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| Pinhoti Trail - Georgia |
And then there are those days…
And this was one of them…
Running the Georgia Jewell 100 seemed like
a good idea at the time. I was going to be in the U.S. for meetings that would
span a weekend. “Why not run an American trail ultra for old times sake?” was
my thought. When the Georgia Jewell 100 came up during a search of races the
idea of running through the wooded forests of northern Georgia sounded
fun. I’ve been running well, feeling
reasonably healthy, and felt like it was time to try and bust out a good time
for a 100.
The lead up to the race was not ideal. I
was working long days with events each evening that went too late into the
night and with too much alcohol. I was tired. Then the stress of a delayed
flight to Atlanta, rush hour traffic, and racing to get to the pre-race
check-in before it closed Friday night. I crawled into bed thinking, "I just want
to sleep in – not get up at 3:30 am to run."
As I waited for the start I felt ready.
There was a small field of 50 or so runners with some regional speedsters. I
was confident that unless I made some big mistakes or something went terribly
wrong I could place, and possibly win. This confidence was buoyed by the ease
in which the early miles passed in the predawn dark. Within the first few miles
I was off the front and by myself. A nice place to be.
Despite being in the lead and feeling
physically good – I wasn’t feeling it. I didn’t have a hunger to race. My
motivation was lacking. This was unusual in that for me the day was as good as
it gets; I felt strong and healthy, the weather was perfect, the trail was
stunning, and I was in the mix.
I tried to go to that other place - leave
the present and find a daydream that would entertain my mind for miles. But I
couldn’t. At about mile 35 I hit a low spot. My mind kept repeating, “I’m
bored.” My non-listening self kept replying “then deal with you boredom.” This
was not a good place to be. I was frustrated.
It was too early in the race to slip into a trough when arguably things
were going so well. With resignation I accepted the reality that if I just kept
moving and running smart, in time this would pass and I would again feel
engaged. I kept running...
At the turnaround at 52 miles my condition
had not improved. I was still in the trough. I resorted to my ever-reliable
pathway out of the funk. Coke. I downed several cups and asked that my water
bottle be filled with the elixir. High fructose corn syrup would be the answer to my
funkatosis.
As I began the return journey the Coke in
my bottle began to fizz out dripping down my lower back and into my crack. Soon
after I had to take a Shilling from drinking so much Coke on an unsettled
stomach. This presented a problem in that I had decided to run light with just
a Gregory Tempo waist pack. I had used all of the pocket space for gels and had
deliberately decided to not bring any toilet paper. My cotton Armani
button-down would need to take one for the team. Then, I noticed a pressure
point in my right shoe, it was sort of like a rock stuck in the sole feeling,
but different. After scuffing my shoe on rocks hoping to dislodge whatever was
stuck on the bottom of my shoe, I stopped to take a look. Upon inspection I
discovered that the bottom of my, out of the box, Montrail Fly had delaminated.
All I could do was laugh at how my sticky shitting ass was still somehow moving
forward despite a broken hoof. Perhaps self-pity would turn this race around
for me?
The return was a slog. I listened to every
breath. I felt every step. I could never find that other place where miles and
time pass without effort. I cursed myself for not having placed some tunes in a
drop bag for a mid-race distraction. My stomach remained unsettled and my ass
remained sticky as bottle after bottle of Coke dribbled down my backside. I
kept on running, counting the breaths, the steps, and the miles...
I wanted the win, but
was unwilling to earn it. As the sun set laziness set in and I was walking uphills that I
should (and could) have been running. But, I didn’t care. I rationalized to
myself that if I saw a light, I would turn it on knowing that I had a lot left
if needed. I was deliberately choosing to run lazy, blaming it on my defective
shoe, chaffed ass, and bored mind.
After passing the 100-mile mark I lost
patience with being complacent and decided it was time to get this race over. I pushed hard the last
five miles (The Georgia Jewell is 105 miles long) and felt good about the
effort. I crossed the finish line in 20:22 in first place, though I was not
proud of the effort or the time.
A week later I feel better about the race.
It was a good lesson about how if I want to run well then I need to take
preparation more seriously (e.g. using drop bags, ensuring I have access to the
foods I like, bringing music). And more importantly, make sure I bring my head to the race with me. But, despite it being a train wreck of a day, there is something always
fulfilling and fun about running a 100-miles that I cherish. Already the self
loathing thoughts that propelled me for many miles have been forgotton and am
looking forward to the next time that I can race.
Thanks to RD Karen Pearson and all the
volunteers for a well organized race. Apologies for not being my usual
appreciative and cheerful self – blame it on the Coke induced ass chafe J
