Georgia Jewel 50 Miler

“Ma’am, did you know your license is expired?”

The TSA agent looked at me quizzically. Standing in line for airport security, I didn’t know how I was going to get around this to board my flight for Atlanta to race the Georgia Jewel. Fortunately, the agent believed the panicked look on my face that said I actually had no clue and let me pass through. I wondered whether or not he should have, but I didn’t question it. I popped off my shoes and dumped my belongings in the plastic bins as fast as I could in an effort to get on the other side of the checkpoint before he changed his mind.

And so began the weekend of speedbumps. It would be great to say that this race and race weekend went smoothly. It would be great to say that I performed better than expected and had a great finish time. But this little adventure didn’t exactly rise to greatness. It rose about as well as that box of cake mix you find in the back of your pantry from 2017 that you figure, well, at least it will taste good. While I learned a few things and reaffirmed some other things I should have already learned; it was not my best work.

The next speedbump came while waiting for our flight to finish boarding. The flight became delayed as it seemed a family with young children had been permitted to select seats on an exit row. I’m not sure how the computer systems didn’t recognize that a 3-year-old wouldn’t be able to operate the emergency doors but thank goodness the flight attendants did. They of course then had to separate the family, which meant the parents weren’t sitting with one of the children a few rows back. Father was understandably upset. After at least 15 minutes of heavy conversation, clipped words, and passenger shuffling to more appropriate seats, we could take off. By then, we’d missed our spot in the cue for the runway. More waiting.

After that, the flight was fairly uneventful. So was the line for rental car pick up at the Atlanta airport. Speedbump number 3. I stood in that line for over an hour as it crawled along. With the delays so far, I’d be pushing it to get to packet pick-up on time. By the time I had the keys in hand for a Honda Civic, it was after 5:00 p.m. I had at least an hour and a half drive from Atlanta to Dalton and packet pick-up ended at 7:00. I sent a Facebook message to the event page in the hopes they’d wait for me or allow me to pick up my bib in the morning. Not wasting time for a reply, I took off for Dalton. 

I made a brief stop at a gas station halfway there for the bathroom, water, and a snack. Still no reply. Thinking that packet pick up was at the same location as the race start/finish, I showed up at the Dalton Convention Center where, to my dismay, there was no packet pick-up. Speedbump number 4. Some folks standing around told me that it was located a few minutes away at Burr Park downtown. It was now after 7:00. I hopped back in the car and made my way to the park. I would later find out that the location mishap was my error, as I had not read the Runner Handbook as carefully as I thought I had. I arrived at the park where a small concert-in-the-park event was happening. I wandered around the park a little, trying to figure out which tent was the one for race pick-up, if they were still there. By now, it was 7:30. I spotted the race director loading up the trucks with their gear. After offering a profuse apology and waiting for another volunteer to dig the boxes back out of the truck, I was able to get my bib.

You can see where this is going, right? Each of the little speedbumps, while somewhat insignificant in and of themselves, were starting to add up.

I left the park for my next stop at my hotel. Fortunately, that exchange went smoothly. By now it was pushing 8:30. I hadn’t really eaten dinner, and the snacks from the gas station had been enough to stave off hunger, so I didn’t really ‘feel’ like eating at that point. Next on the list was the grocery store. The only thing I packed with me was my Clif-Bloks. All other race day food and fluid would be what I would buy at the store, or what was offered at the aid stations. I was committed to packing VERY small for this trip. Frontier was not getting any extra money for a carry-on. 

I picked up the usuals, bacon for breakfast, some random pastries from the Kroger bakery (that incidentally turned out to be gross, sorry Kroger fans), water and Blue Frost Gatorade. Also in the buggy were applesauce pouches, Twizzlers, Goldfish crackers, and some tasty-looking, over-priced parmesan crisp things. But then I thought, I should at least eat something for dinner, even if it is late. I ended up with some microwaveable Bob Evans macaroni and cheese. Champion fuel, I was sure of it.

By the time I returned to the hotel, it was after 9:00. As I started to prep my drop bag and lay out my gear for the next day, I realized I had forgotten to pick up spare batteries for my headlamp at the store. Speedbump number 5. The irony here is I had set two different alarms in my phone to remind me to pick them up. But since I’d had so many delays, I had to keep snoozing the alarms. I eventually turned them off. And here we are...no extra batteries. 

My lamp did have some batteries in it, but I didn’t know how long they’d been there or how much “juice” they had left in them. I now had a choice to either go back out to the store for batteries, hoping my lamp would last or the aid stations would have spares, or stay and eat food and pack. I opted to stay and eat, hoping that the lamp batteries would last, as well as my phone battery. I might be able to use the flashlight app as a backup.

I woke the next day, caffeinated first, then slathered myself in RunGoo, and finally packed up the last of my gear. My hotel was only 5 minutes, at best, from the race start. I arrived 40 minutes ahead of time anyway. At the rate I was going with timing, earlier would certainly be better. The bacon and pastry breakfast consumption were minimal. I wasn’t very hungry (that’s what happens when you eat late) and the pastries were not as delicious expected. I’m pretty sure I’ve had better tasting school food. Breakfast speedbump. Although the bacon from a box was fine, I ended up taking three bites of the mini-scones and ditching the rest.

At 6:00 a.m. the race began. First, we went down the infamous Mount Baker. I don’t know if it’s actually a “mountain” per se, but the wicked steep, semi-paved and half dirt and full of potholes slope was beastly. Even if you had poles, it didn’t matter much. There was little grip and runners tip-toed their way to the bottom, hoping not to slip and not only fall themselves but take out 5 other runners along the way. Since there were so many of us together, I left my headlamp off. I would need my headlamp for the first few miles, but I hoped to be able to turn it off and conserve battery sooner rather than later.

From here, runners made their way out onto sections of gravel road and then paved road before entering the trail system. It was dark for quite a while so progress was slow, and the first few miles included lots of climbing. Although the temperatures were in the low to mid-seventies, the air was heavy with humidity. My clothing was soaked through by the Powerlines aid station only 3.2 miles in. This would my warmest 50-miler thus far. My legs felt heavy already. 

As the miles ticked by, I had a hard time finding a rhythm to running the trails. In other races, my generally ungraceful self has been able to kinda sorta manage the rocky paths and uneven ground, maintaining somewhat of a steady forward pace. Mountain terrain is not my forte. Not surprising because, well, Florida. 

But this time, I misplaced my feet more times than I could count. My ankles and feet rolled over everything, leaving me off balance frequently. I retied my shoes a little tighter around the midfoot hoping to stabilize my footing. That helped marginally. Truthfully, I don’t have the gear all the cool kids have anyway. I run in road shoes, mostly because my right foot in particular overpronates and I haven’t found (or dared to try) another shoe besides the Brooks Adrenaline for fear of ankle pain. In the two pairs of trail shoes I’ve experimented with, a few weekends of 20-milers make my ankles ache. 

In addition to my substandard trail gear, I am also not a goat. Surprising, I know. Bouncing effortlessly from rock to rock requires a lot of concentration on my part that is not, in fact, part goat. But, more than anything, I didn’t feel like my mind was focused. These speedbumps were costing me time.

Things carried on uneventfully through to the bag drop at the Snake aid station, 18 miles in. Aside from the snags so far, I tried hard to maintain a positive attitude. I encouraged the 100-mile runners who were making their way back to the finish after their long slog through the night. I greeted and stepped aside for the 37-mile runners who began passing me from behind. I made a conscious effort to smile, be friendly to others, and just focus on moving forward. 

It rained lightly during the morning hours which kept the temperatures at bay for a while. The skies remained overcast for most of the day. By the time I hit the turnaround point at mile 25, my legs were definitely feeling the elevation. I ate some quesadillas and some bacon, as I had at the mile 18 aid station, but I worried I was behind in the fueling department. I also knew I should have reapplied lube at this point, but for whatever reason - modesty, stubbornness, laziness - I didn’t. I wasn’t in pain anywhere, so I brushed it off. I should have reapplied BEFORE it would become a problem. A lesson I’ve learned before but didn’t put into practice.

More miles ticked by, and more of the same. I wasn’t focused, I couldn’t find a steady rhythm, and I was always one small step behind in fueling. The course, although lovely in its own way, was repetitive. There were no mountain top vistas to be had, no unique rock outcroppings or grand trees to behold. The paths were fairly technical and challenging, but monotonous all the same. Perhaps it was my mindset at the time that caused me to overlook the beauty that was there. I did well enough on the climbs, so I caught up to a few people ahead of me here and there. I struggled more on the descents where my loose and flexible shoes gave me little stability on the steeper slopes.

Eventually, I made it back to the Stover aid station where there would be just 11 miles to go. Here, I finally reapplied lube in the park bathroom, but it would be a futile effort. The damage was done. My poor form had led to hot spots on my belly where my heavy pack was digging into me. The seam on my shorts on my right thigh now had made a spot resembling that of Jupiter and was starting to swell. The edges of my sports bra were developing some nice lines under my arms. And, well, the “smile” sections on my backside where legs meet derriere were getting to critical stage from the jamboree going on between my skin and the wet, soggy, salty shorts. 

Aside from feeling a bit disheartened at my progress thus far, there was a highlight at this point of the race. One of the kind and attentive volunteers (of which there were so many) inquired about what I needed. I scanned the table as he rattled off some options. I decided to throw caution to the wind and break the rule of nothing new on race day. I was hungry, a bit grouchy, and I still had plenty of time before the cutoff if things went south. I chose to try some dumplings with soy sauce. Aside from freshly fried bacon in a cast iron skillet, those little pockets of joy have been the best thing I’ve ever shoveled into my face at a race. Now, I like dumplings anyway, and probably order some with my Chinese takeout nearly every time I get it. But in that moment, the salty, tart soy sauce hit the spot something fierce. Even better, after I dipped and took my first bite, the volunteer squirted more soy sauce into the other end of the half-eaten dumpling I was holding. Talk about service.

With both renewed energy and spirit, I set off to finish the 11 or so miles that lay before me. There was a bit more climbing and a big descent waiting. The next few miles were uneventful, but the thought of needing my headlamp and the lack of back-up batteries started to creep back into my mind. I had been dragging through this race and was certain I would be finishing in the dark. The chafing issues subsided a bit, although I don’t wonder if that was because my mind was elsewhere. 

I plodded along, leapfrogging with another woman and the pacer she had picked up. He was clearly pushing her to go faster than she wanted to. He asked me if I wanted to tag along with them. I inquired if she had a time goal, and the man said “yeah, to finish”, as if they wouldn’t make the cutoff. We actually had plenty of time at that point, so I wasn’t sure why he was so insistent she pick it up if there was no time goal other than the final cutoff. She was resistant to his ‘coaching’ and largely stayed quiet. After a few miles, I drifted back from them, but we continued to trade places now and again. I was able to catch them on the climbs but then drifted behind in the flatter areas. I decided that while I’d love to salvage a better time for this race, this edgy train wasn’t the one I wanted to get on to get it done.

With about 8 or 9 miles to go, the skies opened up and it began to rain. The rain wasn’t actually the speedbump, here. Often, rain is a welcome relief from high temperatures and at times can break up a boring race. But this rain wasn’t like the light sprinkle from earlier; it was windy, a bit cold, and had some accompanying thunder as well. It was after about a mile or so of these rainy conditions that my tired and weary legs no longer seemed to hurt. That was because my grievous error of not adequately reapplying lube became apparent, and all the spots – and I mean ALL of them – began to sting with a fiery vengeance. My focus of pain had shifted. I’m pretty sure my ass cheeks were on fire. The rain was washing the salt and sweat into all of the raw areas, causing enough misery to make me to stop moving altogether. I tried to move forward again, then stopped, then forward, then stopped. 

After a mile or so of struggling through the discomfort, I decided to make another effort at applying lube. The rain had let up some, so I hoped to make the last-ditch effort work. I had packed a dry cloth in a Ziploc bag along with the tube of Rungoo. Right there on the trail, hoping no others would cruise by before the deed was done, I attempted to reach as many spots as I could, gently drying and then applying the cream. It was not an attractive moment to say the least. Fortunately, no one else but the squirrels saw it. It’s a good thing I already have a husband. If I were trying to attract a mate with this kind of display, I’d be out of luck.

Now, I would need to call on a good mental game to finish the race. The tired legs and rashes weren’t going away, so I needed to put my focus elsewhere. This became easier to do than expected since with all the cloud cover, darkness was beginning to fall sooner rather than later.  Let’s play the How-Long-Can-I-Run-On-The-Rock-Covered-Trail-In-The-Dark-Before-I-Turn-On-My-Headlamp game. This game proved to completely take my mind off of any pain or discomfort. I became hyper focused on every step as the light waned. I was determined to go as long as I could without my headlamp. Other runners had turned theirs on already, but I resisted. 

By now, I had about 5 miles left. At the pace I was moving, slow with a side of slow, I would need my lamp to last at least an hour and a half. I finally gave in to putting a little light on the subject and immediately knew I was in trouble. I clicked it on. My light was dim. I checked my phone battery. Only 20%. Speedbump. The rain had made the phone go off and on in my pack, which I knew, but it wasted too much valuable battery life as iPhone took some lovely photos of my vest pocket’s interior. My backup plan of using my phone as a light was no longer viable. I needed to save that battery for emergency contact purposes. I had to get to that last aid station so at least I’d have a shot at someone, anyone, having batteries.

I picked up the pace as much as I could muster, but terrain, lack of light, and fatigue made forward progress slow. I passed a group of people walking with a runner wrapped in a Mylar blanket, pacers I assumed. They said hello and asked how I was doing. I said that I was okay but worried my lamp wouldn’t make it. A woman who wasn’t running the race brushed off my comment with odd confidence and said I’d be just fine. I wondered how she seemed so sure. I kept her words in my mind and pushed on.

Finally, I reached the last aid station back at Powerlines, about 3 miles from the finish. It was completely dark at this point. My struggling headlamp was giving every last ounce of effort to the cause. The friendly volunteer asked if I needed anything and before I could answer he said, “Batteries?”. He must have observed the faint flicker atop my head. Sheepishly, I admitted to not getting back-up batteries as he plucked the lamp from my visor and started to fiddle with the soaking wet case to remove the weary soldiers. In just a quick minute, the man had replaced the lamp on my head and clicked it on. Eureka!! Let there be light! I didn’t realize how dim my lamp actually was until it was juiced up and ready to go with renewed power.

I grabbed a few soggy potato chips, thanked the volunteers, and set off down the trail once more. Oddly, I felt better, a little energetic and even hopeful. Only a mile or so of trail remained before we hit gravel roads and pavement again. There would be plenty of rock, and with the rain I would enjoy a little mud, before hitting the roads again. Plenty left to climb and descend before the finish was in sight as well. I passed a few 100-milers who were finally in their own home stretch. They were plugging along slowly but in fair spirits. Even in their struggle, they encouraged me to keep going strong. 

With the end nearing, I was able to overtake a runner in the last mile and a half on one of the last climbs. He was walking, so I decided to put a pretend target on his back and make it my mission to get past him. I shuffled up the hill as quickly as I could, which, wasn’t actually quick, but it was quicker than him so YEA! for me. After passing him, I was now in the final half mile where the road flattened a bit before reaching Mount Baker. I was determined to keep that guy behind me.

Arriving at Mount Baker, the ascent looked even more ridiculously steep from the bottom than it did from the top. About halfway up, there were blue and white lights on either side, lining the edges of the road which made it look like a runway. I began the climb but stopped every 15 feet or so to catch my breath. It was like a wicked joke to have this in the final half mile. There was little traction, the grade had to close to 30%, and for most runners your legs were trashed already. I tried to keep my pity party to myself knowing that those 100-mile runners behind me would have make this climb too.

At the top, a small crowd in lawn chairs was waiting and cheering me along. They pointed me in the direction of the finish which was still a few tenths away. I ran across the parking lot, into the road and around a corner, descended into another parking lot, into the chute and across the line. Phew.

I stayed only a few minutes to drink some water and down a slice of cold pizza before limping back to the car to head for the hotel. I was disappointed in myself for not only the slow finish time, but the decisions I made that worked against me. Fifty miles is plenty of time to allow your bad choices to surface and sabotage you. While there are speedbumps that are out of your control in an ultra, such as travel delays, weather, or terrain, all those other speedbumps are the ones you put down on your own – fueling, gear, training, reapplying lube before your butt spontaneously combusts. 

While I likely won’t get too much faster, I suppose that I will get smarter at this over time. Each race is an opportunity to practice better planning and learn how to handle adversity when it jumps out of the rocks to surprise you. So, cheers to 50-miler number five in the books, even if I did get in my own way and make it harder than it needed to be. Don’t worry, mountains of Georgia, I’ll be back soon.