Burning River 2010: Boys, Bees, Bats, Beasts and Toad the Wet Sprocket
Never in a million years could I have guessed that this would be the story. Two weeks ago, after the Buckeye Trail 50K, I told Darris that what I would be doing on July 31 was a mystery to me. I could be running it, running the entire thing with my friend Darrin, or pacing Darrin from mile 65 to the finish.
Darris told another friend of mine about the webcast, which I promptly told him not to watch. The thing is, I said, the webcast doesn't necessarily tell the story. It doesn't say if I fell apart, or if he fell apart, or if something's gone really wrong or really right.
But in spite of it all, not a crystal ball, not a Shakespearean-era soothsayer, not a message directly from one of my loved ones above could have prepared me for this one. No, never in a million years would I have guessed where this year's story would start. Or stop. Or end. Or begin all over again.
***
And so it was, and off we went. My initial concern (aside from the fact that this was, potentially, an incredible act of hubris that could come crashing down around me in an incredible display of flames and projectile vomit) was that I was going to have trouble holding the guys back. I was so grateful to have Darris there as an additional voice of reason. Yet there was no need for concern. The boy-brigade was doing a textbook job every step of the way. Relaxed pace. Quick aid stations. Jovial conversation early on, including our own personal tribute to the Eagles-tribute band that had rocked the house, and our pre-race sleep, until 10 pm. Welcome to the Hotel Cuyahoga. It's a lovely place.
Yep. Guess who was struggling?
Okay, struggling is an exaggeration. But I'll tell you what, that pace early on did not feel at all like the walk in the park it had last year. And then Darrin mentions that I'm sweating profusely and asks me if I'm drinking enough. "Sure," I say. "Besides, I'm just shiny from the sunscreen."
It was beautifully cool outside, but we all quickly noted that it was humid. Darrin and Adam, doctors that they are, amused us with their calorie counts; I later found out they actually had them on their drop bags and were adding them up along the way. I was chugging, gel-ing and starting to warm up to this thing. When I started pulling ahead and calling out obstacles on the trail, I knew we were good.
We first saw our crew at Polo Fields, and Darrin's first crew stop was nothing short of America's Funniest Home Videos. There stood the gorgeous Gwen and the girls, right in the chute, ready to switch out his Camelback. As he runs in, Gwen is shouting alternately "Darrin, drop it, Molly out of the way, Darrin, just drop it, drop it, Molly, I need you out of the way." It. Was. Awesome. Seriously - I think they may have rehearsed this. I have never seen such a fun piece of crewing.
And off we went. And things were good. We just rolled along, me and my boys, alternating the lead and having different conversations. We were always between 5 and 10 minutes off the pace chart, but no one freaked out. Well, until we hit the towpath going into Station Bridge.
"Is there seriously no shade?" Adam asked.
"Not for the next 3 miles."
So we took a few walk breaks, as I think most besides the leaders are prone to do, and ran in the quickly rising heat until I started to see the bridge. Pointing it out through the trees, I reeled them in to the crew station.
Next problem. I didn't want my turkey sandwich. And I always want my turkey sandwich.
So I forced down half of my turkey sandwich, still marveling at how amazingly these guys were doing at the aid stations. Their wives were there, Darrin's daughters were there, but they were barreling through, just like I had said we should. They were fantastic.
Darrin was dumping a lot of cold water on himself. I didn't notice it at the time; in retrospect, he was hot, and he was hot early. But then again, it was hot. And I was already battling a low-grade headache and nausea. The food thing worried me the most. Because I just didn't want my food this year.
As we headed to Boston Store, Darris started lagging behind. And further behind. And I was getting more and more worried, because I was watching his day unravel. He had initially said he was going to run with us to Station Bridge, and then start picking it up from there. At Station Bridge, he said yes, he was staying with us to Boston Store. This had been his first contingency plan in case his hamstring, injured since May, started bothering him. And he had told me going in that if he was with our group, and started to fade, that I was not to encourage him or baby him. That I was there for Darrin that day, and I needed to focus on Darrin and let him, Darris, deal with his own race. And he was fading fast.
"Well," he said, catching up with us on an uphill hike, "it looks like I'm dropping at Ottawa."
The group fell quiet. Darris? Darris was going to drop?!?!?
Not on my watch. Listen, I said. It's just a low point. You know how this goes better than any of us. At least stick it out until Boston, I said. It's halfway, and you're probably going to feel better by then anyway.
We continued. The ice in Adam's special ice shirt bounced and clattered and crunched. The ice in the boys' camelbacks did the same. I tried to eat my salt and vinegar chips and decided they tasted really, really bad. The weather was warm and humid but the sky was kind of gray and overcast. What a weird day, I thought.
Darris caught up to us again. "Hey guys," he said. "Enough of this pity-party! It's not like I'm not going to finish this thing, so let's get back in a good place."
Darrin asked me if it was time for one of the "warrior yells.” Not quite - we were saving those for the piano keys and Covered Bridge. But we whooped it up for D.
And we started rolling again, me and my boys. And life was good.
And then Darris was on the ground. Literally tackled by a bee.
What was going on out here?!!?!?
***
I turned around to survey the troops as we hit the road. Shit. Where was Darris?
We got to Boston, and my boys moved. I threw some watermelon in a cup and chugged a couple cups of ice water. Darrin was already walking out. Steve looked like he was finishing up. Adam had caught up with us every time.
Darris was just walking in.
"I'll wait with you, Pup," I said, using his nickname. I knew we could probably make some of it up on the towpath section out of Boston and catch the guys. "What do you need?"
"You need to go," he said forcefully, his voice full of that deal we had made. I glanced at Robin. She looked me in the eye and gave me the nod, the look that told me she was on it. And as I left, initially, I was relieved that it was her with him and not me.
Because I knew it was going to be easier for him to drop with Robin at his side than me. And I knew the decision was made, and that this year, unlike his first year, it wasn't my decision to make or change.
A boy named Bo joined us for the Brandywine Loop, hot and exposed at first, then by some beautiful waterfalls and back along a lovely trail. I was pleased to see that the tar was indeed bubbling under the sun; it's just part of the loop. I remembered my time with Jenny and Nathan here last year. I encouraged my boys to walk regularly on the road sections, not to let the pavement beat their legs or the sun beat their bodies. We picked up Michael Patton. I quietly battled the returning nausea and prayed that my second Coke would help settle my stomach. I thought about how badly I needed to get back to Darris, how badly I needed to tell him that I was proud of him, so proud of him, because he had put it on line and went out fighting. He did each and every thing he was asked to do. He toed the line and he went for it. When he struggled to Station Bridge, he immediately took up his back up plan to stay with us to Boston. When he decided to quit heading to Ottawa, I asked him to see it through to Boston. He did all of these things.
Darris knew he could walk it in and still beat the cutoff. I knew that he could walk in and still beat the cutoff. But he had nothing to prove with a 50 mile walk. He is strong, he is talented, and he is a three-time Burning River finisher. But this year, he needed to concede that he didn't even start at 100%, and this is an event that requires 150%. This had nothing to do with Darris the runner. This was simply math.
As we headed through the field toward Boston, toward sponges and cokes and family and cowbells, I saw him sitting against a pillar. Before coke, before sponges and sandwiches and watermelon, I looked him in the eye and told him these things.
Then I forced down half a turkey sandwich, a Coke and watermelon as I sponged down my arms and face. Because these things might have been done, but my job was not yet finished.
***
The trek to Happy Days greeted us with another long, hot road section. We began slowly jogging the long road after the rocks under a sun still blazing hot at 6 pm.
"Oh, f$#k me," Darrin said.
We found some shade. Finally, we turned onto the multi-use path that would lead us the last 2 miles into the aid station. The gorgeous rock formations bathed us in a luxurious cool shade. Darrin responded by throwing down his road speed. Out of nowhere, he started charging down the path.
"Oh, f$#k me," I thought, as I turned up the volume.
Hmmm. My beloved Happy Days was a mixed bag this year, because Darrin and I both got in trouble. Darrin got in trouble because his eyes were bloodshot, and I got in trouble because "we" had too much time up on the pace chart, and "I" needed to get him under control because "I" knew better.
But guess what, everyone? Nick Billock was there!!!!
So he took a few pictures and talked me up and I have to say, I was just so damn happy to see him, even if he wasn't wearing his trademark bondi band.
The crews got us out and I told Darrin we needed to hold back a little. I mean, his eyes were bloodshot and I had just gotten scolded, right? Darrin responds by asking me when I usually pick it up. "Pine Hollow," I tell him. "After the loop, on the way to the Covered Bridge."
I pointed out how beautiful the ledges were and tried to get him to walk more. But he was really starting to move. He asked me about the section of trail between the ledges and Pine Hollow, which thankfully, I knew well. I told him not a lot of tough climbs, rolling but more gentle than where we had been except for the Sound of Music hills. Adam was gone now. So was Steve. It was just the two of us now, with our long night ahead. And I began to see those visions again of flames and projectile vomit, because my stomach was in serious trouble.
And then I remembered my last minute decision to stash packs of saltines in my later drop bags. And for the first time in hours, I craved a food.
We hit the hills, up, down, and up again into the aid station. He was moving so well, but I could tell he was tired. I dry-heaved at the sight of my last turkey sandwich and grabbed the saltines instead. Lexie and Molly asked if they could walk with us to the start of the loop. Darrin was moving a bit more slowly now; I thought it was just a low point. I noticed that Molly's eyes were red and damp. I rubbed her shoulders and told her it was okay, I was right there, I wouldn't let anything happen to him.
"We heart you, Daddy!" she screamed. We disappeared onto Salt Run.
"Hey, Dad," Lexie said. "Look for Cocoa's poop," she giggled, reminding him that they had just run this loop together the weekend before, Darrin and his beautiful daughter.
"This is short, right?" he asked.
"Yep," I said.
"Yeah," he said. "I like this loop. I ran it with Lexie."
There was hope in his voice. He was upbeat. The saltines were working. We were almost at mile 75.
We were going to do this thing after all.
***
Darrin was taking awhile at the aid station. We were still okay on time, so I didn't think too much of it, just sipped a Coke and kept an eye on things. I was getting a little nervous watching him; something didn't seem quite right, but I resolved to get into his head while we were on our way to Covered Bridge. The truth is, I still saw the night unfolding in an unexpected way.
I was going to get him through the long 6.6 miles from Pine Hollow to Covered Bridge, through the Covered Bridge loop and out to O'Neil Woods. But I just had this sneaking suspicion that when he got to the towpath, smelled the hay in the barn, had a flat surface to work with, his 3-hour marathon speed was going to catch up with me in a bad way. I had already resolved that I would not hold him back. If we got to the towpath and I was on fumes, I was sending him victoriously into the dark night and meeting him at the finish.
But these were my secrets, and not to be disclosed for another 15 miles. He walked toward me and I rallied the girls, who were seeing him for the last time before the finish.
"We love you, Daddy!" they screamed.
And Darrin responded, out of nowhere, with the projectile vomit.
***
Gwen and the chair came together while Darris comforted the girls in his own special way.
"Oh, this is nothing," he said. "It's just part of the race. No big deal at all," he said.
"It's okay," Lexie said, mentioning something weird about puking all the time that I don't really remember.
"Star, you should go," Darrin said. "I don't want to hold you up."
"Nope. That wasn't our deal."
I knew we were sitting for awhile, so although I give sermons on "the chair," I quietly plopped down on the grass and told the girls to join me. Really, I just wanted Molly to stop dancing in the grass exactly where Darrin had puked.
While Gwen tended to her husband, Robin, Darris, and the Columbus crewing-crew and I formulated our plot. We would get him stabilized, and he and I would walk the next 6.6 miles. Hopefully, this walk would be enough to finish the job, and with the pace chart so heavily padded on the back, we'd still have an outside shot at the 24-hour finish while moving more slowly. Gone was the dream of getting him the 22-high finish, but such is the beast that we call a 100-miler. It will sneak up on you, it will challenge your best-laid plans. Sometimes, it doesn't even have the courtesy to respect your 75 miles worth of textbook execution.
Someone brought me chicken broth and another Coke. There was something disgusting floating in the broth and once again, I narrowly avoided puking myself.
It was a carrot.
I sipped the broth and no cocktail could have tasted better. Darrin started shivering and shaking with chills. We got him wrapped into some blankets and he closed his eyes.
"How long have we been here?" he asked.
"We're fine," I responded, relieved that he was still thinking about the clock. If he was still worried about time, I reasoned, he was still in this.
"Can we walk an eight hour marathon and still break 24?" he asked.
"Let's just focus on Covered Bridge right now," I said. "You can come back as fast as you went down."
"I guess Badwater is out," he said wryly, but cracking his mega-watt smile.
That was all I needed.
"Okay, then," I said. "We're leaving this aid station in five minutes. We're walking every single step to the Covered Bridge. There are witnesses, Darrin. You are not running another step until we get to the Covered Bridge. Got it?"
He was cold and wet. Darris literally took off his t-shirt and gave it to Darrin; Robin came up with a long-sleeve shirt for me since I would be walking. We got headlights situated, Camelbacks filled, stuff gathered and thrown out, and Darrin out of the chair.
And with another chorus of "we love you, Daddy's," we left.
***
I asked him if he was eating, and he told me he was drinking Gatorade. I told him that wasn't going to cut it, that this was a long section and we probably still had an hour and a half or so to the aid station. I tried to get him to eat a couple chips, a couple sport beans, anything.
He really wasn't sure about this, he said. He was faint or lightheaded and I could tell he wasn't all there. I thought about George, pacing me through a bad spell of nausea two years ago, telling me to just keep the blood moving. I told Darrin to keep the blood moving. And please, to eat something.
But he really wasn't sure about this.
We talked about exactly what that decision meant. I firmly explained to him that I was there for him, whatever it took. That we easily had a finish in sight, even if it wasn't the one we hoped for. He apologized, again, for slowing me down. I went off a little.
"Darrin Bright. You cannot make this decision about me or what you think I could be doing. I. Am here. For you. Whatever that means. However long it takes. Got it?"
I could hear in his voice that I was losing him. Then there were other voices. Liza and Jodi. "He's not doing too good right now," I said, "but we're going to be fine." They chatted with him. I think it helped. They moved into the night and he announced that he was going to finish this thing.
"Of course you are," I said. And with hindsight being 20/20, I realized that it had never occurred to me, not once, in preparing for this event with him, that he wouldn't.
And when I turned back to look at him, he was weaving across the path.
"Darrin."
"What's this section like?" he asked again.
I told him.
"Are there any roads?" he asked.
Noooooooooo.
And we talked again about the decision he was trying to make and what that meant and all the other options. He said he was tired, he was faint, he was lightheaded. And what would I do if he passed out? We were three miles in either direction from an aid station.
I tried to keep him moving. I told him to tell me if he felt like he was going to crash, and we could put him down for a few minutes on the path. That didn't fly.
Here's what we can do, I said. Let's get up to Wetmore. There's a park bench there and we'll put you down for 10 or 15 minutes. I'll wake you up and we'll see if it's any better.
"Star," he said.
No, no, no, he's reaching into his Camelback, and it's not for food.
"I need you to call Darris. He needs to come get me."
He handed me the phone.
***
Right about then, we got to the Wetmore Road trailhead. And now he seemed really concerned, because we had no idea how to get Gwen there, and no way to reach Darris and Robin, and he really, honestly, did not believe he could make it to the Covered Bridge under his own power.
His addled brain tried to make sense of the trail map on the kiosk, his speech not slurred, but fading fast.
"I can't tell," he was saying. "I don't know. I don't know the cross-street. It's Wetmore Road and ... it's a trail head, it's after Pine Hollow. It's ...."
"It's Akron-Peninsula Road," I said quietly.
He just gave me a look. Of all the things my friends tease me about, it's directions the most. I am directionally dysfunctional. We have run the same 8 mile route on weekday mornings for five years, and I still take wrong turns. There was no way I could possibly know this cross-street in the middle of nowhere.
"This is where I got lost last year," I said.
***
I wanted Gwen to get lost, because my hope refused to die. If I could just get him to sleep a little, get him to eat a little. Maybe, just maybe. Maybe some of the runners going by in the night would inspire him, or be able to offer some tidbit that I couldn't. Maybe. Maybe. I checked my watch, just so I could keep an eye on Gwen's progress. 10:30.
He tried to apologize again. For what? For giving me this gift? This amazing, beautifully wrapped gift where he trusted me with his race? Where he trusted me to run an entire 100 miles without letting him down? Where he not only took that risk himself, but believed in me enough to think I could do it?
The runners started coming by while we waited. And soon, the most important runner of all came along - George Roulett. Burning River finisher. Ironman. My pacer at my first Burning River. Yes, George could do this. George could get him up. Maybe maybe maybe ....
And he was selfless, letting his runners go ahead, knowing he would have to throw in a pick up to catch up with them. Maybe I could convince Darrin to go with George and I could wait for Gwen and then I could do the pick up and meet them all at Covered Bridge.
Nope. It was done.
When we had first gotten to Wetmore, when I was on the phone with Gwen, he laid down in the grass with his legs up on the bench. I sat down next to him and started rubbing his calf the same way I had rubbed Molly's shoulders. It was an odd, instinctual gesture, this need I had to find a way comfort him. I felt weird when I realized I was doing it; then I realized that I wasn't going to stop. It was, to me, a small way that I could let him know that I was there, that he wasn't alone. His girls weren't there, his Gwen and his Lexie and his Molly, but he wasn't going to be alone in that dark night, 77 miles later, laid on his back by the beasts and staring at the stars.
***
That was the year my best friend invited me to spend spring break at her family’s ranch in Tennessee.
And for a week, I lived with their family. Surrounded by her grandparents, her cousins, her aunts and uncles, I started to breathe for the first time. We spent days on the dock and in the freshwater lake, taking our Duracell-powered boombox down the hill with us. At night we would lay on our backs and look at the stars and play Toad the Wet Sprocket. One night, I was the last one on the dock, the last one back up the hill to bed. I laid there on the dock, looking up at the stars, looking for my father, looking for some kind of strength or answer. There was the softest April breeze that night, a breeze I’ve never forgotten. And in the brief safety of that moment, with the stars and the breeze and the lake and the Toad cassette, I wondered who I was going to turn out to be. And I had no idea how in hell I was going to get there.
No, I had no idea that I’d be sitting on a park bench at Wetmore Road, rubbing Darrin’s leg and looking at the stars while a soft breeze started to answer questions that were seventeen years old.
***
“It is,” I said, trying to hide that I was starting to get my own chills. “Do you need my shirt? I’ll be okay.”
“Nah,” he said. “How’s your stomach?”
“Better, actually.” I thought about whether it was the saltines, the chicken broth, or the walking that had done it. Then I realized that for the first time in about six hours, I wasn’t kind of hoping to puke.
“You have to go for it,” he said.
Go for it? Honestly, I was considering getting in the van with him. I had also considered finishing the walk to Covered Bridge and throwing in my own towel there. It had been such a long, strange day. I had been running nauseous for some 10 hours. I was tired. And I had spent the better part of an hour sitting now, once at Pine Hollow and now here.
And besides, it wasn’t entirely my day. My goal had been crossing the finish line with him. If that wasn’t going to happen, and I was tired and nauseous and stiff and not quite running like myself….
Ah, come on, Star. At least finish the thing, right?
“I can’t believe how much I’m holding you up. What time is it?” he asked.
“10:50,” I answered. And the beast stirred.
And then, against my better judgment, it started doing math.
He dialed the phone and I realized anew how far gone my friend, my project, my doctor, was. He sounded like one does when answering the phone from a deep sleep as he asked Gwen where she was, how close she was. I realized that there was no lingering hope after all, that tonight, this night, I couldn’t save the person who fixes everything from anemia to strep to tendonitis for me.
He asked me if this was where it happened, where I got lost last year. I showed him where we made the turn and missed the pie plate as we heard the SUV and the lights came into view.
I hugged him and he crawled into the car. I gave Gwen a hug, told her I was sorry, told her that I loved her. Then the car door shut and for better or for worse, these things, too, were done.
So I took a deep breath, and I unleashed the beast.
***
Because we had decided, the beast and I, that if we were going to do this, we might as well go ahead and risk that incredible display of flames and projectile vomit I had been flirting with all day.
If I was going to PR, I had to reach the finish line no later than 3:30 am. That meant that if I made it to the Covered Bridge, some 4 miles away, by 11:30 pm, I would have 4 hours to cover the last 20 miles. Which meant 12-minute miles.
But the last 20 miles involved the Perkins Loop. And I didn't know if I was up for a repeat of last year. And 12-minute miles are not as slow as they sound when you've already run 80.
And the towpath has beaten me to shreds every year, whether it's flat or not. I struggle on the towpath.
But flames and puke be damned, I found my song and I ran. And when I say I ran, I mean it. Ask anyone who was at the Covered Bridge when I showed up at 11:29 exactly, sprinting.
The volunteers asked what I needed, and in retrospect, I feel badly, because I wasn't as gracious as I like to be. I basically just shouted that I needed Robin and Darris right away.
I looked at my watch and told them I had two minutes to explain what was going on. Darrin sick. Gwen picked up. Wetmore Road. Someone needs to sign him out.
I started digging through my drop bag for my chocolate donut and Robin handed me my bottle of iced coffee. I finally noticed Terri and Mark Lemke looking at me like I was insane (deserved) and managed to greet them somewhat properly.
"I just learned everything I need to know about myself," I said to Darris, not comprehending that expressing really deep thoughts after running 80 miles just makes you look crazier.
"Okay, guys, I gotta go do this," I said. And I took off with my annual warrior yell for the Perkins Loop.
Mud and bats and horseshit, oh my. It was all there.
I knew how bad the first two climbs were. I knew there was nothing I could do but hike, go over the 12's on this section, and pray that I could make something out of the towpath. As my shoes got stuck in the horseshit bath, I shoved down the chocolate donut as if it were the first food I had seen all day. I was so hungry that I forgot how nauseous I had been. As I washed it down with the freezing cold coffee, I came out of a shoe for the first time. Ah, Perkins. We meet again.
The worst climbs finished, I took off like a bat out of hell - no pun on the Perkins loop. As I greeted those runners I was passing and reminded them that we were closing in on this, I reminded myself that I actually needed to cool my heels. After all, I thought, we were really back at the beginning. Don't be stupid too soon, I kept reminding myself. That I still had a 20 mile run in front of me, and the gas gauge was riding on "E" and I wouldn’t receive another warning until the car just stopped.
And I took a flying step perfectly centered in a mud/shit puddle, and got bathed up the front of both legs. I looked at my watch, trying to estimate my progress on the loop. It had only been 20 minutes of what would be at least an hour.
"STAR."
It had been twenty minutes of hard running (comparatively), and I was way too far ahead of myself. I pulled back and kept drawing on the coffee. I was turbo-charged.
Then a bat was in my face, literally in my face, and I shuddered and instinctively swatted at it. I mean, it was in my grill. I touched it. Ewwww, I totally touched a bat!
And then I turned up the music in my head because I knew I couldn't think about how many other bats were out there. I knew from walking this loop with Damon and Darris that I should not, under any circumstances, look up. The Everett Connector couldn't come quickly enough.
And then I was on it, popping out onto the road, and pulling up to Liza and Jodi.
I stopped for a minute to let them know what had happened with Darrin. Liza and Darrin run together almost every morning; she deserved more than me screaming something at her as I tore by. We walked together. She and Jodi were doing fantastic, just 15 miles out from their first finishes and still upbeat and alert. I wished them well, told them to enjoy the night.
And then I was flying back onto the Covered Bridge, skipping the shoe change I had asked for earlier, and getting ready to get back out. It had been 54 minutes and I had cleared the Covered Bridge at an 11:29 pace.
Terri Lemke got me my ramen as I noticed one of my other boys, Dave Huss, looking at me with wide eyes. I saw Steve nearby in a chair, heard he had started throwing up pretty badly. I went over to check on him, and Steve, your eyes scared the shit of me. You are nothing short of amazing. Because if I was in that shape and had just done Mohican six short weeks ago, I'm not sure I would have gotten out of the chair. But you did. And I am so proud of you.
I told Darris and Robin that I was a big girl, and they weren't to try to crew me. They were there for George and Johnathan and Steve, and besides, I only had 15 miles to go. I'm fine, I told them. I'm going to try to bring this in just under 23.
Dave gave me a solemn fist bump, and my ramen and I hit the road.
***
It starts with a l-o-n-g uphill climb, but at least it's perfect for drinking down ramen. Has anyone else ever noticed that ramen noodles taste the best after running 80 miles?
Then the road pounds you and seems to go on forever. And then you hit O'Neil Woods, where you have to deal with this piece of trail that zig-zags back and forth, back and forth, making you feel like you're going nowhere fast even though there's supposed to be an aid station within a mile or so. The road hurt me, as it always does late in the race, and I tried to make sense of the fact that this 3.3 mile section felt so much longer than Perkins. I wondered to myself if the flames were imminent, but just then, the glow sticks started coming and I knew to push for the station.
40 minutes. 12:10’s. I asked for Alicia, Suzanne's daughter, and told her how proud her mom was of her. I remembered Suzanne talking about Alicia being the volunteer lead at this stop, some 20 hours ago on the bus to the start. I chugged a coke, filled up with water, and saw the most amazing, unexpected sight.
Adam!
"Star, you're killing this," he said. I told him about Darrin. I told him that he was killing it too, quickly reminded him of the terrain that was ahead as I jogged out of the station.
A quick shot of trail now, and on to the Towpath. The stink plant. The longest 3 miles of my life, as I refer to the Merriman to Memorial section.
But wait. Back up. Through the woods and onto the Towpath I went, cringing as I saw the Waste Management plant in the distance. I had known all along that this was going to revive my nausea, and it most certainly did. I had told the guys in my pre-race warning about this section that "if you breathe through your nose, you smell it; if you breathe through your mouth, you taste it." So I alternated.
And somehow, the towpath flew by this year, and I was back in the stretch through the city, where some guys out for a Saturday night felt the need to scream things about my booty. Sigh.
I tore into Merriman and was just getting a refill when I heard, of all things. Robin. There she was, digging through my drop bag after all. Robin, you are an angel, a saint, a sister and a crewing goddess.
She got me out fast. I had run 10's to get to her.
Off to Memorial I went, battling fiercely again with the nausea. Slowly but deliberately, the need and desire to just puke my guts out was coming back. It no longer mattered, though, it was going to either happen or not. I flew across the bridges on the towpath, at one point thanking the bullfrogs aloud for sharing the night with me. It was the first year they haven't freaked me out.
And as I turned up the music in my head again and started going for broke, I begged Maria to be at Memorial.
And 27 minutes later she was, and she had saltines. I had dropped 9-minute miles from 93 - 96, and Maria fed me saltines and ginger ale for the two amazing minutes I spent at her aid station. The last aid station.
***
If I could pull 14’s at mile 96, with two long road climbs, a couple of long trail climbs, PLUS over 100 stairs, PLUS running alone, at night, in the dark, with nausea.
There was nothing left to be done.
The police car greeted me for the climb out of Memorial. As I walked the long steep hill, the officer remarked that I had more energy than anyone he’d seen in the past four hours. He asked if I had been the one whooping it up and screaming a minute ago.
Well then. Couldn’t exactly walk after that, right?
So I ran. Into the Chuckery. Through the woods. Past the Signal Tree. Up the stairs. Up more stairs. Oh, and another set of stairs. No, I didn’t run the stairs, but I never stopped for a second. There was no walking. There was no pausing. There was a lot of praying for puke. And yes, I was slowing down.
I had thought I was going to get freaked out running without a pacer, facing the woods alone in the dark. I wasn’t at all.
And the girl who still doesn’t quite understand how highways work didn’t even need the “confidence markers” on the course. I knew exactly where I was, and exactly where I was going. Even as I kept slowing down, I moved instinctively across the course.
I heard the traffic just as I saw the lights. I had to climb the hill out of the woods to Front Street. It looked as if I wasn’t going to finish the race without the projectile vomit after all, even if it was coming at mile 99. The nausea, still, was so bad.
There was one last climb on the road, so I started a run-walk, 2 minutes of running to 1 minute of walking.
Screw it, I thought, as the walk minute approached. Just keep running.
And when I got over the hill and had a mile to go, I let myself peek at the watch. And I was okay with whatever it said. Really. I was. So I peeked, and then I gasped.
***
“Okay,” I said, quietly, as I ran down Front Street.
“Okay,” I said, quietly, as I looked up at the sky.
“Okay. Okay. Okay.”
My watch had said 22:02, and I had less than a road mile to go.
***
As we hugged people and said goodbye, Shaun commandeered the microphone for a bit of fun.
***
“What you said at Covered Bridge. That you learned about yourself?”
“Oh,” I said.
***
There are so many beautiful moments and memories that haven’t made their way here. Of Mel’s smile at five in the morning. Of catching up with Brian Ottinger, my Laurel Highlands suffer-buddy and savior, in the early miles of the race. Of Tracey Ross saying something very moving to me at Pine Hollow. Of the boys, bees, bats and beasts along the way.
Toad the Wet Sprocket isn’t really my kind of music anymore, but the song that I found by a lake in Tennessee that got me through that horrible spring was “All I Want.” And I was going to end this, originally, by quoting most of the lyrics.
But this story is long, and really, it doesn’t need the song.
Last year, I got lost. This year, I got found.
Darris told another friend of mine about the webcast, which I promptly told him not to watch. The thing is, I said, the webcast doesn't necessarily tell the story. It doesn't say if I fell apart, or if he fell apart, or if something's gone really wrong or really right.
But in spite of it all, not a crystal ball, not a Shakespearean-era soothsayer, not a message directly from one of my loved ones above could have prepared me for this one. No, never in a million years would I have guessed where this year's story would start. Or stop. Or end. Or begin all over again.
Because at 10:30 Saturday night, I found myself sitting on a park bench at Wetmore Road.
***
If you read my blog, you know that the past couple of weeks have been a bit rough for me emotionally. Scary as it was in theory, the idea that I was going to pace someone for an entire 100 miles, I knew I had made the right choice for all of us. Because by race day, it wasn't just me and Darrin anymore. Nope, I had invited Stevie-Z to join the 24-hour train, and even though Darrin's brother, Adam, was looking at something closer to 28, he ended up starting with us as well. And finally, we added Darris to the mix, after he made a race week decision to amend his goal to 21:30 (due to nagging and persisting injury) and run the first 50K to Station Road Bridge with the 24-hour brigade. So by the time we were standing in the damp field at Squire's Castle, it was going to be me and the boys.
And so it was, and off we went. My initial concern (aside from the fact that this was, potentially, an incredible act of hubris that could come crashing down around me in an incredible display of flames and projectile vomit) was that I was going to have trouble holding the guys back. I was so grateful to have Darris there as an additional voice of reason. Yet there was no need for concern. The boy-brigade was doing a textbook job every step of the way. Relaxed pace. Quick aid stations. Jovial conversation early on, including our own personal tribute to the Eagles-tribute band that had rocked the house, and our pre-race sleep, until 10 pm. Welcome to the Hotel Cuyahoga. It's a lovely place.
Yep. Guess who was struggling?
Okay, struggling is an exaggeration. But I'll tell you what, that pace early on did not feel at all like the walk in the park it had last year. And then Darrin mentions that I'm sweating profusely and asks me if I'm drinking enough. "Sure," I say. "Besides, I'm just shiny from the sunscreen."
It was beautifully cool outside, but we all quickly noted that it was humid. Darrin and Adam, doctors that they are, amused us with their calorie counts; I later found out they actually had them on their drop bags and were adding them up along the way. I was chugging, gel-ing and starting to warm up to this thing. When I started pulling ahead and calling out obstacles on the trail, I knew we were good.
We first saw our crew at Polo Fields, and Darrin's first crew stop was nothing short of America's Funniest Home Videos. There stood the gorgeous Gwen and the girls, right in the chute, ready to switch out his Camelback. As he runs in, Gwen is shouting alternately "Darrin, drop it, Molly out of the way, Darrin, just drop it, drop it, Molly, I need you out of the way." It. Was. Awesome. Seriously - I think they may have rehearsed this. I have never seen such a fun piece of crewing.
And off we went. And things were good. We just rolled along, me and my boys, alternating the lead and having different conversations. We were always between 5 and 10 minutes off the pace chart, but no one freaked out. Well, until we hit the towpath going into Station Bridge.
"Is there seriously no shade?" Adam asked.
"Not for the next 3 miles."
So we took a few walk breaks, as I think most besides the leaders are prone to do, and ran in the quickly rising heat until I started to see the bridge. Pointing it out through the trees, I reeled them in to the crew station.
Next problem. I didn't want my turkey sandwich. And I always want my turkey sandwich.
So I forced down half of my turkey sandwich, still marveling at how amazingly these guys were doing at the aid stations. Their wives were there, Darrin's daughters were there, but they were barreling through, just like I had said we should. They were fantastic.
Darrin was dumping a lot of cold water on himself. I didn't notice it at the time; in retrospect, he was hot, and he was hot early. But then again, it was hot. And I was already battling a low-grade headache and nausea. The food thing worried me the most. Because I just didn't want my food this year.
As we headed to Boston Store, Darris started lagging behind. And further behind. And I was getting more and more worried, because I was watching his day unravel. He had initially said he was going to run with us to Station Bridge, and then start picking it up from there. At Station Bridge, he said yes, he was staying with us to Boston Store. This had been his first contingency plan in case his hamstring, injured since May, started bothering him. And he had told me going in that if he was with our group, and started to fade, that I was not to encourage him or baby him. That I was there for Darrin that day, and I needed to focus on Darrin and let him, Darris, deal with his own race. And he was fading fast.
"Well," he said, catching up with us on an uphill hike, "it looks like I'm dropping at Ottawa."
The group fell quiet. Darris? Darris was going to drop?!?!?
Not on my watch. Listen, I said. It's just a low point. You know how this goes better than any of us. At least stick it out until Boston, I said. It's halfway, and you're probably going to feel better by then anyway.
But it's my leg, he said. He referenced Sunday, our three-legged dog. I can't do 60 miles of work on one leg, he said.
We continued. The ice in Adam's special ice shirt bounced and clattered and crunched. The ice in the boys' camelbacks did the same. I tried to eat my salt and vinegar chips and decided they tasted really, really bad. The weather was warm and humid but the sky was kind of gray and overcast. What a weird day, I thought.
Darris caught up to us again. "Hey guys," he said. "Enough of this pity-party! It's not like I'm not going to finish this thing, so let's get back in a good place."
Darrin asked me if it was time for one of the "warrior yells.” Not quite - we were saving those for the piano keys and Covered Bridge. But we whooped it up for D.
And we started rolling again, me and my boys. And life was good.
And then Darris was on the ground. Literally tackled by a bee.
What was going on out here?!!?!?
***
"Put some mud on it," I kept saying, but he refused. He was really okay, I could tell. Steve and Adam, having not run the Buckeye Trail 50K, were finally getting introduced to Burning River's evil secret, that the bad stuff comes after you get lulled into complacency the first 50K. With everyone rolling, I snuck off the trail for a nature break, noting to myself that I was not pleased with the color or quantity of what I saw. When I caught back up to the group, Steve asked if I was okay. I quietly told him that something was off, but I couldn't tell if it was salt or sugar. I was a little too spacey for my liking, not in any trouble per se, but not on all cylinders either. Salt sounded better, so I started there. Bingo and hallelujah. I took three finger licks of margarita salt, and within five minutes I was both hungry and thirsty. I finally got some of my sport beans down and felt instantly turbo-charged.
Boston Store was approaching, not only a huge aid station, but our halfway point for the day. As we headed down the trail to connect with the shot of road that would take us in, I reminded the guys that this was a tough aid station to get in and out of, but that we needed to keep moving the first time through. After the loop, I said, we would take a little more time. And give a holler for the girl, I said. We were exactly 4 minutes to the good on our pace chart at the halfway point.
I turned around to survey the troops as we hit the road. Shit. Where was Darris?
We got to Boston, and my boys moved. I threw some watermelon in a cup and chugged a couple cups of ice water. Darrin was already walking out. Steve looked like he was finishing up. Adam had caught up with us every time.
Darris was just walking in.
"I'll wait with you, Pup," I said, using his nickname. I knew we could probably make some of it up on the towpath section out of Boston and catch the guys. "What do you need?"
"You need to go," he said forcefully, his voice full of that deal we had made. I glanced at Robin. She looked me in the eye and gave me the nod, the look that told me she was on it. And as I left, initially, I was relieved that it was her with him and not me.
Because I knew it was going to be easier for him to drop with Robin at his side than me. And I knew the decision was made, and that this year, unlike his first year, it wasn't my decision to make or change.
A boy named Bo joined us for the Brandywine Loop, hot and exposed at first, then by some beautiful waterfalls and back along a lovely trail. I was pleased to see that the tar was indeed bubbling under the sun; it's just part of the loop. I remembered my time with Jenny and Nathan here last year. I encouraged my boys to walk regularly on the road sections, not to let the pavement beat their legs or the sun beat their bodies. We picked up Michael Patton. I quietly battled the returning nausea and prayed that my second Coke would help settle my stomach. I thought about how badly I needed to get back to Darris, how badly I needed to tell him that I was proud of him, so proud of him, because he had put it on line and went out fighting. He did each and every thing he was asked to do. He toed the line and he went for it. When he struggled to Station Bridge, he immediately took up his back up plan to stay with us to Boston. When he decided to quit heading to Ottawa, I asked him to see it through to Boston. He did all of these things.
Darris knew he could walk it in and still beat the cutoff. I knew that he could walk in and still beat the cutoff. But he had nothing to prove with a 50 mile walk. He is strong, he is talented, and he is a three-time Burning River finisher. But this year, he needed to concede that he didn't even start at 100%, and this is an event that requires 150%. This had nothing to do with Darris the runner. This was simply math.
As we headed through the field toward Boston, toward sponges and cokes and family and cowbells, I saw him sitting against a pillar. Before coke, before sponges and sandwiches and watermelon, I looked him in the eye and told him these things.
Then I forced down half a turkey sandwich, a Coke and watermelon as I sponged down my arms and face. Because these things might have been done, but my job was not yet finished.
***
The boys and I headed out to Pine Lane, with Darrin and I reminding Steve and Adam that one of the most technical sections was ahead. We walked over the roots, those roots I love so much, as I silently pleaded with my stomach to stop. The miles were finally adding up, and I just wanted to get to Happy Days. For some reason, I've always felt better at Happy Days. Darrin was talking again, which was good, and Steve mentioned that Dave was going to jump in with him at Happy Days as well. Adam started pulling ahead a bit, and I realized that at some point, my boy-brigade was going to break up. Sad, yes, but what an incredible 65 miles.
The trek to Happy Days greeted us with another long, hot road section. We began slowly jogging the long road after the rocks under a sun still blazing hot at 6 pm.
"Oh, f$#k me," Darrin said.
We found some shade. Finally, we turned onto the multi-use path that would lead us the last 2 miles into the aid station. The gorgeous rock formations bathed us in a luxurious cool shade. Darrin responded by throwing down his road speed. Out of nowhere, he started charging down the path.
"Oh, f$#k me," I thought, as I turned up the volume.
Hmmm. My beloved Happy Days was a mixed bag this year, because Darrin and I both got in trouble. Darrin got in trouble because his eyes were bloodshot, and I got in trouble because "we" had too much time up on the pace chart, and "I" needed to get him under control because "I" knew better.
But guess what, everyone? Nick Billock was there!!!!
So he took a few pictures and talked me up and I have to say, I was just so damn happy to see him, even if he wasn't wearing his trademark bondi band.
The crews got us out and I told Darrin we needed to hold back a little. I mean, his eyes were bloodshot and I had just gotten scolded, right? Darrin responds by asking me when I usually pick it up. "Pine Hollow," I tell him. "After the loop, on the way to the Covered Bridge."
That was the first time I almost puked.
I pointed out how beautiful the ledges were and tried to get him to walk more. But he was really starting to move. He asked me about the section of trail between the ledges and Pine Hollow, which thankfully, I knew well. I told him not a lot of tough climbs, rolling but more gentle than where we had been except for the Sound of Music hills. Adam was gone now. So was Steve. It was just the two of us now, with our long night ahead. And I began to see those visions again of flames and projectile vomit, because my stomach was in serious trouble.
And then I remembered my last minute decision to stash packs of saltines in my later drop bags. And for the first time in hours, I craved a food.
We hit the hills, up, down, and up again into the aid station. He was moving so well, but I could tell he was tired. I dry-heaved at the sight of my last turkey sandwich and grabbed the saltines instead. Lexie and Molly asked if they could walk with us to the start of the loop. Darrin was moving a bit more slowly now; I thought it was just a low point. I noticed that Molly's eyes were red and damp. I rubbed her shoulders and told her it was okay, I was right there, I wouldn't let anything happen to him.
"We heart you, Daddy!" she screamed. We disappeared onto Salt Run.
"Hey, Dad," Lexie said. "Look for Cocoa's poop," she giggled, reminding him that they had just run this loop together the weekend before, Darrin and his beautiful daughter.
"This is short, right?" he asked.
"Yep," I said.
"Yeah," he said. "I like this loop. I ran it with Lexie."
There was hope in his voice. He was upbeat. The saltines were working. We were almost at mile 75.
We were going to do this thing after all.
***
The girls were waiting for us in the same spot as we returned from the loop. Darrin had already told me he needed to change his shoes here, so I decided to finally do a sock change, since mine had been damp for about 50 miles and my feet were aching from the moisture combined with the pounding. I will always wish there had been a video camera there. I had religious experience when I put those soft, dry socks on.
Darrin was taking awhile at the aid station. We were still okay on time, so I didn't think too much of it, just sipped a Coke and kept an eye on things. I was getting a little nervous watching him; something didn't seem quite right, but I resolved to get into his head while we were on our way to Covered Bridge. The truth is, I still saw the night unfolding in an unexpected way.
I was going to get him through the long 6.6 miles from Pine Hollow to Covered Bridge, through the Covered Bridge loop and out to O'Neil Woods. But I just had this sneaking suspicion that when he got to the towpath, smelled the hay in the barn, had a flat surface to work with, his 3-hour marathon speed was going to catch up with me in a bad way. I had already resolved that I would not hold him back. If we got to the towpath and I was on fumes, I was sending him victoriously into the dark night and meeting him at the finish.
But these were my secrets, and not to be disclosed for another 15 miles. He walked toward me and I rallied the girls, who were seeing him for the last time before the finish.
"We love you, Daddy!" they screamed.
And Darrin responded, out of nowhere, with the projectile vomit.
***
"Robin, can you get us a chair?" I asked calmly.
Gwen and the chair came together while Darris comforted the girls in his own special way.
"Oh, this is nothing," he said. "It's just part of the race. No big deal at all," he said.
"It's okay," Lexie said, mentioning something weird about puking all the time that I don't really remember.
"Star, you should go," Darrin said. "I don't want to hold you up."
"Nope. That wasn't our deal."
I knew we were sitting for awhile, so although I give sermons on "the chair," I quietly plopped down on the grass and told the girls to join me. Really, I just wanted Molly to stop dancing in the grass exactly where Darrin had puked.
While Gwen tended to her husband, Robin, Darris, and the Columbus crewing-crew and I formulated our plot. We would get him stabilized, and he and I would walk the next 6.6 miles. Hopefully, this walk would be enough to finish the job, and with the pace chart so heavily padded on the back, we'd still have an outside shot at the 24-hour finish while moving more slowly. Gone was the dream of getting him the 22-high finish, but such is the beast that we call a 100-miler. It will sneak up on you, it will challenge your best-laid plans. Sometimes, it doesn't even have the courtesy to respect your 75 miles worth of textbook execution.
Someone brought me chicken broth and another Coke. There was something disgusting floating in the broth and once again, I narrowly avoided puking myself.
It was a carrot.
I sipped the broth and no cocktail could have tasted better. Darrin started shivering and shaking with chills. We got him wrapped into some blankets and he closed his eyes.
"How long have we been here?" he asked.
"We're fine," I responded, relieved that he was still thinking about the clock. If he was still worried about time, I reasoned, he was still in this.
"Can we walk an eight hour marathon and still break 24?" he asked.
"Let's just focus on Covered Bridge right now," I said. "You can come back as fast as you went down."
"I guess Badwater is out," he said wryly, but cracking his mega-watt smile.
That was all I needed.
"Okay, then," I said. "We're leaving this aid station in five minutes. We're walking every single step to the Covered Bridge. There are witnesses, Darrin. You are not running another step until we get to the Covered Bridge. Got it?"
He was cold and wet. Darris literally took off his t-shirt and gave it to Darrin; Robin came up with a long-sleeve shirt for me since I would be walking. We got headlights situated, Camelbacks filled, stuff gathered and thrown out, and Darrin out of the chair.
And with another chorus of "we love you, Daddy's," we left.
***
He wanted to know what the section was like, and I told him. We walked a little, slowly, while I launched into the stories. First the one about pulling my own tooth when I was seven, then the one about how I stole the Starbursts from the convenience store at the same age and that that was the only thing I had ever stolen. (Yes, I got caught, and yes, I had to apologize to the store manager and pay for the candy. And yes, I learned my lesson.) Somehow, we got on the topic of my family and I have no idea why I launched into as much of it as I did. Some of it was definitely to pass time, but really, I think I was just so tired that what little filter I do have was off at the moment.
I asked him if he was eating, and he told me he was drinking Gatorade. I told him that wasn't going to cut it, that this was a long section and we probably still had an hour and a half or so to the aid station. I tried to get him to eat a couple chips, a couple sport beans, anything.
He really wasn't sure about this, he said. He was faint or lightheaded and I could tell he wasn't all there. I thought about George, pacing me through a bad spell of nausea two years ago, telling me to just keep the blood moving. I told Darrin to keep the blood moving. And please, to eat something.
But he really wasn't sure about this.
We talked about exactly what that decision meant. I firmly explained to him that I was there for him, whatever it took. That we easily had a finish in sight, even if it wasn't the one we hoped for. He apologized, again, for slowing me down. I went off a little.
"Darrin Bright. You cannot make this decision about me or what you think I could be doing. I. Am here. For you. Whatever that means. However long it takes. Got it?"
I could hear in his voice that I was losing him. Then there were other voices. Liza and Jodi. "He's not doing too good right now," I said, "but we're going to be fine." They chatted with him. I think it helped. They moved into the night and he announced that he was going to finish this thing.
"Of course you are," I said. And with hindsight being 20/20, I realized that it had never occurred to me, not once, in preparing for this event with him, that he wouldn't.
And when I turned back to look at him, he was weaving across the path.
"Darrin."
"What's this section like?" he asked again.
I told him.
"Are there any roads?" he asked.
Noooooooooo.
And we talked again about the decision he was trying to make and what that meant and all the other options. He said he was tired, he was faint, he was lightheaded. And what would I do if he passed out? We were three miles in either direction from an aid station.
I tried to keep him moving. I told him to tell me if he felt like he was going to crash, and we could put him down for a few minutes on the path. That didn't fly.
Here's what we can do, I said. Let's get up to Wetmore. There's a park bench there and we'll put you down for 10 or 15 minutes. I'll wake you up and we'll see if it's any better.
"Star," he said.
No, no, no, he's reaching into his Camelback, and it's not for food.
"I need you to call Darris. He needs to come get me."
He handed me the phone.
***
But Darris, of course, had been running, so his phone was in the room. And Robin's phone didn't matter, because she was at Covered Bridge where there's barely any reception. So I tried, and tried, and tried, and I was so happy every time she didn't pick up because it was buying me time.
Right about then, we got to the Wetmore Road trailhead. And now he seemed really concerned, because we had no idea how to get Gwen there, and no way to reach Darris and Robin, and he really, honestly, did not believe he could make it to the Covered Bridge under his own power.
His addled brain tried to make sense of the trail map on the kiosk, his speech not slurred, but fading fast.
"I can't tell," he was saying. "I don't know. I don't know the cross-street. It's Wetmore Road and ... it's a trail head, it's after Pine Hollow. It's ...."
"It's Akron-Peninsula Road," I said quietly.
He just gave me a look. Of all the things my friends tease me about, it's directions the most. I am directionally dysfunctional. We have run the same 8 mile route on weekday mornings for five years, and I still take wrong turns. There was no way I could possibly know this cross-street in the middle of nowhere.
"This is where I got lost last year," I said.
***
I took the phone from him while he ambled over to the bench. We got Gwen on the road with GPS programmed, and there was nothing left to do but wait.
I wanted Gwen to get lost, because my hope refused to die. If I could just get him to sleep a little, get him to eat a little. Maybe, just maybe. Maybe some of the runners going by in the night would inspire him, or be able to offer some tidbit that I couldn't. Maybe. Maybe. I checked my watch, just so I could keep an eye on Gwen's progress. 10:30.
He tried to apologize again. For what? For giving me this gift? This amazing, beautifully wrapped gift where he trusted me with his race? Where he trusted me to run an entire 100 miles without letting him down? Where he not only took that risk himself, but believed in me enough to think I could do it?
The runners started coming by while we waited. And soon, the most important runner of all came along - George Roulett. Burning River finisher. Ironman. My pacer at my first Burning River. Yes, George could do this. George could get him up. Maybe maybe maybe ....
And he was selfless, letting his runners go ahead, knowing he would have to throw in a pick up to catch up with them. Maybe I could convince Darrin to go with George and I could wait for Gwen and then I could do the pick up and meet them all at Covered Bridge.
Nope. It was done.
And so we sat, and we waited.
When we had first gotten to Wetmore, when I was on the phone with Gwen, he laid down in the grass with his legs up on the bench. I sat down next to him and started rubbing his calf the same way I had rubbed Molly's shoulders. It was an odd, instinctual gesture, this need I had to find a way comfort him. I felt weird when I realized I was doing it; then I realized that I wasn't going to stop. It was, to me, a small way that I could let him know that I was there, that he wasn't alone. His girls weren't there, his Gwen and his Lexie and his Molly, but he wasn't going to be alone in that dark night, 77 miles later, laid on his back by the beasts and staring at the stars.
***
It was my senior year of high school when Toad the Wet Sprocket made it big. I was seventeen years old and in one of the roughest places in my life. I had no idea how I was going to pay for college, how I was going to get out of the ghetto, how much longer I could tolerate my mother’s little coke problem. I had been held at knife point and gun point and survived myriad bouts of abuse. I couldn’t figure out if it was better to keep my secrets or tell them. I wasn’t entirely sure anyone would care. I was seventeen years old and I was utterly exhausted.
That was the year my best friend invited me to spend spring break at her family’s ranch in Tennessee.
And for a week, I lived with their family. Surrounded by her grandparents, her cousins, her aunts and uncles, I started to breathe for the first time. We spent days on the dock and in the freshwater lake, taking our Duracell-powered boombox down the hill with us. At night we would lay on our backs and look at the stars and play Toad the Wet Sprocket. One night, I was the last one on the dock, the last one back up the hill to bed. I laid there on the dock, looking up at the stars, looking for my father, looking for some kind of strength or answer. There was the softest April breeze that night, a breeze I’ve never forgotten. And in the brief safety of that moment, with the stars and the breeze and the lake and the Toad cassette, I wondered who I was going to turn out to be. And I had no idea how in hell I was going to get there.
No, I had no idea that I’d be sitting on a park bench at Wetmore Road, rubbing Darrin’s leg and looking at the stars while a soft breeze started to answer questions that were seventeen years old.
***
“It’s getting cooler,” he said, still on his back in the grass.
“It is,” I said, trying to hide that I was starting to get my own chills. “Do you need my shirt? I’ll be okay.”
“Nah,” he said. “How’s your stomach?”
“Better, actually.” I thought about whether it was the saltines, the chicken broth, or the walking that had done it. Then I realized that for the first time in about six hours, I wasn’t kind of hoping to puke.
“You have to go for it,” he said.
Go for it? Honestly, I was considering getting in the van with him. I had also considered finishing the walk to Covered Bridge and throwing in my own towel there. It had been such a long, strange day. I had been running nauseous for some 10 hours. I was tired. And I had spent the better part of an hour sitting now, once at Pine Hollow and now here.
And besides, it wasn’t entirely my day. My goal had been crossing the finish line with him. If that wasn’t going to happen, and I was tired and nauseous and stiff and not quite running like myself….
Ah, come on, Star. At least finish the thing, right?
“I can’t believe how much I’m holding you up. What time is it?” he asked.
“10:50,” I answered. And the beast stirred.
And then, against my better judgment, it started doing math.
He dialed the phone and I realized anew how far gone my friend, my project, my doctor, was. He sounded like one does when answering the phone from a deep sleep as he asked Gwen where she was, how close she was. I realized that there was no lingering hope after all, that tonight, this night, I couldn’t save the person who fixes everything from anemia to strep to tendonitis for me.
We started walking to the road.
He asked me if this was where it happened, where I got lost last year. I showed him where we made the turn and missed the pie plate as we heard the SUV and the lights came into view.
I hugged him and he crawled into the car. I gave Gwen a hug, told her I was sorry, told her that I loved her. Then the car door shut and for better or for worse, these things, too, were done.
So I took a deep breath, and I unleashed the beast.
***
When I reached the Covered Bridge half an hour later, I would tell Darris that I was going to try to bring it in just under 23. This was bullshit.
Because we had decided, the beast and I, that if we were going to do this, we might as well go ahead and risk that incredible display of flames and projectile vomit I had been flirting with all day.
If I was going to PR, I had to reach the finish line no later than 3:30 am. That meant that if I made it to the Covered Bridge, some 4 miles away, by 11:30 pm, I would have 4 hours to cover the last 20 miles. Which meant 12-minute miles.
But the last 20 miles involved the Perkins Loop. And I didn't know if I was up for a repeat of last year. And 12-minute miles are not as slow as they sound when you've already run 80.
And the towpath has beaten me to shreds every year, whether it's flat or not. I struggle on the towpath.
But flames and puke be damned, I found my song and I ran. And when I say I ran, I mean it. Ask anyone who was at the Covered Bridge when I showed up at 11:29 exactly, sprinting.
The volunteers asked what I needed, and in retrospect, I feel badly, because I wasn't as gracious as I like to be. I basically just shouted that I needed Robin and Darris right away.
I looked at my watch and told them I had two minutes to explain what was going on. Darrin sick. Gwen picked up. Wetmore Road. Someone needs to sign him out.
I started digging through my drop bag for my chocolate donut and Robin handed me my bottle of iced coffee. I finally noticed Terri and Mark Lemke looking at me like I was insane (deserved) and managed to greet them somewhat properly.
"I just learned everything I need to know about myself," I said to Darris, not comprehending that expressing really deep thoughts after running 80 miles just makes you look crazier.
"Okay, guys, I gotta go do this," I said. And I took off with my annual warrior yell for the Perkins Loop.
Mud and bats and horseshit, oh my. It was all there.
I knew how bad the first two climbs were. I knew there was nothing I could do but hike, go over the 12's on this section, and pray that I could make something out of the towpath. As my shoes got stuck in the horseshit bath, I shoved down the chocolate donut as if it were the first food I had seen all day. I was so hungry that I forgot how nauseous I had been. As I washed it down with the freezing cold coffee, I came out of a shoe for the first time. Ah, Perkins. We meet again.
The worst climbs finished, I took off like a bat out of hell - no pun on the Perkins loop. As I greeted those runners I was passing and reminded them that we were closing in on this, I reminded myself that I actually needed to cool my heels. After all, I thought, we were really back at the beginning. Don't be stupid too soon, I kept reminding myself. That I still had a 20 mile run in front of me, and the gas gauge was riding on "E" and I wouldn’t receive another warning until the car just stopped.
And I took a flying step perfectly centered in a mud/shit puddle, and got bathed up the front of both legs. I looked at my watch, trying to estimate my progress on the loop. It had only been 20 minutes of what would be at least an hour.
"STAR."
It had been twenty minutes of hard running (comparatively), and I was way too far ahead of myself. I pulled back and kept drawing on the coffee. I was turbo-charged.
Then a bat was in my face, literally in my face, and I shuddered and instinctively swatted at it. I mean, it was in my grill. I touched it. Ewwww, I totally touched a bat!
And then I turned up the music in my head because I knew I couldn't think about how many other bats were out there. I knew from walking this loop with Damon and Darris that I should not, under any circumstances, look up. The Everett Connector couldn't come quickly enough.
And then I was on it, popping out onto the road, and pulling up to Liza and Jodi.
I stopped for a minute to let them know what had happened with Darrin. Liza and Darrin run together almost every morning; she deserved more than me screaming something at her as I tore by. We walked together. She and Jodi were doing fantastic, just 15 miles out from their first finishes and still upbeat and alert. I wished them well, told them to enjoy the night.
And then I was flying back onto the Covered Bridge, skipping the shoe change I had asked for earlier, and getting ready to get back out. It had been 54 minutes and I had cleared the Covered Bridge at an 11:29 pace.
Terri Lemke got me my ramen as I noticed one of my other boys, Dave Huss, looking at me with wide eyes. I saw Steve nearby in a chair, heard he had started throwing up pretty badly. I went over to check on him, and Steve, your eyes scared the shit of me. You are nothing short of amazing. Because if I was in that shape and had just done Mohican six short weeks ago, I'm not sure I would have gotten out of the chair. But you did. And I am so proud of you.
I told Darris and Robin that I was a big girl, and they weren't to try to crew me. They were there for George and Johnathan and Steve, and besides, I only had 15 miles to go. I'm fine, I told them. I'm going to try to bring this in just under 23.
Dave gave me a solemn fist bump, and my ramen and I hit the road.
***
The course directions say that when you leave Covered Bridge, "you will travel a pleasant road section." Ugh.
It starts with a l-o-n-g uphill climb, but at least it's perfect for drinking down ramen. Has anyone else ever noticed that ramen noodles taste the best after running 80 miles?
Then the road pounds you and seems to go on forever. And then you hit O'Neil Woods, where you have to deal with this piece of trail that zig-zags back and forth, back and forth, making you feel like you're going nowhere fast even though there's supposed to be an aid station within a mile or so. The road hurt me, as it always does late in the race, and I tried to make sense of the fact that this 3.3 mile section felt so much longer than Perkins. I wondered to myself if the flames were imminent, but just then, the glow sticks started coming and I knew to push for the station.
40 minutes. 12:10’s. I asked for Alicia, Suzanne's daughter, and told her how proud her mom was of her. I remembered Suzanne talking about Alicia being the volunteer lead at this stop, some 20 hours ago on the bus to the start. I chugged a coke, filled up with water, and saw the most amazing, unexpected sight.
Adam!
"Star, you're killing this," he said. I told him about Darrin. I told him that he was killing it too, quickly reminded him of the terrain that was ahead as I jogged out of the station.
A quick shot of trail now, and on to the Towpath. The stink plant. The longest 3 miles of my life, as I refer to the Merriman to Memorial section.
But wait. Back up. Through the woods and onto the Towpath I went, cringing as I saw the Waste Management plant in the distance. I had known all along that this was going to revive my nausea, and it most certainly did. I had told the guys in my pre-race warning about this section that "if you breathe through your nose, you smell it; if you breathe through your mouth, you taste it." So I alternated.
And somehow, the towpath flew by this year, and I was back in the stretch through the city, where some guys out for a Saturday night felt the need to scream things about my booty. Sigh.
I tore into Merriman and was just getting a refill when I heard, of all things. Robin. There she was, digging through my drop bag after all. Robin, you are an angel, a saint, a sister and a crewing goddess.
She got me out fast. I had run 10's to get to her.
Off to Memorial I went, battling fiercely again with the nausea. Slowly but deliberately, the need and desire to just puke my guts out was coming back. It no longer mattered, though, it was going to either happen or not. I flew across the bridges on the towpath, at one point thanking the bullfrogs aloud for sharing the night with me. It was the first year they haven't freaked me out.
And as I turned up the music in my head again and started going for broke, I begged Maria to be at Memorial.
And 27 minutes later she was, and she had saltines. I had dropped 9-minute miles from 93 - 96, and Maria fed me saltines and ginger ale for the two amazing minutes I spent at her aid station. The last aid station.
***
The beast did his last bit of math, and he told me I had a shot. Leaving Memorial, he told me that I if I could pull 14’s, I would beat my 22:33.
If I could pull 14’s at mile 96, with two long road climbs, a couple of long trail climbs, PLUS over 100 stairs, PLUS running alone, at night, in the dark, with nausea.
There was nothing left to be done.
The police car greeted me for the climb out of Memorial. As I walked the long steep hill, the officer remarked that I had more energy than anyone he’d seen in the past four hours. He asked if I had been the one whooping it up and screaming a minute ago.
Well then. Couldn’t exactly walk after that, right?
So I ran. Into the Chuckery. Through the woods. Past the Signal Tree. Up the stairs. Up more stairs. Oh, and another set of stairs. No, I didn’t run the stairs, but I never stopped for a second. There was no walking. There was no pausing. There was a lot of praying for puke. And yes, I was slowing down.
I had thought I was going to get freaked out running without a pacer, facing the woods alone in the dark. I wasn’t at all.
And the girl who still doesn’t quite understand how highways work didn’t even need the “confidence markers” on the course. I knew exactly where I was, and exactly where I was going. Even as I kept slowing down, I moved instinctively across the course.
I heard the traffic just as I saw the lights. I had to climb the hill out of the woods to Front Street. It looked as if I wasn’t going to finish the race without the projectile vomit after all, even if it was coming at mile 99. The nausea, still, was so bad.
There was one last climb on the road, so I started a run-walk, 2 minutes of running to 1 minute of walking.
Screw it, I thought, as the walk minute approached. Just keep running.
And when I got over the hill and had a mile to go, I let myself peek at the watch. And I was okay with whatever it said. Really. I was. So I peeked, and then I gasped.
***
“Okay,” I said. Quietly, resigned to it.
“Okay,” I said, quietly, as I ran down Front Street.
“Okay,” I said, quietly, as I looked up at the sky.
“Okay. Okay. Okay.”
My watch had said 22:02, and I had less than a road mile to go.
***
I sprinted to the finish and it was done. Darris was there, and Mel and Shaun and Kevin and Elizabeth and several others I was too sick and tired to remember. I had grand designs on staying for awhile, watching for Adam and Steve, for Johnathan, for a few of those I had passed in the night. But I was sick and cold and shaking with nausea and chills, and Darris told me my night was over.
As we hugged people and said goodbye, Shaun commandeered the microphone for a bit of fun.
“And Starshine Blackford is leaving the building,” he announced.
***
“What did it mean?” Darris asked, as I limped across the street to the hotel.
“Huh?”
“Huh?”
“What you said at Covered Bridge. That you learned about yourself?”
“Oh,” I said.
***
Starshine Blackford, believe it or not, was too tired for words. And until she started writing, she couldn’t put it into words anyway.
There are so many beautiful moments and memories that haven’t made their way here. Of Mel’s smile at five in the morning. Of catching up with Brian Ottinger, my Laurel Highlands suffer-buddy and savior, in the early miles of the race. Of Tracey Ross saying something very moving to me at Pine Hollow. Of the boys, bees, bats and beasts along the way.
Toad the Wet Sprocket isn’t really my kind of music anymore, but the song that I found by a lake in Tennessee that got me through that horrible spring was “All I Want.” And I was going to end this, originally, by quoting most of the lyrics.
But this story is long, and really, it doesn’t need the song.
Last year, I got lost. This year, I got found.
Star, would you believe me if I told you that I could write a blog post about your blog post? I could...but I won't. I just loved your report. No, it's not too long and you are right, there is nothing you could have cut from it. It is complete...with no excess at all.
ReplyDeleteFor someone who knows this course, especially the parts that consumed the majority of your report, I could imagine being on them again...almost transported there...in the middle of the night. You write and convey your thoughts perfectly. Question: were you referring to Jenny Chow early on in the post? I ran with her at all 3 of my 100s last year!!!
Good on you for sticking with Dr. Darrin all that time. You stood by your runner until the van door shut...there is nothing else you could've done...nothing. You then took that beast by the neck and made it your slave...bats and all. By the way, I know the bench you speak of at Wetmore. I stopped there last year, closed my eyes, and begged Kellie (my pacer) to just give me a few minutes of shut-eye. I was having the hardest time staying awake and every bench looked like a featherbed to me.
I'm glad we're friends, Star. Your report wraps up in a majestic way why I love this sport, especially the 100-miler. Although I didn't run the BR100 this year nor any 100-miler this year, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all week. Your report actually put an ounce of consideration into me for a future repeat of the BR100 which I have sworn I'd never do. Darn you!
Thanks again for the inspiration and thank you for always putting on a great smile with your braids when you see me holding my camera. YOU ROCK!
This is the first time I have read your blog and I'm so glad Nick directed me towards it. This post race report is more than just that. It is SIMPLY AMAZING. I felt as if I was there with you the entire race. Hope I get the pleasure of meeting you sometime out on the trails some time. Keep up the great work and congrats on a fab job at BR100!
ReplyDeleteGreat, Great, Fantastic Writing Star. I was riveted and GLUED to my seat...
ReplyDeleteStar, your race reports always make me cry. Well done!
ReplyDeleteAmazing race report! Congrats Star!
ReplyDeleteThat was a fantastic race report. I don't know you personally, but have seen you at races. And since we have running friends in common, your link came up in my facebook feeds. I love your effort. I love your struggle and your honesty. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteI was looking at the roster for the race early Sat morning and I saw your name. I thought it was the most interesting and pretty name, later at the race I was mentioning this to my friend (I volunteered at the covered bridge) and another person says "I know her, she's amazing". Imagine how cool it was when I saw your name mentioned in Nick's blog! It took me most of the day to read this post, not because it was so long, but because it was so beautiful I didn't want to read it without full attention. I cried at certain parts and felt like I was there too. The part about music was touching and the part about not liking the color or quantity of what you saw made me think "only us runners". Great report and good job!
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