Grindstone 100 is not an easy race. It was my first 100 in 2016, and my first DNF in 2017. With 23,200 ft of elevation gain, and a matching 23,200 ft of loss, it is one of only 2 Hardrock 100 qualifiers on the Beast Coast. (The other being Cruel Jewel 100 in North GA ) However, despite all the climbing, and all the rocks (fuck them!) I think the hardest part of Grindstone is the night start. Brad has crewed me at all three of my Grindstone attempts, and says he has never seen such a high percentage of participants succumb to nausea as at this race. Staying up all night messes with your system. Staying up for two nights is even worse. At a 100 with a morning start, you can bank time with your daytime miles and then hike through the night. You also don't have to worry and stress about how you are going to spend your day leading up to the race. "What am I going to eat?" "Should I take a nap?" etc. I recently read another finisher's race report, and he touched on the awkward 3 hour period between the end of the pre-race meeting at 3:00 pm, and the start of the race at 6:00 pm. During this time, runners can be seen aimlessly wandering around camp; some already dressed in their race gear with hydration packs on, others attempting to nap on sleeping mats or in hammocks, many fretfully staring at piles of food in coolers or bags, wondering what they should eat and how it will affect them in the coming hours. This year, I was one of the attempted hammock nappers (unsuccessfully.) My hammock was tied to two pines and was very close to a third pine in the middle. Giant black ants kept dropping from the middle tree into the hammock, and with each bug-on-skin sensation, I shot up out of the hammock and did a little dance. It was useless. My friend Sergio, another runner from Upstate SC wandered over to our gathering of misfits, and I asked him how he was doing. "I feel weird." I felt weird too. This was my third time playing this waiting game, but it certainly didn't get easier!
A little after five, Peter and I headed over to the van to get ready. I changed into my race clothes and made sure to apply liberal amounts of squirrel's nut butter to all the places I usually have chafe issues. (My back, underarms, inner thighs, and feet.) Shannon (another wonderful Upstate friend!) was at her car getting ready as well, and the presence of a familiar face helped to calm my nerves. There was a relatively large group of us at this year's race. Shannon (a total BADASS, and nicest person you will EVER meet) was seeded F4 and was doing the Beast Series to celebrate her 40th birth year (Holiday Lake 50k, Terrapin Mountain 50k, Promiseland 50k, Grindstone 100, Mountain Masochist 50, and Hellgate 100k.) Sergio was running un-crewed, our friend Cera, from North GA, had ridden up with us, and was being crewed and paced by friends and family, and another GA friend, Jen Raby, was crewing and pacing a teammate, Michelle. I drank a coke as I double checked my pack for everything I would need. I really wanted to take my windshell out, it was going to be a hot weekend, but the memory of my hypothermia at this race in 2016, and the forewarning of the runner parked next to us "Better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it," swayed me to leave it zipped into the front pocket. We headed back towards the lodge with the last stragglers from the parking lot at 5:45, and I tried not to think about how much I suck at staying up all night.
The race began and we all shuffled across the field towards the camp road leading to the lake, and eventually the trail; laughing because we knew we could be walking and still make it to the trail at the same time. If you are a race leader, this small stretch is an important one to run hard, otherwise you will get stuck in the bottleneck at the lake and lose important time; but if you are mid to back of the pack, this is a great time to make sure you haven't forgotten anything, and to get to know the people around you. The feed-in to the trail is a funky (and usually wet) hop-skip-and-a-jump obstacle that forces the field to slow down and proceed single file. The trail evens out and becomes runnable in less than a minute, but it is enough to create a backup. As I wait and make jokes about waiting in line at Disney with those around me, a few wise participants saunter calmly to the back of the line, having walked an easy pace toward the chaos.
The next mile or so is a combination of rolling single track and service road that winds its way around the camp property. We all know we have less than an hour of daylight left, and while no one (at least no one around me) is recklessly hammering out the miles, we all want to take advantage of what we can do in the light. A nice thing about this section is that it swings around the back of the camp and we are able to see our family and friends once more before heading into the long night. I see and hear Shannon's family first and her son Jackson yells "Run Jenny! You paid for this!" I laugh. Peter and Brad are right around the corner from them, and it is good to hear their voices too. I will see them again at Dowell's Draft in about 20 miles.
A little under four miles in, I hear a voice behind me and turn to see if the speaker is talking to me. He wasn't, but I see him struggling with his headlamp and find out that he can not get it to turn on. I have extra AAA batteries, but his light is a Petzl with a rechargeable battery pack. I tell him not to worry, we will be at the aid station in less than 15 minutes (Falls Hollow, a little over 5 miles in) and will find someone with an extra light. It's not full dark yet, but it will be shortly. We see David Horton about half a mile from the aid station and he waves runners down the trail in the correct direction. Shortly, we hit train tracks, and cross over the road to the aid station. I yell "Does anyone have an extra light?!" and another runner volunteers their hand light. I drink some Coke (RC Cola) and eat an orange wedge and a homemade rice krispy treat. I've already eaten one HUMA gel and I will eat another soon. I started feeling bad about ten miles in in 2017, and I know the root of my problems was not enough calories early on. My plan is to eat and keep eating.
The first big climb on the course is Elliot's Knob, with the summit being about 9 miles in. I decided to carry poles for the entire race this year, as I wished I had had them on this section in 2017. It's not bad terrain, a wide fire road, with moderate ruts from the 2 weeks of solid rain the course saw leading up to this year's race, but it does seem neverending when you're on it, and I knew they would help take strain off my legs early on. My left ankle is still not completely stable from the summer's sprains, and I am all in for any tools that will help keep me on two feet. I am towards the back of the pack, but I feel good. My goal is to move steadily without stopping until I get to the top. The way this section works is that you climb all the way to the Elliot's Knob fire tower, where you punch your bib with an orienteering punch, then backtrack down the road (maybe half a mile) before turning left onto the trail leading toward the next aid station at Dry Branch Gap (14-15 miles in.) It's really foggy and visibility is bad. I have to look around for a second to locate the fire tower and on the way back down am worried about missing the turnoff (as I hear a few fasties at the front did.) I am lucky, and another runner points the turnoff out to me right as I am about to miss it. The next 4+ miles leading to Dry Branch Gap are some of the rockiest on the course. I have to hold my headlamp in my hand, pointed low to the ground, to see where I am putting my feet. The trudging is slow but I'm not worried about time (I should be though!) I join up with other runners a few times and enjoy the conversation. I'm happy to be feeling good, as at this point last year, I was already thinking about dropping. We arrive at the aid station and it's a party. It's lit up like Christmas, and "Apple bottom jeans and the boots with the fur..." plays from the speakers. I enjoy a brief dance party while perusing the snacks, and drink more generic brown soda. They next play Miley Cyrus's "The Climb" "in honor of the climb we are about to do" and I know it's time to get out of there. I thank them for the fun and begin "The Climb."
The music really gave me a boost and I decide to cue up my playlist. As I am doing so, another runner approaches me and begins conversation. I decide to leave the music for later. 7 and a half(ish) miles later I arrive at Dowell's Draft (mile 22 ish), and I can tell from the looks on Peter and Brad's faces they are worried. This aid station doesn't have a hard cutoff, but the soft cutoff is 1:00 am and it's 1:05. Peter refills the water in my pack and hands me another stash of gels, while Brad gets me a cup of ramen. I eat the noodles out of the cup with my hands and drink a cup of ginger ale. It's time for me to go. As I am leaving, the volunteers are rejoicing that "power nap guy" is heading out of the aid station. "Power nap guy" turns out to be my biggest ally for the next 6 hours. Jim and I spend the next 8 and a halfish miles getting to know one another, keeping each other awake, and telling stories. A few miles into the leg, we are joined by Levi, a runner Jim met at this summer's Hardrock 100, and Jen B, a Grindstone expert and Beast series badass. We take turns leading as energy ebbs and flows among the group, and roll into the Lookout Mountain (mile 30.78) aid station right at 4:00 (their soft cutoff.) My friend Bob is aid station captain here, and he warns that we are facing a hard cutoff at the next aid station. We have to get in and out of North River Gap (mile 37.13) before 6:30 am or we will be pulled from the race. Jim is falling asleep standing up and I'm not much better. I worry that we won't make it, and think of my additional crew members Aimee and Jim C., making the 6 hr drive to VA only to find that I was out of the race. Should I call them? Would Brad or Peter? I decide to push it out of my head and rally. I drink some Coke (actual Coke!) and head out of the aid station. Bob says he expects to see me on the return journey, and I promise myself that he will. I am taking in caffeinated gels every 20-30 minutes now and it seems to be helping. I pick up the pace and we continue our group banter. I want to build a buffer of time so we can spend a few minutes at the aid station. North River Gap has a ton of hot food, and I am really looking forward to eating some pierogis. Jim wants to do a treatment on his feet. Levi can't decide if he wants to continue and I understand the feeling of that kind of low. I can see how torn he is. It's a big commitment to leave North River Gap. You can't drop at the next aid station, and it's highly discouraged at the turnaround. Jen is a force of nature. I know she will finish.
There is a suspension bridge about a mile from the aid station, and we arrive at it sooner than I expect. I feel insanely good at this point and begin to really run, yelling "We're coming for you North River Gap!" as I run across. I tell Jim we are almost there, and we are going to make it! It's about 5:40. When I hit the half mile of road leading to the aid station I continue to yell. I want Brad and Peter to know I am headed in. I think I hear Jim behind me, but it turns out to be Dave, another new trail friend, and we celebrate that we have made it. I hand my pack off to Peter and I head straight for the hot trays, grabbing a handful of pierogis, and beckoning Jim, who has now arrived, over to the spread. They also have quesadillas, tater tots, macaroni and cheese, grilled cheese, and pancakes. I drink a small cup of coffee, a small cup of broth, and another small cup of ginger ale. Brad bags me some pierogis for the road and I contemplate what else I might need (other than a serious nap.) I decide to brush my teeth. My mouth has felt like it was filled with cotton for hours, a decided side effect of constant sipping of Tailwind in lieu of plain water. Peter asks if I want to change my shirt, and I decide it's a good idea. This is a slower section (people call it "the seven mile climb") and it's easy to get a chill despite warm temperatures. I call around to the other runners still at the aid station "Someone please come with me!" and Jim says he will catch up shortly. He's still doing some wizardry on his feet. Levi is still contemplating, and it looks like Jen went straight through the aid station without stopping. I convince another runner to continue ("Just wait till you see the sunrise from up there!") and head out, feeling loony, and knowing my high could and probably will end at any time.
I head up the climb and almost immediately start making deals with myself about taking a nap. Earlier, when Jim had been struggling to stay awake, I made him lay down on the side of the trail while I set a two minute alarm on my phone for him to close his eyes. He said the momentary break had worked wonders. I wanted wonders! And sleep...
About a mile in, in somewhat of a flat clearing at the top of the climb, I lay down and set an alarm. Five minutes. Shortly after, Dave hiked by and questioned the wisdom in my plan. What if my alarm didn't go off? I tried to close my eyes again but I couldn't shut my brain off, and I knew it was fruitless. It was a cloudy morning and there wasn't much of a sunrise, but the beginning of a new day was still a welcome sight. I stowed my headlamp and focused on covering ground. It wasn't long before I saw the race leaders on the inbound, Shannon hanging in the top ten overall. She looked strong and I high-fived her as she passed. "Keep it up!" It was reinvigorating to see a friend.
Jim caught up to me and asked how we were doing on time. "We're on target. We just need to keep moving." I told him about my 2016 race, and how I had lost a ton of time on this section, but managed to make up about two hours upon leaving the turnaround and returning to North River Gap. It's a lot of uphill on the way out, and a little more downhill on the way back. We made a pact to pace each other as long as we could.
Despite being the prettiest part of the course (in my opinion), this is one of the hardest sections of the race. It never seems to end. Each time you reach the top of a climb and begin your descent, you will yourself to believe you are on THE descent to the next aid station. Except you're not. There's another climb, and another descent. It's heartbreaking. In 2016, I wasn't sure how I would make it through this section. I was so cold and wet (hypothermic), and felt like I would never arrive at Little Bald Knob. In 2017, I already knew my race was over. I couldn't wait to get to the next aid station and drop. (Plot twist! You can't drop there...) This year, I felt like a machine. I was making it through this race. Every time I started feeling bad, I ate another gel and sipped Tailwind. Work the problem.
With a few miles to go (to the aid station) Jim and I separated. It broke my heart, but I knew I wasn't going to make the soft cutoffs at the next two aid stations if I didn't pick up the pace. When I finally arrived at Little Bald Knob (mile 45ish), a radio operator was talking about not letting any more runners through to the turnaround, and sending them back towards NRG. I piped up "The cutoff here is soft! And it's a way longer trip back to NRG than the turnaround!" A volunteer agreed with me and told me I was fine to continue. They made me a coffee with a sizable measure of whiskey in it and refilled the fluids in my pack while I ate a pancake and a few bites of a mini egg and cheese breakfast burrito. One volunteer, who seemed a little worse for the night's drinking, said he was going to run with me. I questioned his choice of footwear (flips flops) and he retorted that I "didn't look very fast right now." I laughed and vowed to be faster than I looked for the next 7-8 miles.
I was seeing lots of inbound runners now, and passed the time looking for my friends and other familiar faces I had met on the trail. This leg was rolling, and consisted of half rough service road and half paved country road. I ran as much as I could. My ankle was hurting and I knew I needed to loosen my brace and maybe ice it if I could at the next aid station, so my goal was to build myself a time window before the soft cutoff at the turnaround. I put in one earphone and queued up my playlist, reminding myself of the cheesey slogan on all the swag we received at packet pickup "pain is temporary." I see Cera and cheer for her as she goes by. "Get me off this effing mountain," she responds. She looks strong and determined.
Sooner than I expected, an inbound runner informed me that I was close to Reddish Knob, our second (and last) out-and-back orienteering punch stop. I pushed up the climb alongside a friendly mountain biker and he offered words of encouragement as well as snacks aplenty. (I was all set though.) I punched my bib and ran down the short road I had just come up. On the way down I passed Dave and he asked me if it was too much further to the top. I assured him that he REALLY was almost there.
An inbound runner asked me if I was Jenny. I said yes, and she apologized and said she had to relay a message: "Your friend wanted me to tell you to hurry the fuck up."I laughed. "Screw you Brad!" I was hurrying up. Duh! It was around 11:30 and I was almost there. The soft cutoff was 12:15.
I arrived and handed off my pack for refills. "Do you guys have ice? And maybe a bucket?" A volunteer handed me a half full bag of ice. I sat in a chair (in the shade - the sun was blazing now) and took off my left shoe, sock, and the braced compression sleeve I had been wearing, plunging my foot into the bag of ice. The immediate sensation was pure bliss, and then extreme cold. I took my foot out and lay the bag across the top of it. Brad got me more coffee and a cold La Croix, which was refreshing after so much Tailwind. I wanted to ice my foot for a few more minutes so I emptied my pack of the snacks I had not been eating and restocked on gels and rice krispy treats, which seemed to be working pretty well. Peter offered me a clean pair of socks and I put my brace back on, looser this time, before Brad and I hit the road together back towards North River Gap.
I describe the next two legs to him (he hasn't paced this part before) and he tells me he wants us to do it in three and half hours. I laugh. "Yeah I was planning on doing the second leg in three and half hours or less." "No, all of it." I laugh even harder. I think we can maybe knock out the section we are on (less than 6 miles - no trip up to Reddish Knob on the way back) in an hour and a half, but Little Bald Knob to NRG will still be tough, even with more of it being downhill on the inbound. "I'm doing what I can do."
We see Jim, making his way to the turnaround and we exchange hugs. He tells me to "go get that buckle for both of us." I hope I don't let him down. Soon after, we pass Helen, the runner who had relayed Brad's "message" earlier. She is talking about dropping and we try to keep her spirits up. She still looks strong! We make great time and reach the aid station in about 90 minutes. I hand off my pack and close my eyes for a moment while Brad takes a nature break. Another runner is at the aid station with his pacer and they are getting ready to head out. I drink a little more coffee and half a beer and we head their way soon after. We play leapfrog with that pair and a large group of mountain bikers for the next 7 mile stretch. The mountain bikers have a dog with them and it lifts my spirits. (All the pets!) They also have beer, which they share as well. (Thanks guys!)
The trail feels narrower than on the way out, and its natural tilt towards the valley seems more extreme as well. (How do people bike on this?!) I struggle with the downhills, but remember that I am still making better time than on the way out. With 3-4 miles left, we cross paths with GA runner David, and immediately ascertain that he's feeling bad. Brad prompts him to get up and keep moving, and I assure him that we don't have too much farther to go. (It ends up being farther than I thought... sorry David!) I kept thinking we were about a mile from the aid station, but I knew we would have to go down a ways to get there. At this point we were still going up. When we finally hit the downhill stretch to the aid station it seems to never end. I'm getting sleepy again and I'm cursing everything. I tell Brad I know full well there is a hard 6:00 pm cutoff at the next aid station, but I am closing my eyes for 5-10 minutes when we get there. I have to...
We get there and I immediately see Jim and Aimee. Aimee will take over as pacer from here, and they have brought additional crew supplies (namely, one very important pumpkin pie.) I'm worn out and I don't give them as warm a greeting as I should. It's a little after 5:00 pm. I sit down and my brain spins, trying to interpret which need I should take care of first. I try to close my eyes, but my head is buzzing. I decide to try to tackle treating my feet. My ankle hasn't bothered me since the turnaround, but the bottoms of my feet are on fire. I made the mistake of forgetting to re-lubricate them when I changed socks, and blisters have now developed on the inside of both heels and around the vicinity of my big toes. Peter brings me my blister kit and I fumble with vaseline and needles and dressings. I do a pretty shitty job of patching myself up, but hope it helps at least a little bit, and pull on a new pair of socks. I put on my more rigid ankle brace, in lieu of the compression sleeve, and tie it really loosely. At this point I trade out my Hoka Speedgoats for my bedroom slipper-esque Altra Lone Peaks. I'm getting cold and I know I need to get moving soon. I change shirts again, putting on a Oiselle Flyout tank, as well as a Flyout long sleeve on top of it, and continue taking small bites of whatever I'm handed. I confess to Peter that I'm afraid I used all my caffeinated gels on the first night, and like the hero he is, he magically appears with more from the car. Aimee and I head out, and I look forward to seeing Bob again at Lookout.
The sun begins to set about an hour into this section and Aimee makes me stop for a moment to admire it. She's right, everything around us is gorgeous. We keep moving and chat about everything from Halloween costumes to work. My watch was dead at the turnaround, but Peter recharged it, and I was now tracking my mileage one leg at a time. I would reset it at Lookout. I knew I needed to compartmentalize the miles. My attempts to focus on anything but heading into the second night are fruitless, and I begin to panic as we turn on our headlamps.
We arrived at Lookout (mile 72 ish) with the runners Brad and I had leapfrogged with on the previous leg, and another pacer/runner pair. 6 of us total. We were all ahead of the soft cutoff by about 30 minutes. The aid station was shutting down and they invited us to take whatever we needed. One of the pacers had heard me say I needed caffeine and he unearthed a Starbucks doubleshot from the cooler. I drank as much of it as I could and hoped it would give me what I needed to make it through the night. Bob was full of encouragement and reminded us that while the next aid station did not have a hard cutoff, the one after it did: 2:00 am at Dry Branch Gap (mile 88 ish)
We shuffled out in a pack, able to spread out across the rolling fire road. A few miles in, the course funneled into single track trail again and we hustled single file into the darkness. I hollered for those behind me to let me know if they wanted to pass, but sleepy responses assured me I was pacing the group and if I didn't mind, I could stay where I was. This was around the time I started to fall asleep running...
I was still focused on tackling the rest of the race mile by mile, and the added (sleepily perceived) "responsibility" of leading the group had me trying to step up my hustle. I militarily chanted each mile number in my head as I ticked them off "5,5,5...6,6,6,6,6...7,7,7,7..." and soon I was envisioning scenes from work earlier in the week... the youth theatre play we were putting on... my dogs....
My feet tripped each other up unsteadily, and I spread my arms out for balance. My eyes had been closed. I was dreaming. I turned around. Aimee was there, but I couldn't see the others. We had unintentionally pulled way ahead. "Aimee, I was asleep just now." "Shit." "Yeah..."
We got to Dowell's Draft way sooner than we had expected. Brad would be picking me up again as pacer here, but our crew was nowhere to be seen. Were we sure it was here they were meeting us? Aimee was sure. We were ok on time. Almost an hour to the soft cutoff at 11:30. We could wait. I sat down in a chair and closed my eyes. (For maybe ten minutes?) It was important. I grabbed some gels out of my drop bag, drank a small cup of coffee, ate a little bit of ramen, and started getting ready to go. I would do the section on my own, or Brad would catch up to me. I still had time, but a few of the volunteers were raising concern about the hard cutoff at the next aid station. I had almost 3 hours to do a 7.5 mile leg, and I was feeling pretty confident, but I heeded their warnings and made my way out. It was then that we saw Brad making his way down to the aid station; his, Peter's, and Jim's faces all stricken. They had not expected us this "early." "It's ok! I promise! I REALLY needed to close my eyes. Let's go."
We soon found out why the volunteers had been so eager to kick us out. This was THE HARDEST section of the entire race. Especially at this time of day (night.) It climbed and climbed, almost comically. At first it reminded me of Coosa Bald in North GA, but then it just kept going. My legs weren't hurting, but the mental toll it took on my confidence that we would finish the section in time was real. I vaguely remembered that in 2016, when Ned and I had done this leg and the next together on the inbound, it had all seemed different from the outbound. A cruel joke almost. It was foggy again, and it intermittently sprinkled on the higher parts of the course. I was awake (the brief shuteye at Dowell's Draft had saved me) and we began to pass people. About halfway through the leg, the course became extremely rocky and narrow, slanting dangerously toward the valley. We caught up with Jen B, who I hadn't seen since the out and back near the turnaround, and she shared her story of injuring her tailbone falling on this stupid terrain. She wanted to let us pass, but there was no way to get by. We really couldn't have gone much faster, and it was nice to catch up. She assured me we were almost to the downhill to the aid station and I was relieved to hear it. The trail widened minimally, and we slid by.
In about two miles we started heading down. The cutoff was swiftly approaching and I was beginning to worry. When Brad and I heard a cowbell we both audibly shared our relief that the aid station was in sight. Except it wasn't really... We rounded a corner and found ourselves face to face with a volunteer who said it was about a quarter mile to the aid station. "No fair" whined Brad. I shared his feelings, but was glad they were reeling us in in whatever way they could. We arrived at Dry Branch (mile 88ish) about 25 minutes before the cutoff. I grabbed a few more gels from Peter and had the volunteers dump the Tailwind out of my pack and refill it with water. The bad taste in my mouth was persistent and Tailwind just wasn't quenching my thirst. I attempted to eat and drink a few different things but nothing was tasting palatable. Brad grabbed a stash of snacks for us and we made our way back onto the trail. Just around the corner from the aid station, I decided I needed to take in more calories. I sat on the ground and Brad handed me a pancake. After taking the last bite I felt my gag reflux trigger. I swallowed and breathed deeply... then immediately puked up the pancake. Oh well! I tried. Jen B. joined us again at this point and we all headed down the trail.
It would be about 9 miles to Falls Hollow (mile 97 ish) where Peter would pick me up to run me in to the finish. I wanted this section to be over before it even started. 9 miles sounded like forever. I just focused on making it to the fire road (the same one we climbed to Elliot's Knob at the beginning of the race.) Running downhill sounded like a dream. I thought it would be 4-4.5 miles until we reached it, but I hoped it would be less. Just keep moving.
It was rocky as hell, which I remembered from the beginning of the race, and 2016, but every time I felt like we were done with the rocks, we'd round another corner and find ourselves faced with MORE ROCKS. I wanted to cry, and eventually I did. The pity party was in full effect. I never wanted to see another rock again in my life. My blistered feet were throbbing.
About 4.5 miles in we heard a "whoop!" somewhere in front of us. It had to mean the road was near. It was. Unlike Friday night, the sky was clear and the stars were out. I pointed up and Brad and the two other runners we would spend the rest of the leg with all looked skyward. It was like being in a planetarium. I lay on the ground stargazing for a minute while the guys got things they needed out of their packs. We were really on the homestretch now!
The downhill was steeper than I remembered and I almost immediately reverted to pity party mode. I wished more than anything that I could open up my stride and barrel down it, but my feet were too wrecked and I thought a face-forward fall would likely follow any ambitious attempts to do anything but pick my way down. The descent lasted maybe a mile and a half before the road evened out and became flat/rolling. There were still rocks everywhere (but not the same as before) and I took each one very personally. In my head the pink course markers were like balloons leading the way to a neighborhood birthday party. Except this was some kind of fucked up rock party. "Rocks are the worst. I can't believe I ever collected rocks as a kid..." This internal banter all made sense to me...
Despite my somewhat manic thoughts, I couldn't help but notice how beautiful this section was. Leafy green plants, close to the ground and covering the small fields bordering the fire road, glowed silver in the dark. ( I know they were real! Brad remarked on them as well!)
Eventually (finally...) we heard people and Brad ran his way down to the aid station to let Peter know I was coming. Peter and I left Falls Hollow (mile 97ish) almost immediately; a little after 5:15 am. We had a little over 2 and half hours to do a little more than 5 miles, and I was ready to be done.
This section was also rockier than I remembered, and I continued my cursing of each stone in placed in my path. Brad had joked that there must be "rock goblins" on the course carrying stones from behind me to in front of me as I made my way down the trail. I was beginning to think he was right. Damn them!
The sun came out and when we finally reached the rolling trails on the Boy Scout camp property, about two miles from the finish, I told Peter I was going to "run"! I have since seen videos Peter took of this part of the race, and can confirm that I am merely swiftly hiking while swinging my arms profusely, but whatever works, right? We hit the bottleneck zone from the beginning of the race, and I could hear people cheering for runners at the start line. Finding myself in the soft grass next to the lake, I really did begin to run; faster than I had thought possible since the race began (at least it felt like it!) It was amazing! I felt tears in my eyes. I'm not sure if it was because I was finally on a stretch of the course with no rocks, because sleep was imminent, or because I was really doing it, (all three?!) but I felt so much happiness in that moment. I tried to push it harder, and rounded the road towards the lodge. I could see the finish line now. I ran it in as hard as I could, smiling like a loon. Clark gave me a high five and handed me my buckle. 37 hours and 27 minutes since I had left the lodge Friday evening. I turned around and Shannon and her pacer Terry were there with hugs, as well as Brad and Peter. Peter had told me Saturday night that Shannon had set a new course record (22:22:38) finishing 8th overall and winning the women's race. I was so proud of her, and so grateful to have her there (more than 15 hours later) for my finish.
Peter and Brad helped me to the van, and we cheered for the final runners as they made their way in. I sunk into a tailgate chair and immediately removed my socks and shoes. Brad handed me a beer, and after a few sips, I fell asleep, still wearing the same shorts I started the race in on Friday night. (Cute, right?) After visits from Sergio, and a few other runners, I was persuaded that a shower would be worth my while, and Peter helped me hobble back up past the lodge towards the cabins and the showers. It WAS amazing to be clean again. Peter and I ran into Jen Raby up by the showers and chatted a little before we headed back down to the cars. It really had been an amazing weekend with so many wonderful people. I feel good that I was able to return to Grindstone and finish what I started last year and am so impressed with what all of my friends were able to do out there. Of the five runners in the group photo at the top of this post (Shannon, Myself, Cera, Sergio, and Jessica) ALL FIVE FINISHED. My crew was amazing and I couldn't be more grateful to them and everyone else who helped me throughout the weekend. Until next time! Cheers. (And naps.)
