BOONSBORO
Boonsboro Maryland is a small town nestled in the rolling countryside that surrounds the Appalachian Trail, about seventy miles northwest of Baltimore. It's kind of like someone took Kentucky horse country and threw in a lot more rocks and a long, undulating ridge that juts up 500 feet or so from the surrounding hills and runs forever from one horizon to the other. Surrounding the town is a mix of some pretty snazzy country estate-type homes and much more modest, pickup-with-a-gun-rack places. Hunting seems to be a major pasttime. In fact, the day before the race, when I stopped in Crawford's Restaurant for coffee, the staff was having a laugh at one of the regulars who apparently bought the wrong kind of bullets with his morning hash browns. This seemed strange to me because I hadn't noticed "bullets" on the menu, however, as I looked around it became clear that Crawford's had hit upon the ingenious marketing plan of offering munitions along with your meal. On the way out I took a closer look at their sign.
That appears to be Grandma Crawford whipping up a batch of Thirty-ought-sixes for dessert. No
wonder Granny and the girls were having a laugh at the poor sap who bought the wrong bullets--she clearly knows her stuff. In fact, the whole population of Boonsboro seemed quite proud and maybe just a little defensive about knowing their stuff. A bumper sticker we saw reminded all visitors that "We're just rural. We're not Stupid". Given their obvious firepower, I wasn't about to disagree. Granny was nice though and the coffee was fine and nobody seemed hostile to the notion that the next day a thousand looney runners were going to clog up Main Street, just outside their door and just behind the only stop light in town, while they waited for the gun. Ironically, the hostility came later, almost at the end, when the pack was strung out over the last eight miles and occupying only a small sliver on the exteme edge of the back-country road. There just seems to be something about the sight of staggering weirdos stuggling along that incites twenty-something guys with decals of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbs peeing on a Chevy on the rear window of their Ford F-150 to swerve over menacingly and yell "Fucking idiot."
Really, there was no need for the young gentleman to point that out because, at the time, I was more than willing to agree that I was, indeed, a fucking idiot for deciding that running 50 miles was just a ducky idea. By that time I was about eight hours into what had become a kind of never-ending fever dream. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I suppose most of these "race report" things start with a bit more reportage under the theory that others want to know what to expect if they do the same race. So, here goes.
THE START
Like most races the JFK has a "mandatory" pre-race meeting. You can skip it. It's located in the high school, which is a good half mile from the start and we didn't go and got through the day just fine. I'm told all they do is explain the rules and logistics and tell you not to litter, which is all stuff you can pick up on the internet before you go.
I liked the actual start (right in front of the old Guns & Ammo Cafe). Unlike a lot of races there was no speech from the mayor, no frustrated fireman/rock star signing the Star Spangled Banner and no wave from Miss Boonsboro Gourd Festival. They just said "Ok, thirty seconds" and then shot the gun.
THE FIRST COUPLE MILES
Probably the second best part of any race is the beginning. There's a jolt of adrenaline and everybody's ready to rock & roll. At the JFK, you start on paved road and, as you run out of Boonsboro, you go up and up and up toward "South Mountain" where you finally go onto the Trail. The incline is steep enough that even though everybody is chomping at the bit to get into the run, most people do a good bit of walking because what you gain in time from running you more than lose in energy and muscle fatigue. This year the weather was almost perfect, for me at least, with the temperature in the thirties at the start. It looked like a lot of people did what I did, which was to wear an outer layer at the beginning which they intend to shed when they meet with their crews at Weaverton, the 16-mile mark.
THE TRAIL
I had one plan for the trail and that was to not break my damn neck. As it turned out, that job required my complete attention. There's a technique to trail running and I have had no occasion to acquire it. I fell four times on the trail (well, actually the fourth time was just off the trail, but I'll get to that). The first time I tripped on a rock. The second time it was a root. The third time, I'm convinced it was a shadow. By then I hated the goddamned place. What I learned is that you can't run a rocky trail and stay upright unless you eyeball the ground like you just lost a contact and prance like a pony. The minute you let your guard down and start to sling your feet in a normal stride you're going to bite a boulder. It also helps to be naturally light on your feet. It seemed to me the women were doing much better than larger men who try to bull through the thing. In a way, it's like dancing and, like dancing, most women are just naturally better at it than most men. In any case, I was lucky and even though I pancaked a few times, I didn't get hurt. I did get vocal by the last time and told the trail exactly what I thought of it, much to the amusement of the people stepping over me. Disappointingly, the trail was unapologetic.
THE TOW PATH
You come down off the trail at Weaverton Clifts and that is just what they are--clifts. You lose about 500 feet on switch-backs that are so steep there's a real risk of pulling a Tour De France type alpine crash. At a few of the hairpin curves there would be a sapling you could grab and do a kind of 170 degree pole dance that would fling you down the next stretch with enough centrifigal force to put you in fear of launching the person in front of you over the edge. The guy behind me lost it at one point and lurched forward, pushing me in the back with both hands. Fortunately, the path was zigging around a big tree at that point which stopped us both from becoming airborne. It was a great relief to finally come down. This is one of the places where your crew can meet you and you can shed any extra clothes and make adjustments. As I hit the nice, soft, flat area, I scanned the crowd for Jim's wife, Joyce, relieved for once that I didn't have to run with laser focus on slippery rocks.
I was feeling pretty cocky at that point and mentally trash-talking the trail for having failed in it's mission to render me crippled. Little did I know that the trail and the tow path work together like two old grifters to hoodwink the unwary. Something, I don't know what, tripped me and I took my fourth and most spectacular header of the day. As I tumbled ass-over-elbows, I heard the crowd go "Aww" and when I completed my barrel roll and through sheer accident came up on my feet moving foward like a Cirque de Soleil clown, I heard someone say "Way to hang in there, man!", which was nice but didn't quite drown out the guy who yelled "Showboat!"
PUNCHIN' THE CLOCK---HAM AND EGGIN'---ANOTHER BITE OF THE APPLE
Once you get started on the tow path it's like being the second dog on a dog-sled team. The scenery ahead of you doesn't change much. For a little over 26 miles what you will see is the Potomac River on your left, a flat, leaf-covered road in front of you, and woods and clifts to your right. It's pretty but it doesn't change. Here's a picture of the Potomac, looking down river. The tow path is not visible but it would be on the left.
That picture is taken from a dam at the end of the tow path where you start the last 8.3 miles on paved roads. It is looking back at the direction from which you have come. This next photo shows what it looks like for great stretches as you run along the tow path with the river to your left.
For four or five hours, that's it. That's what you see. It's pretty but it doesn't change much. There's nothing to do but keep plugging. On this stretch, my strategy was to run ten minutes and walk two. It was monotonous but had the benefit of being simple. No decisions to make, no subtleties to evaluate; just punch the clock. It seemed like the distance remaining to be covered was endless but, on other hand, with each ten minute run a little over a mile went into the bank and the end was that much closer. A couple of thoughts crept into my brain. I'm not zen enough to have a sophisticated, all-purpose, solid-gold mantra but that day a couple of cliches served as sort of one-use, disposable mantras ( at least I hope they're disposable because I got really tired of them going off in my head like a car alarm). One was sort of a mutation of the saying "You eat the elephant one bite at a time." It occured to me that I don't know where they eat elephants but it didn't matter because somehow, whenever the all-too-short two minutes of walking was over, what would repeat in my head was "Time to take another bite of the apple". Of course, after a while I began to argue with myself that I didn't want any more damn apple but I could handle the thought that I just had to take one little bite.
For some odd reason, the other thought that crept unbidden into my brain and wouldn't leave was a golf expression: Ham and Eggin' It. When two golfers team up for a scramble and one is driving well and the other is putting well they say they're Ham and Eggin' It. I found myself involutarily thinking of my ten minute runs and two minute walks as ham and eggs. So there you have it. My deep yoga-like source of spirital strength: food metaphors. I am relieved to report that once I got onto the final eight mile-stretch of road, I snapped out of the hypnotic boredom of the tow path and switched over to thoughts of beverages. I wanted a beer--bad.
ZOMBIES
I can't leave the tow path without first telling about Jim. This should have been his day. I could tell the whole last three weeks before the race that he was ready. Sometimes, if you've trained well, avoided getting sick, and tapered off sufficiently before the race, your feet just seem to spring up off the pavement. You feel good and your anxious to go get 'em. That was Jim. While I was all foreboding and caution at the start, Jim was like a kid at the top of the stairs on Christmas morning. Once we got up the hill to the trail, he was gone. I didn't try to keep up. He's a good trail runner and when you're feeling it, you've just got to let it happen.
We reconnected at the base of the clifts and started on the tow path togather. I suggested it was time to start the 10 and 2's and he looked like a fourth grader who was told it was too rainy to go out for recess. He said we really ought to go for at least 20 since we weren't really tired yet and, against my better judgment, I said ok. For the next 20 minutes I ran along with him thinking we were going too fast but not saying anything because I tend to be a pessimist in the beginning of races and maybe he was right, maybe we could run like crazy people! and get away with it. Shortly before 20 minutes was up, we fell in stride with a young woman who was running well. She and Jim began talking and pulling ahead of me noticably. I let them go figuring that when Jim started walking in just a few more moments I'd catch up and we'd walk our two minutes togather. Didn't happen. Twenty minutes rolled around and Jim was feelin' it. When that happens, you've just go to go with it. I started walking and pretty soon he was out of sight.
By this point we were about 20 miles into the race. I kind of figured I'd catch up with him later, probably at one of the points were Joyce was going to meet us, because he would stop to stock up on the stuff she was bringing and maybe change shirts. So the ham n' egging began. Eventually, I saw Jim up ahead. When I was finishing a ten minute run I would just about catch him. Then I'd start to walk and he'd start to run and he'd pull away. Little by little the gap was closing and, as we approached the crewing station at 27 miles he was only a dozen yards ahead. As I ran up he was standing with his back to me talking to Joyce. When I walked around in front to him this is what I saw:
Needless to say, I was a little taken aback. Jim wasn't wearing his number! No, seriously, the whole left side of his face and entire eye socket was covered in blood and he had an open wound on his temple. I was stunned. I been following close behind him for a long time and I hadn't seen anything happen. It was like he'd been hit by a thrown rock or something. He said that just before he got to Joyce he slipped on the only part of the tow path that wasn't soft dirt. There was a short stone bridge where he must have caught a toe and he fell forward and skidded along the rocky surface. Head wounds bleed a lot and he looked horrible. I was afraid he'd broken the bones around his eye or gotten a concussion, although his eyes were clear, he said he wasn't knocked out, and he was making sense. He said he was going over to the first aid station and he thought he was done for the day but that I should keep going and Joyce would meet me 10 miles up the course, as planned. I took a long look at him and he seemed in contol so I told him to get patched up and I'd see him when he caught up. I took off thinking that he'd either catch me before it was over or they'd discover he was more messed up than we hoped.
When Joyce wasn't there in ten miles, I knew they must be at the hospital because otherwise one or both of them would have been there. I was worried that he'd gotten a concussion after all. A broken eye socket they can fix. A concussion would be another matter. Between the two of us, he's the only one with a brain (lawyer, hospital administrator, math professor) and if he got scrambled who would there be to help me figure out pace times and things like change for a dollar? As the day wore on and my mood got darker I began to imagine all sorts of gruesome outcomes. I had a picture of me pushing Jim along in a wheelchair through the Boston Marathon as his drool cup rattled on his chin and the crowds politely saluted his courageous spirit. (Naturally, this would cause all the women in the crowd to look very favorably on me as the steadfast and loyal friend--who wisely did not deviate from the plan and run off ahead like a crazy man).
THE ENDLESS END
Finally, after 42 miles, you come off the tow path. The last 8.3 miles are on rolling county roads and it's a relief in some ways to have a little variation in the terrain. You are released from the monotony of the tow path but, at the same time, you are forced out of the comfort of the mindless routine of 10s and 2s or whatever pattern you've employed. B.F. Skinner, of Skinner Box fame, said that people don't really like freedom because having to choose creates anxiety. I don't know about that as a universal principle, however, I can tell you this. When you've been running for 7 hours and now you're deciding on a case -by-case basis whether you should run or walk up that hill in front of you, it tests your mettle. I had driven the last 8 miles the day before the race and I thought to myself that on a regular training day I would have run the whole way. I also knew that most people who have done a few JFK's agree that you should walk the first hill that leads up and away from the river for about a quarter mile, and maybe some of the others along the way. The problem is nobody paints on the road "walk this one" or "run this one, you wuss". It's just up to you and how honest you are with yourself. I had no trouble accepting the advice that the first one is a definate walker. Here's a picture of a sign a the top:
That pretty much sums up the first hill. The problem is after that they aren't as long or as steep but still, they're hills and your mind says, "Boy, you know, it really might be a good idea to walk this one because you're really tired and you've still got a long way to go and your quads could give out and you might bonk all of a sudden and not be able to finish at all and wouldn't it be better just to walk it in than to fall over and have to crawl and maybe not finish at all?" But then you start to feel guilty about walking and you start to run again and you find out that even if your body doesn't like it much, it's not refusing to do it and you really can keep running if you just stop whining and keep plugging. So, you suck it up and keep shuffling along and run those little bumps that part of your brain keeps trying to convince you are dangerous peaks.
At this point, about 45 miles, even though my legs felt terrible and my arms and shoulders ached, I was noticing that I could manage a relatively smooth running pace at maybe a little under ten minutes a mile. That won't set any records but at least it's moving. The time was passing awfully slowly, though, and I was ready to be done. The old "one bite of the apple at a time" thought wasn't doing it for me anymore. I wanted whole thing to be over and I wanted it over NOW. My mind kept trying to think of ways to solve the puzzle of how to make it end. There must be some simple way to stop this discomfort. This is where it became like a fever dream that just continuously looped back to the beginning and ran it's fuzzy course over and over. The answer to the puzzle was the same every time: the only way to end this is to keep going. The only way it is going to be over is to run to the end. The problem and the answer were the same: how do you solve this problem of having to keep going? You keep going. I think I got a little nuts.
THE FINISH
Finally, there was a little more than two miles to go. It was clear that no disaster was going to strike and, if I kept working, I had a chance to finish under 9 and a half hours, which, if anybody had offered to me beforehand I would have gladly taken. I knew the course flattens out more and more as you get closer to the end, except for an up-hill finish of a few hundred yards, so I resolved to run the last two miles as briskly as I could. It hurt but it was doable. At about the one mile mark Jim appeared out of the crowd and started to run along beside me. He really didn't look bad at all and he was pretty cheery. He told me that he'd had to go to the hospital to get stitched up (six in all) and that it took forever. He was full of apologies for not meeting me at the aid stations later in the race.
That's Jim, he almost scrambles his brain and he apologizes. He was cheering me on and telling me how well I was doing and how well I was running and, even though I thought at the time how nice it was have a friend to jar me out of the desolated wasteland of my dark ruminations, I just couldn't talk. Just about that time, about a half mile from the end, a guy passed me. My first thought was "I don't care. I'm going as fast as I can and I just want to finish." Then I noticed that the fucker had grey hair. For a few seconds I argued with myself not to be a child and to let him go. That it didn't matter and sprinting now would be stupid and prove nothing and would really hurt. Then the little boy in me said "Fuck it. I do care" and I started after him. It came as a surprise to me that my body responded. It actually liked running in a different manner than it had been for miles and miles. I leaned forward and got up on my toes and my quads quit complaining. As I gathered momentum I felt like I was flying. Throughout my running life, this has happened many times and it's one of my favorite things in the world. Running becomes automatic and effortless. You feel strong and fast. In reality, my pace at that point probably wasn't anything to brag about but the feeling, after all those miles, was ecstasy. I blew by old grey hair (who I later found out wasn't even in my age group so it was all unnecessary--but I'm glad I did it) and looked up just in time to see the finish line photographer pointing his camera at me. I think for the first time all day I smiled 'cause I was feelin' good.
5. "I shed my blood at Antietam." How many Americans alive today, besides me, can say that? Maybe Shirley MacLaine was right, and I had a prior life as a Civil War soldier. Heaven knows, there's not a smidgeon of "flake" in Shirley MacLaine.