Last Saturday, four NPDC members took to the mountains of Park City, Utah for a trail race, but not just any trail race. The North Face Endurance Challenge Series 50K trail ultra-marathon extravaganza (that’s the real name, I looked it up). Now a week later, they’ve collected their thoughts, and captured the emotional highs and lows of the day. The fab four recounted their experiences below.
Maria
“Holy cow. OH BABY. We just ran a 50k. We just finished FIFTY K. We just did 32 freakin’ miles through the woods.” — My inner monologue, 2pm Saturday, September 23. THAT was an unreal feeling, but let’s back up.
On May 1, I got this email:
I was right, and so was Jake. It did take A TON of convincing to get me on board (namely, Jake leveraging two other people who had allegedly signed on to get me to agree). And he was right that there wasn’t a greater co-leader bonding experience. All of the Saturday long runs, traipsing around DC in the soupiest, swampiest heat and humidity you could imagine — and then making it to race day, and toeing the line with someone who I now consider to be one of my best friends.
NOTE: I could never do November Project without Steve and Jake’s love and unwavering support, and I couldn’t have finished this race without it either.
Friday, Sept. 22: Fast forward through the cruel cruel summer, and we’re in Park City, Utah, the evening before the race. At the suggestion of my shero/NP Corporate Baller Laura Green, I dragged our motley crew to a pre-race panel sponsored by TNF. While there, people proceeded to ask questions about the course, the weather, aid stations, and a bunch of other logistics I was too nervous to think about. TNF team members and ultra-running all-stars Clare Gallagher and Timmy Olson were on hand. They offered two pieces of advice that I carried with me the next day. Timmy spoke about being present, and finding your breath, even when things are going haywire (which they inevitably will). Clare, fresh off a win in the CCC at the Tour de Mont Blanc, talked about finding yourself on the trail, and allowing your mind to go to a “dark place” in order to press on. I was scared the night before. I had tremendous doubts about if I would be able to finish the race. I didn’t sleep well, (mainly because I was getting up to pee every 12 minutes #hydrationnation) and I couldn’t wait for the race to go off just so the anticipation and the questioning would be over, and I could finally get out on the course.
Race Day
Roughly 11:30AM, somewhere in the Park City mountains. I’m at mile 19. I just left a pretty buttery section of the course, long, sloping downhills. “Hey, only a half marathon left!” I yell to no one in particular. “You’re fucking crazy!” a fellow runner says back in what I hope was jest. I’m having fun, enjoying myself — sure, I’ve been carrying a stupid jacket around my waist that’s making me look like a MAJOR DWEEB but damn is it beautiful out here. We’ve come to a couple clearings where you can see the entirety of Park City below, stretches where the trees are already in peak fall foliage form. I’m carrying my phone in my Camelbak (READ: Hirsh’s Camelbak), but I have no desire to take it out. I’m too busy hurling myself at downhills to pick up a little speed, or lifting my head up and taking in how completely awe-inspiring Mother Nature is. I’m fully present. In this mile, in the one before, and in every one after. I can feel when every step turns to agony; I wanted to feel it. I also carried Tylenol in my pack, but didn’t take any during the race because there was something so raw about feeling the hinge in my gait due to pain in my left hip, feeling my quads turn to jelly, that I wanted to be there for. “You’re going to finish this fucking thing,” I say in my head, but probably out loud as well, as I pound some cold, boiled potatoes (it sounds gross, THEY’RE DELICIOUS) at the next aid station.
1:40pm, Mile 31ish. Goddamnit, why isn’t this race over yet? Did the course director REALLY need to add the extra mile. I spat the words out at the volunteer in the last clearing. “Please tell me the finish line is close,” I say, my voice cracking. I held back tears; I didn’t want to cry because I wasn’t sad, I think the tears were more reflexive than anything. The pain was BAD, but I was amped to be getting close. When this poor dude stammered back, “You’ve got less than a mile to go,” I could have kissed him. Through the switchbacks down the final slope of the mountain, I heard someone passing me go, “Fuck yeah, NP! Way to represent” A marathon-relay runner. I hated him. He had done a fifth of what I did, and he was FLYING (whoever you are, I seriously love you). Every bit of encouragement was needed in those final moments. A girl stood with the Positivity Award in the woods. Hell yeah. I got this. Rounding the final turn there were two thoughts– 1) try and smile so you get a decent race photo (I did, and I meant it. I was genuinely happy in that moment) and 2) you’re about to become an ultra-fucking-marathoner. Holy cow. OH BABY. And then a third thought: why, dear God, is this race finishing on an uphill?! I cross the finish line, throw my head back in LITERAL EUPHORIA (see below for details) and get my medal. Lots of expletives are crossing my mind. My legs are stiff, and every step is pretty brutal. Jake is the first person I see. How in the hell did you get me to agree to this stupid, moronic, idiotic, amazingly wonderful experience. I think I broke his ribs with how hard I hugged him. I tried to transfer every bit of gratitude I could. Katie and Andrea amble down the hill (again, why all the hills near the finish?). Jake informs me how they FLEW through the course. I’m so proud. They represented themselves and NOVEMBER PROJECT DC better than I could have hoped to.
I’m happy they’re my Tribe members, Jake, Katie, and Andrea — and I’m even happier they’re my friends. This race was the hardest thing, mentally or physically, that I’ve ever done–and I couldn’t have done it without their help. This gang of misfits — a bunch of Yankees from a Swamp — decided to run a 50K in completely ludicrous conditions.
I don’t know any other way to describe trail running except that it changes you. It gives you a deep appreciation for nature, a thankfulness for your body, and a sense of deep, deep gratitude for the people who support you along the way. Thank you.
————
KATIE
Pre Race
Spring: DC
About 11 months ago I ran the DC Marine Corps Marathon. I went out too fast and by mile 16 I was feeling it. I looked forward to the NP cheer station at mile 18, but it was pretty much downhill (and not in the good way) from there. I struggled through the last 6 miles of that race and then collapsed on a curb, exhausted and in tears.
Flash forward to late spring when many of my NP friends started training for their fall marathons. I happily tagged along for the long runs, while also being committed to not signing up for a long race. Then, one Monday morning Jake casually brought it up: “I’m thinking about a Utah 50k next September.” The thought of combining two of my absolute favorite things: mountains and running, intrigued me. Nonetheless, I was nervous and highly noncommittal. I thought back to how miserable I was during the MCM marathon, and about all the summer travel plans that would disrupt a training schedule. Ultimately, a couple of big reasons tipped me over to yes: 1) Maria and Andrea were in, so I wasn’t the only crazy one signing on; 2) I was inspired by Alexis (if you don’t know her, you probably should), who suffered through a miserable Boston Marathon, and then immediately signed up for another marathon and BQed only a month later (go read her blog!). I decided that a mountainous 50k was the perfect way (for me personally) to get back on the long race horse; I wouldn’t be worrying about my splits, PR, or BQing, instead I could just run (or hike, as I told myself), as slow or fast as I wanted. Before I knew it, Jake, Maria, Andrea and I were booking flights and paying the ECS 50k registration fee; there was no turning back.
Summer: DC
In the months and days leading up to Utah, my nerves never completely subsided. The DC humidity was tough, my travel schedule ate into long runs, and I had no idea what racing at altitude and up mountains would be like. “I just want to finish,” I told anyone who asked whether I felt ready.
Race Day
Just one nice long hike, I told myself the morning of. I layered up, preparing for 27 degrees at the base of the mountain. Thanks to Jake’s excellent planning and Maria’s resolve to get a place with a hot tub, all it took was stepping outside our door and we were at the start line. Andrea, Jake, Maria and I exchanged encouraging, if nervous, smiles and then we were off; stride 1 down.
Due to weather contingency plans the course was modified to start with a 10k loop, followed by the marathon 42k loop. At the 10k mark I swung back by the start area, hearing Mel’s enthusiastic cheers even before I saw her. I raced down to give Mel a hug, and then continued back up the mountain feeling great, 20% down! (In my head that sounded way better, than “still the hardest distance you’ve done to date left!”)
For the next several miles I checked my Garmin only to make sure that my HR was registering somewhere between the yellow and orange zones. No checking my mile pace and no going into the red zone, no matter how slow I felt. At the mile 10 aid station, the woman I’d been running behind asked a race worker how many women were in front of us. Seven, eight? Definitely less than 10, she told us. My goal remained to survive and finish, but I didn’t hate the feeling that just maybe all the DC humidity had prepared me for altitude more than I realized.
Miles 23-27 were up. Switchback after switchback, we kept climbing. I slowed down, taking long quick-walk strides, and using each step as an opportunity to stretch out my aching hip flexors. “Just a long hike,” I reminded myself as I took in the gorgeous fall foliage and tossed aside any worries about mile pace.
Finally, we reached the top of the climb at the mile 27 aid station, just 5 miles down they told me. I smiled, “let’s do this,” I said out loud to no one in particular. I gulped down some Scratch, ate probably my 10th PB&J for the day, and took off down the mountain for the home stretch. Around mile 29 I was cruising down the mountain and felt tears of happiness welling up. Our group was going to do this! I soaked in the beautiful scenery above and below and let my mind wander freely. Then I stumbled on a rock and want down, hard. Oof, I brushed myself off and started up again. Reminder: not a road race, keep eyes on the trail.
I could see the lodge below and my watch hit 31. Then we had another 200-meter climb. WHAT! What asshole made this 50k LONGER than a 50k and made that last EXTRA mile part UPHILL? I got myself up and over the hill and sped down (ok it felt like sped, in reality it probably more like hobbled). About a quarter of a mile out, I could hear Mel’s cheers, “GO KATIE GO!”
As I raced to the finish I thought about the badass speedy running ladies (and all around amazing human beings) I trained with all summer, the NP DC tribe, and in particular the incredible group of individuals that had convinced and accompanied me to run our first 50k in Utah. They’d all helped me get to a place where I felt comfortable, both mentally and physically, trying something new, something hard, something I didn’t already KNOW I could accomplish, and for that I can’t thank them enough.
Post race
Me: “Guys, I know everything hurts… but who wants to go climb a mountain? It’s so pretty here!”
Everyone else: “You psycho, I’m hitting up the hot tub.”
ACK
PRE-RACE:
Last April, I ran my first-ever 10-mile race. I thought it would be awful. But unsurprisingly – or at least, if you’re a long-distance runner, this will be unsurprising to you – I totally caught the bug.
Should I do a marathon next? I wondered.
No, I thought, sternly. I’ll be logical about this. First I’ll do a half. Then maybe a 15 miler. Then MAYBE a marathon. MAYBE.
So, naturally, two months later, I signed up for a 31-mile race on the side of a godforsaken mountain.
Who was to blame for this decision? The easy answer is Jake Lloyd – original instigator, mountaineer and trailmaster. Or maybe it was Katie, affectionately known as KJD, the one who first mentioned the 50K idea to me on a run — planting the seeds of madness in my brain.
But really, at mile 24 of the race, when I was staggering up yet another hill, mentally cursing whoever designed the course, and wondering if my hip flexors were about to tear for good – I had no one to blame but myself.
RACE DAY:
8:17 a.m., Mile 6.2:
Cruising down switchback turns, I see the table up ahead – we’ve made it to the 10k! Due to a massive snowstorm the day before, the “course contingency plan” is in effect, which means that instead of doing one long loop, we first do a 10k loop, and then a much longer, 26-mile loop back up the mountain.
Naturally, upon approaching the 10k aid station, the very first thing I hear is Mel Fineman’s ecstatic yelling from behind her iPhone.
“GO, ANDREA! GO!” she yells. “YOU’RE AN AMAZING HUMAN! YOU’VE GOT THIS!”
All the while, Mel’s snapping picture after picture of me on her phone. I know these pictures will be sent to everyone back home, so I wave and smile. (I also know for a fact that my mother is having mild to moderate anxiety that I’m going to be attacked by a bear and/or fall off the side of a cliff during this race. So, at least for her sake, I should try to look cheerful.)
I scoop up some energy gels from the table, throw them into my zipper pocket, and grab a PB&J square. I force it down with some sips of water and Coke. The one piece of advice that stuck in my head from the day before was “EAT. EAT even when you don’t want to.” So I’ve been dutifully following this directive, taking in calories at every aid station, even though we’re not even yet a quarter of the way through the race.
PB&J finished, I start jogging steadily back onto the trail, chasing after the group ahead of me.
This isn’t so bad, I think.
“Only a marathon to go!” someone ahead yells.
I cheer, feeling suddenly lighthearted. If only I knew what was coming.
11:25 a.m., Mile 24:
You’ve GOT to be kidding me, I think, as I turn a corner around a tree and my eyes fall upon yet another steep uphill.
We’ve been climbing uphill for what feels like an eternity. The volunteers at the last aid station assured us that the next station was “only three miles” away. But Mark – the hardy soul running beside me – and I are skeptical. We’ve been going for at least 40 minutes, and all around us we are greeted by nothing but the dead silence of the woods. No cheers, no ringing of the bells, no banging of the porta-potty door as runners hurry in and out.
Our attempts at “running” have subsided into the sad, desperate mantra of “run for 20 breaths, walk for 20 breaths.” (And the occasional internal reprimand: “You’ve got to start running again, Andrea, it’s been 20 breaths!”)
“It’s got to be close,” Mark grunts on the exhale.
“I want a word,” I gulp for breath, “with whoever designed this course.”
“Don’t think,” Mark answers, “that they tried running it.”
I laugh with what little breath I have left.
Finally, we look up to see the top of a tent peeking through the tree line. I would cry of happiness, but my emotional energy had been depleted quite a few miles back.
Together, Mark and I shuffle up the last bit of trail, run up to the tables, and once again begin downing PB&Js, water, soda, and energy chews. At this point, my stomach has been assaulted with so much sugar that it’s painful to eat anything more. But we still have a long five miles back to the finish. So I shove one more PB&J square in my mouth and start hobbling back onto the trail.
“Are you okay?” asks a volunteer, her eyes wide.
I nod, my eyes swimming with tears, my knees creaking, every joint in my lower body in extreme pain.
The volunteer watches me pass with more than mild concern.
Five miles later, I’m sprinting – or my best approximation of sprinting – towards the finish line. The announcer is shouting something, the wind is whipping, but all I hear are Mel Fineman’s frenzied cries from behind the barricade as I struggle by. I try to smile at her, but the pictures later tell the story: as soon as my body breaks the plane of the finish line, my eyes close, my mouth goes slack, and my body crumples, entirely spent.
Mel, of course, immediately circumvents the barrier and rushes up to hug me. I’m shaking, sweaty, and already beginning to feel hypothermic. But as the finish line volunteer hands me my medal and tells me to look at the camera for a photo, I feel a grin forming on my face. I’ve done it. We’ve done it. Fifty. Kilometers.
POST-RACE:
Park City is a gorgeous place. Up in the mountains, you’re swallowed by a sense of smallness – that you’re one tiny, transient creature traversing peaks that have stood quietly forever.
Throughout the race – to my surprise – I never lost this feeling. Sure, it was easier in the first 10 miles, when Jake and I exclaimed every few minutes, “It’s so beautiful!” “Lookit that, folks!” But even in the later stages, when my stomach was churning after the fourth PB&J, when my legs threatened to collapse under me at every turn, I held onto that feeling of simple wonder and gratitude for the moment.
Life in Washington, D.C. moves pretty fast. One of the best parts of this race – especially being out in a place like Park City – was the sensation of timelessness, as if the only thing that mattered, and would ever matter, was covering the few feet of trail in front of you. All the small things I worried about back home, all the uncertainties and decisions I hadn’t yet made — they all seemed to fade away, as if they were too small to exist in such a place.
Jake, Maria, Katie and I – maybe we all signed up for this race for different reasons. But maybe it was all for the same one. In Park City, we pushed ourselves through pain; we battled up the side of a mountain; we lost and found ourselves again in the wilderness. And as sweet as it felt afterwards to flash my medal in a picture, or to tell people back home, “hell yeah, I ran a 50K,” what I will remember more than anything are those quiet moments out on the trail, where time stopped and only three things existed: the pain in my body, the crunch of my footsteps, and the ragged sound of my breath, in and out, in and out, in and out.
I know that we all felt that. And I know we’ll all carry that home. Because on that day, for 32 miles, traveling through a mountain range, we left daily life and all its complications behind. And we followed one simple directive: Run.
——————–
JAKE
March 23, San Diego, Calif. — I can’t remember the last time I was this depressed. I’ve just been hit with a big ol double whammy. Not only did Michigan’s basketball season end before my eyes in heart-wrenching fashion, but my left knee is a mess. All day, I hobbled around San Diego’s Convention Center, sharp pain reintroducing itself time and time again. I overdid it. I had run 20 miles four days prior, my farthest long run by a whopping six miles, my longest run ever. I was training for my first 50K in DC at the end of April (well, really, my first race of anything more than 13 miles), and now I was done. The pain didn’t subside for days. I missed workouts. My other knee started hurting. By the time I got right, I was back at square one. Just try running three miles, my amazing, patient PT Sabrina told me. A 50K? Nah, that dream was over…
May 1, Washington, DC — Fuck it, let’s do this. I’m a few days removed from The North Face Endurance Challenge DC race, where I ran a miserable leg of a marathon relay in morbid conditions. The only people who crossed the finish line with huge smiles on their faces were the ultrarunners. That sense of accomplishment; I could’ve had it if I hadn’t been so careless training. I needed to do something big, a 50k. Massachusetts in June at NP Summit? Nah, too soon. Ontario in July? Ditto, and I went there last year.
What about Utah? Bojan, the man, the myth, the legend, had mentioned it at coffee the day before the race. Everyone does the 50K at ECS-CA, he said; but Utah? You’d be a rare breed. Well, I’ve ALWAYS been a rare breed. So Utah seemed perfect. Elevation between 7,000 and 10,000 feet? SURE! Possible wintry conditions? Sounds about right. Sign me up. But who the hell would join me for this ridiculous mission? I shot off a short email to Dazzo and Steve (see the top of this email). Regardless, I had to (somehow) do this.
<Fast forward to late September>
September 23, RACE DAY
Mile 5: This is EASY! I’m cruising down switchbacks, listening to a couple guys in front of me talk sports as they run. I jump in the convo and one dude immediately recognizes my Midwest accent. ‘You’re not from around here are you?’ he pipes up. ‘Nope.’ I tell him my Michigan background. When I look through the race results four days later, our crew plus a few others are the only flat-landers out of 154 competitors. Everyone else is from the west. They all live at elevation. But in this moment, burning around these switchbacks, I feel great and have company to pass the time. The trails are packed dirt. While it’s 30 degrees, only my hands are cold. My jacket that The North Face required everyone to have with them is tucked in my pocket. All good!
Mile 17: “Holy cow,” I remark, although it’s actually a moose. After hearing quite the rustling off the trail to the right, I noticed the large creature. Despite decades of hikes in moose-popular mountain ranges, I’d only seen one of them in the wild. Make that two! The moose is just an exclamation point on the beauty I, we, all runners have encountered on the trail. Snow-capped mountains, hillsides doused in fall colors (already!), trailside birch trees made whiter, prettier, more pure by snow. This place is beautiful, but … I’m alone and my body is starting to talk to me. I lost the speedsters Keklak and Katie on a hill two miles back, and only so many moose can distract me.
Mile 19: “Have you seen a woman wearing pink,” I ask at the aid station, eying curiously the full bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey? “Yeah, she was flying,” the woman behind the table remarks. Yep, Katie’s doing well, I assume. Me, on the other hand? Not so hot. I chew down a couple more gummies and grunt at my new course friend “Race” (real name) as he passes me. Time to go … up? He stops to stretch his hammie. I pass. He passes. And so on, each time one of our ailments screams, “STOP! REST!”
Mile 24: So this was the dark place they talked about at the panel the night before? I’m near tears. My body is ravaged. My hips. My hammies. My just about everything. And I’m of course immersed in the most difficult mile of the trek, 352 feet of UP. I walk. Then “run” for 30 seconds. Then stop, wheeze, and walk again. I look at my watch. The tenths of a mile are endless. The progress seemingly elusive. I had thought being so close to the finish would make this section mentally easier. I was dead wrong.
Mile 28: “One mile at a time,” I keep telling myself. Yes, the going is all downhill now, but my body still argues with me. The gluten-free diet of Scratch gummies, orange slices and potato chips has finally caught up to my stomach, as it has joined the ranks of my unhappy body parts. My near-tears now come from a weird combination of pain as well as accomplishment. I know I’m gonna finish. I try to picture the moment. Imagine it. Play it out. Time and time again. I look at my watch. 29:0. I’m getting there.
Postscript: I didn’t cry at the finish line. I felt emboldened that last half mile. I heard a cheer from a couple NP relay racers. I could see the finish line. And then, after that final hill and switchbacks, I was there. I grinned wildly while crossing it, because wasn’t that part of the point? To have fun??
Minutes later, Dazzo crosses the finish with a similar expression. “I love AND hate you right now,” she exclaims, enveloping each of my brittle bones in a monster bear hug. “We did it,” is all I can say. WE. DID. IT. Inevitably later that night, there’s at least a casual “what’s next” conversation. While some of us might return to 50Ks soon and others might call it a career, this much we agree on:
Between the snow, the temps, the elevation we raced at, the elevation we gained, and of course the sheer fact that we ran 32 miles (not 31! The contingency course added a mile), we knew we’d set an incredibly high bar. Pictures don’t tell the story. At times, it was absolutely brutal and grueling. But worth it. OH, so worth it.
We returned to the outdoor hot tub to celebrate, snow falling around us, limping all the way.
So there you have it, folks. A succinct analysis on 32 miles of shreddage. Feeling inspired? Want to know more? Check out this DOPE video courtesy of Keklak Productions if you want to relive the experience. Have a glorious Sunday, and we’ll see you tomorrow. ‘Til then:
SPREAD. GOOD. VIBES.
