All it takes is 32 hours on Massanutten Mountain for me to be able to link
unicorns and ultrarunning. The MMT 100 mile is an ultrarunning event over
trails of the Massanutten Mountain in the one-million acre George Washington
National Forest. This national ground can lay claim to much American history.
It was home to Native Americans, passageway for pioneers and battleground
during the War of Independence and our country's Civil War. I was surprised to
learn that in the 19th century these mountains were denuded of all trees and
that the rich mantle of hardwoods and hemlocks that we ran through were
second-growth forest. This mountain range contains remnants of pre-historic
volcanic explosions, lava flows and the glacial deposits from the Ice Age. The
intense freeze-and-thaw during the Ice Age cracked open the sandstone bedrock
and produced jumbles of car-sized blocks of rock. These rocks appear to have
been thrown about the MMT course in lunatic fashion by giants long since
departed. Here on, over and around these block fields 119 runners attempted to
move up and down one side of Massanutten for 50 miles and then up and down the
other side ending where they started 100.1 miles and more than 16,000 vertical
feet ago.
It was great weather for this type of thing, perhaps mid forties at race's
start at 5 a.m. on Saturday, May 12th. The skies were clear and we waited
under a waning moon for our adventure to begin. For the 7th time in 7 years
runners from across the country and world listened as prayers were offered to
their Higher Power, asking for help through the day and night and next day and
giving thanks for this chance to run and play in the woods. This spiritual
aspect of our endeavor always touches me. But as irreverent as I often am I
wondered if the hard rock and roll band AC/DC's song "For Those About To
Rock" wouldn't have also been appropriate. The race began, the sun came
out and temperatures in the 70's came with it. I was putting out a lot of
water as sweat all morning and afternoon. But this is good and expected, it's
only when all manner of water production cease that the ultrarunner grows
concerned. Drink, drink, drink and pee, pee, pee. All is well. It was warm
down off the ridge at elevations of 600-800 feet. Atop the mountain at between
1800-2700 feet, cool and refreshing breezes helped put a spring into my step.
The runners were offered over one dozen opportunities to climb into the cooler
air. At mid afternoon short and gentle rain showers arrived, but for only
minutes at a time, and they were appreciated for the feel of their spritz. It
was understood at this junction that the night would grow cold. Temps that
night after18 hours on our feet would feel much more extreme than similar
conditions the previous morning. I had packed a jacket and was comforted by
that sage decision. There would be no need to change out of my shorts, socks
or shoes.
The aid stations, always-cheerful places to visit were for the most part
positioned off the mountain at low points of the course. It was usually a
downhill run to aid. The staples were offered us there, fruit and drink,
Gatorade and water, coffee and soup later on. Sandwiches and candy, band aids
and ibuprofen, salt and chips and always, always smiling faces lying to us
blatantly about how well we looked. I traveled to this event alone, without a
crew and depended on drop bags I'd packed for my special needs. What they
contained were my own drink mix, electrolyte capsules, GU, lamps and batteries
and odd clothing, a toothbrush for late in the race along with chocolate
covered coffee beans for that early morning pick me up. Drop bags are to be
labeled with the runner's race number and I've learned the importance of
uniquely identifying them. It's always a help to be able to pick your bag out
of a cluster easily when the brain is half asleep late into a long run. This
year at my wife Lisa's suggestion I purchased a dozen brightly colored plastic
Hawaiian leis and attached then to my white drop bags. Helpful aid personnel
and myself were able to quickly spot my bag and I had a lot of fun with anyone
who would listen to me go on and on about getting leid at the aid stations.
It is a very beautiful course along the Shenandoah Valley, I've attempted to
describe it to you a couple of years ago, I believe I failed at that task then
and do now. My words cannot capture the thrill of looking at the mountain,
green and lush, off in the distance the day before the race and knowing that
I'd soon be up there. How can I justifiably tell you of stirring the views
atop Bird Knob Peak, at the midpoint of the race. Or of how ruggedly
meaningful it is to struggle along the ridge atop Short Mountain, at times
crawling on hands and knees over the slabs of rock, to do this at 1 a.m. under
a headlamp's glow and see the lights and hints of civilization below in the
valley, to view the real world and know that I was temporarily not part of
that. One thing I did miss this year was the serenade of the whippoorwills.
Two years ago they sang to one another along the trail from dusk to dawn. This
year I heard only one, obviously a hopeless and helpless romantic, singing
into the night without reply. The only other wildlife that came into view were
other birds and a couple of rabbit. And no snakes! Thank God. I do not like
them and worried about running like this in snake country. They are so, so
. . . reptilian! Yuck! I looked as we ran along the sun drenched rock ledges
and overhangs and Mr. Rattlesnake was nowhere to be found.
The course had been changed this year and everyone agreed that it was
significantly harder. Those wearing altimeters claim it to be almost 3000 more
foot of climb, maybe so but really no matter. What I do know is that this is
one tough course either way. I'm thinking that the last four years I've spent
as a long distance journeyman is beginning to pay off. I need not worry about
putting an addition on my house to accommodate all the trophies I'll be
bringing home from races but my times have improved. I've run all my races
this year to date very conservatively, all in preparation for this 100 miles
in the Virginia woods. I ran aggressively from race's start, and let's
remember that these are relative terms. I reached the half way point of 50.2
miles atop Bird Knob 2700 ft above sea level and 12 hours and 27 minutes after
my start. An average of about 4 miles per hour. During the night I gave a lot
of that back, during the nine hours of darkness I covered only 19.2 miles and
allowed 6 or more runners to overtake me. By race's end another 6 would pass
and there really wasn't much I could or would do about it. I had run my race
as I had planned and accepted the outcome.
I came off the mountain at 12:45 on Sunday afternoon and crossed the finish
line 9 minutes later. Three hours faster than my last visit to the MMT. I saw
a lot that weekend. Two sunrises and one sunset, a moonrise and twice
morning's fog lifting from the river valley. I witnessed resurrection Saturday
night. My friend Steve Pero from Mass., a fast and very capable runner looked
positively green when I came upon him sitting on the grass at 48 miles. Steve
thought his race was over; he couldn't keep anything in his stomach and was
growing weaker mile by mile. Instead of quitting here this man decided to take
a nap and to see what happened, he had gained plenty of time as a buffer
against the cutoffs. As I bid him farewell wishing him well I thought his day
done. Yet Steve was one who passed me on Short Mountain hours later, looking
like a new man and finishing his race 4 hours before me. At the 90-mile aid
station Peter Moore from Vermont and I chatted before our second to the last
climb of the day. Pete had fallen he said among the rocks on Short Mountain
and driven a stick into his calf. A medic miles back had cleaned and bandaged
him up and although he looked the mess he was continuing on in. He left me
with a wave and a smile at 9AM and for the next 10 miles I followed his blood,
at times in puddles as large as silver dollars upon the rocks, every 80-100
feet. I worried that he had hurt himself more than he acknowledged. Yet I saw
no sign of him again until after race's end and his return from the emergency
room where he received 12 stitches after a finishing time one hour better than
mine. Examples both in perseverance, strength and determination. Then there is
Hans-Dieter Weisshaar of Landwerhrhagen, Germany. This man I consider to be a
gentleman in the strictest sense of the word. A gentleman, a humble and
gentle-man. Last year Hans became the only person in the world to have started
and completed 20 100-mile races in a calendar year. This was a feat
accomplished at the age of 60. So strong. When asked, as we are after the
race, how we did, you know asked by fellow runners or well wishers Han's answer
is always the same, "Wonderful! I ran 100 miles today". It was this
man who advised me last year when I was in the midst of personal turmoil to
"let go of the anger, that is the most important thing you must do, then
you will heal." How true this was and is. I had the opportunity to thank
Hans on Sunday.
Here's where my unicorn analogy comes into play, bear with me. I came into
ultrarunning because I had lost the rewards once gained from my running.
Something was missing. I found trails expecting to obtain some form of
satisfaction doing the unusual, something odd, something different, doing
something that set me apart as an individual. Surprise, surprise when I found
the unexpected. It might as well have been a unicorn laying his head upon my
lap. Maybe that is what grace is, the unexpected. Like that innocent maiden
sitting in the sunny meadow enjoying her day, minding her own business and
finding a rare and unasked for gift. Me too, me too, just not all that
innocent.
As a reward for coming off the mountain hours before race's end, with other
runners still out on the course behind me I was given the opportunity to
witness their finish, to look into their eyes, to identify with and know what
was going on inside of them, to better understand the value in our struggle.
When I began ultrarunning it was an attempt to set me apart, to place my
individual stamp upon myself, looking into my fellow runner eyes after 100
miles almost knocked me off my feet. I was them. They were me. I was
connected, not apart. And I liked that! And that realization went deeper. I
was connected as a human not just as a runner of long distances. As a part of
humanity, with all the same strengths and frailties that all humans have. Big
smile here! Looking into the eyes of my fellow Massanutten travelers allowed
me to recognize the immense capability of man. Whether it is here or
elsewhere, we are all capable of accomplishing wonderful things and do
accomplish them on a daily basis, struggles or not. Many people inherently
know this stuff, I have to go into the mountains to find it. No matter. Can I
keep this gift, this insight? I hope so. We'll see. I realized that what draws
me back to the 100 mile distance is the emptying of myself that is required in
order for my finish, I empty all that is John out and then have the
opportunity to refill it with better stuff. It doesn't happen perfectly, most
of the old stuff, the old behavior and attitudes come rushing back in ASAP,
but as an unexpected gift of God's grace maybe only 99% comes back, not all
the pettiness, jealousies and resentments fill back in. The other 1% is filled
with good stuff, the simple stuff, the kind stuff, stuff I want to be made of.
I've been told to examine what I believe, for I am or will become what I
believe. I will. And I believe the unicorn I found is made up of all of the
above. I went to a race billed as being the toughest 100-mile trail run east
of the Rockies and came home with much more than I bargained for. I knew I
would bring home sore legs and feet. Hoped I'd also earn a finisher's buckle.
I got all of that and more. Lucky man.
As is my habit please a couple of meaningful closing quotes.
My Main Page
Relentless forward motion...just relentless forward motion...
© 1997 kayaksalmon@oocities.com