't even look for it. I just hug Monte as if I hadn't seen him in years. We stand around for a minute and then with one of them under each arm I walk back across the line I crossed 32 hours earlier. Clark congratulates us. I hug and kiss the totem pole. I hug Heather and thank her for making the completion of this possible. I hug Monte and thank him for supporting me many hours longer than any of us thought we would need.

I walk inside the Camp Shenandoah lodge. Drink something warm and let Heather and Monte know I am treating them to a well deserved breakfast at the Waffle House. Monte declines and would rather sleep in his truck for a couple hours and return to Richmond than join us for breakfast. Can you blame him? Heather declines until I threaten to drop her off at the bed and breakfast and go without her.

I double order everything at Waffle House and proceed to eat it all. Heather eats some hash browns and we drive to the bed and breakfast. The water in the bath tub is dark brown but I don't care. I try several times to get out of the tub and finally resolve myself to throwing a leg over the side and dragging the rest of my carcass onto the floor. I crawl into bed and finally get some relief.

Two months have passed and my ankle has healed but my back has still not recovered it's health. It feels like the run happened years ago or that I just read a really good story about someone else who ran 100 miles.

------------------------- HEATHER'S POST ------------------------------
“L on Cattleman. “ It’s noon on Friday afternoon, and we’re navigating the country roads outside of Staunton, making our way to Camp Shenandoah with the aid of directions that I had copied onto the back page of Talking Hands, my weekend reading. The roads wind lazily through fertile fields, and we remark on their earthily evocative names: Slinky Hollow. Glebe School Road. Trimble Hill Way. We pass through a pair of totem poles and arrive at Camp Shenandoah, the start and end point of the Grindstone 100.
There’s an air of anticipation and excitement inside the camp. Chris signs in, picks up his race packet, and hops on the scale for his ceremonial weigh-in. 168 pounds. After checking out the buffet—“too much mayo,” I pronounce--we find a seat and wait for the pre-race instructional meeting to begin. The race director, Clark Zealand, speaks enthusiastically about the event before turning the talk over to David Horton. Horton launches into a lengthy description of the course. I haven’t really studied the course map, so the references to gaps and knobs are lost on me. It just sounds tough. Long climb after long climb. Horton can’t seem to emphasize enough how difficult the course is; just when you think the cruising section must be coming, he warns about another impossibly steep section. I can’t tell how much of his presentation is pure swagger, but Horton seems intent to make it known that this is not going to be a gentle run through the hills. “I expect that only half of you will finish. Which will it be?” It’s one of those fabled “look to the left, look to the right” speeches, delivered with a twang and a mischievous twinkle. Horton is Horton and enjoying every moment of it.
We retrace our route and head back to Staunton for a final “real” meal of pizza and a couple hours of pre-race packing. The race begins at 6:00 pm, and at about 4:30, we pack up the car and head back to Camp Shenandoah. After arriving in the parking lot, Chris directs his focus to repairs on his gaiters. Plumbing his fishing tackle kit, he devises an ersatz foot strap; it’s pretty clear that it won’t last the entirety of the 100 miles, perhaps not even 5, but performing gaiter surgery is preferable to contemplating the enormous magnitude of the mileage that lies ahead.
Minutes before the race begins, Monte arrives and bear hugs are exchanged. He’s hightailed it up from Richmond to see Chris at the start and it’s great to see him there. A few pre-race photos, a prayer is delivered, and the race begins.
Monte and I clamber up with the rest of the crowd to catch some photos at Mile 1 and ½--the last opportunity to see the runners before their first accessible aid station at nearly 23 miles. Chris passes and looks strong. Chris’s sciatica had been paining him mercilessly for weeks, and I am convinced that if he makes it through the first 25 miles of the race, he will finish all 100 miles. Although it’s encouraging to see him looking comfortable at this early stage, I’m concerned that the next time I saw him, the race might be over for him.
Monte and I return to the B&B in Staunton and, for the first time, pore over the list of aid stations and directions. We study the “Horton adjusted” times, and figure, conservatively, that Chris won’t be arriving at the 1st aid station until 11:30 or so. We agree to meet at the Camp Shenandoah parking lot at 10:15, and I spend the next couple of hours anxiously, envisioning of cold, dark trails as I prepare peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches in our comfortable suite. Monte and I reconvene and I lead him, slowly and haltingly, to the first aid station. We deliberate over a couple of turns along the way; arriving at the aid station, we discover the terrible cost of our squandered minutes. We’ve misjudged Chris’s speed. We ask at the aid station whether Chris has come through. 11:02, their log reports. It’s 11:12, and the next accessible aid station is a full 12 miles farther. Monte and I are furious at ourselves and I’m despondent at having missed him. The temperature is dropping and I have all of Chris’s warm clothes—not to mention all his food. It’s a sickening feeling.
Monte and I consult the Horton timeline and we agree that he’ll go back to Staunton to get some rest and we’ll meet again at 5:30 to take a single vehicle to Mile 51, where Monte will join Chris as a pacer. I drive tentatively along dark Forest Service roads; I have about 3 hours to cover just 12 miles, but the roads are unlit and the signage is poor. I’m relieved when I see a caravan of vehicles and I can simply follow the traffic to the next aid station, North River Gap.
The scene at North River Gap is festive. The aid station is well-lit, and a number of people are seated around a campfire. I pull out a Crazy Creek chair and sit so close to the fire that the glue on my wool clogs begins to melt. Every time a runner approaches, their number is called out and the aid station comes alive. During the extended intervals in between, conversation flows around the fire. There’s an inviting intimacy to the local ultra community; all of the other crew members and pacers seem to know each other and their respective runners. These guys around the fire are professionals. One runner—the eventual winner in the women’s division—has three crew members on hand, one of whom is armed with a spreadsheet detailing her projected times and needs at the various aid stations. Mile 38? Tortillas with hummus, thank you very much. A cool towel at Mile 66? Don’t mind if I do…
The preparation and efficiency of some of these teams is mindblowing; they spring into action with the alacrity and efficiency of pit crews. Declaring my rookie status, I seek advice for supporting Chris as crew and pacer. I’ve been chatting with two very friendly West Virginians, Adam and Bill, and Adam doesn’t hesitate for a second when he issues his advice. “Don’t speak unless spoken to.” I can’t help erupting in laughter. Chris isn’t the only one whose endurance will be tested.
Chris rolls into North River Gap at around 2:30—right on schedule. He takes one glance at me and pronounces to the aid station at large: “My crew is fired. Anyone want to crew for me?” 38 miles in, and he’s yucking it up. Outstanding. Not so outstanding in the hydration department however. He weighs in at 162, and recognizes that he’s down serious calories. After devouring some organic pop-tarts and filling his pack with bars, Chris throws himself down on the rocks and directs me to walk on his hamstrings. The sciatica hasn’t backed down and Chris howls when I dig my full weight into him. In a moment, he’s back on his feet for a hug and then off again into the chilly Virginia night.
While waiting for Chris to arrive, I’ve been talking to a runner, Mario, who had decided to pull out of the race due to excruciating plantar fasciitis. I had agreed to give him a ride back to his car at Camp Shenandoah, and when Chris departs, Mario and I hurry to the car to begin the drive back. Mario assists with the directions and we launch into a meandering conversation about family, running, surfing, Maine. By the time I drop him off at Shenandoah, I realize that I’ll barely be able to make it back to the B&B before having to return to the camp for my appointed 5:30 meet-up with Monte.
Having already driven the route between Camp Shenandoah and Staunton, I strike a rather cavalier approach to directions on the way back. At the Cattleman turn, I strike incorrectly. Soon I find myself at unfamiliar intersections; I’m listening to a BBC report on the demographic pressures facing Israel’s economy and although the sound of the broadcast is comforting, my predicament is becoming more and desperate. I’m lost. Some combination of darkness, poor signage, poor judgment, and fatigue is conspiring against me. A potent feeling of dread descends upon me; for twenty minutes or so, I just drive, hoping that I will be deposited at a familiar turn or major road. At last, I encounter a sign to Staunton and eventually pick up a signal on my cell phone. Reaching Monte at his hotel, I issue a quick update on Chris’s progress and tell him I’ll meet him at Shenandoah as soon as I can.
I’ve lost a half-hour or so and it’s 5:10 by the time I arrive at the B&B to collect my bag of running gear. Canvassing the room, I notice some items that Chris might want: some more of his now-beloved organic pop-tarts and an extra shirt. I rush out of the room and speed off to meet Monte. After some quick deliberations as to which vehicle to take, we settle on Chris’s car. It’s all packed and I don’t want to risk leaving anything behind. (Cruel, cruel irony…)
Monte assures me that he knows a more direct route to Briary Gap (Mile 51) than following the directions station by station. I ask if he’s certain and then submit. I’m shaky from exhaustion and anxiety, chastened by my recent experience on backroads. I’m reluctant to deviate from the security of our official directions and I’m in no position to make directional judgments of my own. For the next half hour or so, we are skidding around turns, rattling on gutted Forest Service roads; I’m taking corners too fast and too tightly in places, making frequent apologies for what is truly reckless driving. Monte remains unfazed and encouraging; I have the impression, perhaps misplaced, that he would be driving even more aggressively and I try not to disappoint. With dawn upon us, the visibility has improved, making the conditions a bit less spooky but just as harrowing.
When we finally arrive at Briary Gap, we dash out of the car and rush up to a group of people seated in lawn chairs, frantic to learn whether Chris has already come through. We are furious to discover that there is no log of runners, no way to confirm that Chris is still en route. Monte and I start up the hill, hoping that we’ll encounter Chris or at least get word of his progress. The sun is rising over the valley and we stop to take in the divine moment. We shoot a playful video for Chris about our evening of carousing and a few minutes later, there he is. I practically jump him in my excitement and relief. I scamper down to the car and dig furiously for supplies, snapping at Monte to get Chris what he needs. Even after some scavenging and snippiness, I confirm that the milk is back in Staunton. Curses are uttered. Still, the runner looks good and he seems to be in decent spirits.
Monte and Chris head off down the trail together, and I feel a wave of relief—after an extremely hectic couple of hours, I can recharge a bit before assuming my pacing duties. Everything is less harrowing by daylight. The race opportunities for me to consider my night anxiety—the sense of dread that sometimes engulfs me when I am in an unknown place after dark. It’s an almost atavistic response; I’m not conscious of any particular fears or phobias, but I’m acutely conscious of feeling exposed and uncomfortable. I remember having the same experience during Death Division; some of the scenes during the night haunted me, but arriving on the scene the next day, the whole event seemed less disturbing, somehow manageable.
I’m more buoyant mentally, but still physically shaky, as I visit the local mom-and-pop grocery store in search of milk and treats (for runner) and hot coffee (for pacer). Score some homemade apple bread (quite good) to accompany the coffee (quite bad), and with purchases in tow, make my way to the North River aid station. About a half hour or so after I arrive, I figure I might as well dress for running. I walk back to the car and canvassed the backseat and trunk. Sheer panic. No gear bag. Has the bag made its way into Monte’s truck when we were deciding which vehicle to take? Have I simply left in on the ground of the Camp Shenandoah parking lot? Could it be back at the B&B? My mind is racing, and after all of the frantic rushing the night before, I’m not confident that I have time to drive to Staunton and back before Chris and Monte make it to the aid station. I have the volunteers radio to Shenandoah to see whether the bag has turned up in the parking lot. No luck. Not knowing what to do, and not willing to risk being absent once again, I start asking around for a pair of running shoes in my size. Amazingly, one of the girls at the aid station has a pair, takes them off her feet, and hands them to me. (In retrospect, what is even more amazing is the distorted sense of urgency I attached to the request; given my lack of sleep and the drama of the night before, the run (and my attendant pacing duties) had assumed an epic quality.) I was determined to run, even if it meant doing so in borrowed shoes, borrowed shorts, an oversized t-shirt of Chris’s, and a borrowed fuel belt. No Camelbak, no jog bra, no high-tech synthetics. Ragamuffin crew transformed into ragamuffin pacer.
When Chris and Monte finally arrive, I pull Monte aside to explain my predicament in the hopes that he can track down my bag and hook me up with my own gear at the next station. We’re whispering, but Chris takes one look at my Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader shorts and the jig is up. I confess to missing my gear. Chris fuels and Monte warns me that Chris has been having trouble with his ankle. He’ll continue but we’ll keep it under close watch.
It’s about noon when we start off from mile 66. Chris seems upbeat but it quickly becomes clear that he is pushing through serious pain. We jog through some flat stretches and he manages to disguise the pain. At times, however, Chris walks slowly and laboriously, clearly in agony but trying to subdue the pain. By mile 72, we enter a crew-inaccessible aid station where Chris sits down to assess his situation and take some soup and liquids. His ankle is swollen and in excruciating pain; he looks almost faint from the severity of the pain. After taking a couple of aspirin, Chris discusses “evac” options—none anytime soon. Despite my urgings to DNF, he resolves to keep going, at least until the next road access. He hobbles out of the aid station, supported on one side by my shoulder and on the other by a crutch crudely fashioned from a stick. Still 28 miles to go, and he can barely walk—let alone run—without physical support. I know that it would be tremendously disappointing, but pulling out of the race seems to be the only reasonable option.
Chris hobbles, limps, but eventually forces a jog that he is able to sustain for stretches in the flats. The afternoon is sunny and bright and reminds me of Indian summer weekends in Maine when I was growing up, my parents doing end-of-the-summer cottage chores with the sound of distant chainsaws and loudspeakers announcing plays at the high school football game a half mile away. The afternoon passes slowly and, for Chris, agonizingly.
Mile 78 and Monte’s smiling face. Alas, no clothes or running shoes for me. Monte had driven back to Camp Shenandoah and exchanged vehicles but my bag wasn’t there. I’m ashamed to admit that Chris wasn’t the only surly one… More “negotiations with the insane” and on we go. It’s just a short stretch through the woods until we can meet up with Monte one last time at a road crossing before the first evening leg. We layer for the night, gobble down some more food, and then advance toward the hill.
My recollections from the next stretch are hazy, punctuated by isolated memories of clarity. A neighboring ridge bathed in the purplish light of dusk. Momentary fragments of trail. I am convinced that Chris will finish, his determination eclipsing his pain, but as I adjust and readjust my mileage calculations, it’s clear that we will be walking well into the night. I recognize that closer Chris is to the finish, the more difficult it will be for him to contemplate DNF. The math in an event like Grindstone lends itself to some strange mental contortions.
Despite the gorgeous moon that occasionally peeks through the trees, it feels very dark, and the headlamps start to play tricks on my eyes. We climb and climb, and then begin a long descent toward the valley. Seeing lights in the valley is encouraging, but we still have a long way to go. On one gravelly stretch, I lose my footing and fall awkwardly. The footing is terrible, but it’s difficult to control the downhill momentum—not to mention the instinct to break into a run and keep going until we reach the finish.
The night wears on and we arrive at mile 95 at 11:00 pm. Just five miles until the finish. Monte, heroically, is at the aid station once again waiting for us. We sit Chris down by the fire and Monte and I consult. We agree that he’s in tough shape—he’s gone from excruciating pain to dehydration to what appears to be silent near-delirium. At this stage, it’s not a question of exercising judgment; Chris won’t stop, so all we can do is support him. Chris takes a final last bite of soup and we start off on the final stretch.
It is hard to assess the toll that navigation takes on our eyes and minds. I’m constantly looking ahead, peering into the dark woods and hoping that my light will reflect off our next tag. These final miles are reputed to be downhill, but they are in fact somewhat rolling and the uphills are extremely demoralizing. Chris sits down from time to time and I try to force liquids and bites of Clif Bars upon him. His eyes develop a vacant appearance that terrifies me. I am convinced that he is going to pass out from dehydration or fatigue, and he is withdrawing into a mental space that I can’t access. Although I feel strong physically, my own mind starts to falter and I begin issuing reassurances to Chris that reflect my own fear and disorientation. We’re descending, and it seems like Camp Shenandoah must be just ahead, but the trail goes on. And on. Signs of firepits and still no finish. When we come across the “One mile left” sign, we have both entered a state of delirium. The sign is menacing, diabolical in its orange and black. Several groups have passed us, but there is no comfort in sharing the trail. It feels like they are fresh and frolicking and somehow taunting us. The last mile is interminable. Finally, we are skirting the pond across from the Camp, and even with the lodge lights beckoning at the finish, we are in a state of near paralysis. The destination is clear, but the trail eludes us. As I wander and cast my light around, looking for the next streamer, Chris spots a “tunnel.” “H, it’s a tunnel. I’m going in!” I rush over to him and try to convince him that crawling through a tunnel is not part of this particular adventure. He’s insistent, but I finally get him up off the ground. We walk insecurely but eventually find a marker. We walk slowly and approach the entrance to Shenandoah. With the final field ahead, we meet Monte and exchange hugs. With arms wrapped around each other, we tread to the finish. I have tears in my eyes well before Chris kisses the totem pole.
We’re jubilant, but jubilance doesn’t cure impaired mental capacities. We share some celebratory moments with Monte, but I know I’m in no state to drive and want to get off the road and back to the B&B without any stops. Chris demands Waffle House and there’s no dissuading him; we have food in the room, but he must have been fantasizing about Waffle House for miles. After thanking Monte and trying to convince him to stay in Staunton with us, we begin the drive back to town. I’m beyond shaky and a country intersection proves utterly mysterious. I stare down at my handwritten directions – “L on Cattleman”—then stare back at the road signs; although I try leaving the intersection, things keep looking unfamiliar, and I return back to the same intersection and repeat the exercise. This goes on for literally twenty minutes. Meanwhile, Chris is expressing wonder at the cow that has wandered into the road…
We finally arrive at Waffle House and Chris devours plate after plate of greasy goodness. Back at the B&B, Chris falls asleep in the chair, then in the tub, then finally in the bed. At last, sweet sleep.