DNF - Lookout Mountain 50

It’s not his fault.

I hope that Joey from Boca knows that taking a wrong turn and having the dope behind you (i.e., me) following blindly along is, indeed, not his fault. Nor is it his fault that the dope behind me blindly following me making a wrong turn is also, in fact, not his fault. 

I finally earned my first DNF. 

Now, let’s be real. That Did-Not-Finish stings a bit. After some reflection, and a lonely three glasses of wine with my steak dinner at the bar of Logan’s Roadhouse after the run, I can narrow down my failure to three solid things: poor fueling, an early-race difficult descent and climb, and a wrong turn. All of these things were, mostly, within my control.

I know that the technical and mountainous runs I continue to attempt are in many ways out of my league. I often feel like an imposter out there. A novice, slow, Florida ultra-runner should probably “stay in her lane” as they say. But I keep signing up, just to see how far I can go.  Somehow, I seem to come in clutch. I find just enough strength, push, umph, and grit to get to the finish line before the time is up. I do take a little pride from seeing one ‘Florida’ runner listed in the Ultra Signup Results. But this time, I wasn’t going to get away with it.

The Lookout Mountain 50-miler was sure to be a challenge, not just because of the course itself but - as the theme has been the last few months - I’m a bit of a mess. My training plans have not held up, work has been extremely stressful, and maintaining a home life hasn’t been a walk in the park either. I run out of time to do all the things. Even when I do have time, I’ve often run out of energy, either physical, emotional, or both.

The day before a long break is not usually a day you can take off as a schoolteacher. Sometimes you can, but in a district with currently over 400 instructional vacancies and very few substitutes to go around, I needed to be at work that day before the run. I care about my students and I wasn’t about to leave them to the wolves on an already crazy day of the year.

So, I worked all day Friday and left immediately from there to head to the airport. I had two hours before my flight left. I made it on time, even with some traffic, and breezed through security and on to my gate. My 4:30 flight took off on time and I arrived in Atlanta just before 6:00 p.m. Thirty minutes in the rental car line and then out by 7:00 for the two-hour drive towards Chattanooga. I stopped along the way to pick up a spicy Chik-Fil-A sandwich at 8:00 p.m and arrived at the Super 8 just after 9:00 p.m. Checked-in, dropped the backpack in the room, and off to the Walmart Neighborhood Market to pick up breakfast food and dinner for the following night, with the assumption I’d need to eat in the room since it would be late. Back to the motel, prep bottles, clothes, drop bags, and the like, and finally put my head on a pillow at 10:30 p.m. 

It’d been a long, long day.

Although it was chilly and raining at race start, those conditions didn’t worry me too much. I’d dealt with that before. The only part of weather that concerned me would be later that night. The forecast called for more rain and a drop in temperature, and with this late 7:30 a.m. start time, I would absolutely be spending a few hours in the dark in wet and muddy conditions. I was proud of myself, though, I DID remember to get fresh batteries for my headlamp, unlike how I forgot at the Georgia Jewel

Once we got going, I warmed up quickly. After a mile in, I was already thinking that I had definitely overdressed. Earlier in the week the forecast called for lower temperatures with rain. I had on pants and a new, warmer jacket I’d recently purchased. But, although it was raining, it was only about 62 degrees and would surely warm up at some point. The jacket was already off by the two-mile mark.

The race had begun up on Lookout Mountain at the Covenant College Campus. There was some initial climbing, then descent, then a few ups and downs as we snaked around on the edge of the mountain. The view from the rocky trail was beautiful. The low clouds hung over the valley, the midnight blue mountains peeking up from below. I didn’t stop for pictures too often on this run. The wet and slippery conditions had me focused tightly on my footing. Well, falling off the side of the mountain kinda had me focused, too, so, there’s that. There were many beautiful and amazing views to be had throughout the run, but most exist only in my mind instead of in my phone. I couldn’t afford any unnecessary stops.

Somewhere around mile 6 or 7, we began the descent down the mountain. There were a few short climbs here and there, but the overall trend was downward for about 4 miles. It was a little early to start toasting the legs on steep descents, but here we were. We would eventually spend a few easier, flatter miles before the inevitable climb back up. So far, I’d been maintaining an average pace between 13:00-14:00 minutes per mile. I knew this was a bit slow. This race had tighter cutoffs than any I’d done before. I was also feeling hungry, which isn’t a good sign early on. The one aid station I’d passed so far had only PB&J, water, and Tailwind. Nothing else that I could see. I had packed snacks with me as usual, but I did not put bread and cheese sandwiches in my drop bags at mile 18 and 33 like I have before. I was hoping to eat the aid station fare as advertised:

“Aid stations will be well equipped with Tailwind (electrolyte replacement drink), nuts, dried fruit, granola and almond butter bars, various sandwiches and possibly other snack foods. Additionally, hot soup, potatoes, fig bars and hot chocolate will be available at aid stations from mile 18 and beyond.”

I think I saw the words “well-equipped” and falsely assumed all the usual goodies I’ve seen at other races might be there as well. Not so much. When you actually feel hungry, it’s already too late. You are behind in calorie intake. I had not prepared properly. I just hoped that the next aid station would have more to choose from.

At about mile 14, the ascent began. On this day, this climb was tough for me. I don’t know if it was the climb itself, the lack of fuel, the long descent right before, or the cumulative fatigue of life, but it felt like I was just dragging myself upwards. The next three miles would see paces of 24:39, 18:31, and 18:03. Not. Good. 

The trail leveled out a bit and the ups and downs were then smaller and more manageable. There were places throughout the run that were far less technical and, if you actually had any energy, would have been nicely runnable. Eventually, I made it back to the start line and the 18-mile aid station. The 18-mile runners would be finishing up and the 50-mile runners would continue on. I had arrived with 40 minutes before the cutoff for this aid station. That sounds like a lot, but it’s not. I knew that from my experience at Belmonte back in March. I needed to get out of there.

I scanned this aid station table for something that looked appetizing. More granola, peanut butter, an almost empty jar of gross, bumpy, witch-finger-looking gherkin pickles… nothing looked good to me. The nice man standing there asked me what he could get for me and I said, “Well if you could scrounge up some bacon, that’d be great!” He told me he thought there might be some over at the finish line food table and offered to go look. I declined and said I’d check it out myself after I got some things from my drop bag. I replaced some bottles, grabbed a few more snacks from my bag, and went over to the table. Tacos. Only tacos. While the tacos looked fine, I wasn’t ready for a full meal. I headed off down the trail nibbling on crackers from my pack. Later, I would wonder if I had missed grilled cheese or soup at that aid station. Had I been just too hungry and not looking carefully? Not thinking?

The next short section was relatively flat with fewer roots and rocks. It should have been a gift and a place to catch up time. It wasn’t. I put out a measly 15:41 mile and then slowed even more as I wound my way along a trail next to a tiny creek. The narrow, tiny trail next to the tiny creek was full of tiny ups and downs, roots and slippery mud. From here the trail dumped out onto a wide, muddy clay trail under some power lines, and then back into the woods. I continued to feel hungry and sluggish, and aside from one mile at a 15:13 pace, the rest were above 17:00. I knew things were going south and time was a real issue. I had not even made it to the halfway point and was feeling beat. If I didn’t pick it up soon, I would have no chance to make those final cutoffs.

I eventually made it to the mile 26 aid station. To my delight, there was ramen. It wasn’t too chilly anymore, but I needed food. Real food. There was, unfortunately, more of the same, limited selection as before. All that granola and those bars with nuts and nut-based proteins do not sit well for me when I run. I had my bottle refilled, took a small cup of ramen to go, and started walking. Within a few minutes, I felt remarkably better. I had a boost of energy and was able to pick up my pace a little. I was still in the 15s, but it was better than the 17s and 18s I’d been slogging through a little while earlier. It wouldn’t last. Another hard climb after mile 27, including knotted ropes to scale your way up some rocks, and that tiny bit of energy was gone. 

By this time, I’d been leap-frogging with two other runners off and on for a few miles. Joey from Boca, and Skip from Lexington. Somewhere near mile 28, we pop out of the woods onto a gravel road with a single lane bridge to the left and a dozen flags directing us to the right down the wide road. It’s flat here so we pick up the pace a bit to take advantage of the easier terrain. After only 20 seconds or so, I see a cool waterfall to the left. Being the Floridians that we are, both Joey and I stop to take pictures. I went on ahead and after a minute or so Joey passes me again. He’s now ahead of me maybe a tenth of a mile or so, and Skip behind me about the same. We had just finished a hefty little climb, passed by a lovely waterfall and were on top of a wide bluff with a great view out across a valley. I saw Joey make a right off of the bluff and head slightly down onto another trail. By the time I caught up to the point where he turned, I decided to stop and swap out bottles at some benches surrounding a fire pit. I changed the bottles and grabbed an applesauce pouch before turning and heading down the trail where Joey had gone, leaving the wide bluff trail behind. 

Just a few minutes down the trail I start to think… this doesn’t look right. My Spidey-sense was telling me that this trail was 1 - too easy; 2 – there are no flags; and 3 – we just climbed up, why are we already heading back down? I stopped and looked around. It felt like the wrong turn I took at Cayuga Trails back in May. Maybe 15 seconds later, Skip shows up behind me. I call out as he approaches, “Do you think this is the right way?” He says he doesn’t know; he was mostly just following me. We converse a few seconds as we walk slowly onward. Then, we see Joey coming back up the trail. I call out the same to him, “Do you think this is the right way?” We all walk toward one another and repeat the conversation. We agree that there hadn’t been any flags since we turned off the bluff, but that wasn’t surprising as the course hadn’t exactly been all that well marked in some areas. There had been times where you might go a half mile or more on a trail and see nothing.

We decide to continue on for a little while longer before making a decision to head back. The leaves on the wide trail did look flattened out as if others had been there. Before long, we see a line of half a dozen flags going across the trail we are on, as if blocking it. We think, oh, we must have taken the wrong trail, but we found the course again, so, we’ll just pick up here. Another runner was on the marked trail and looked at us strangely. We kind of wave and say, “Oh, wrong turn!” and hop back onto the trail where the other runner had just come from. Off we go for another almost two miles. We pop out of the forest onto a familiar looking gravel road. With a single-lane bridge to the left. 

I say to Joey, “We’ve been here before.” 

He says, “No… I, I think it might be different?” 

I say, “Yes… we’ve been here before. The bridge, the road, and if we keep walking there will be…” We look to our left. “…a waterfall.” We look at the waterfall, look at each other, and instantly know we have a big problem. Skip catches up to us and we acknowledge that we have been here before. We attempt to sort out why. About this same time, two runners walk up to us and we start chatting with them. Turns out, they’re the sweepers. My heart sinks. If they’ve caught up to us, we are definitely in trouble.

After talking with the sweepers, we realize that we should have stayed on the bluff, went straight ahead, and continued climbing. I can’t remember seeing flags at the point where I stopped to exchange my bottles and where Joey had turned off. I didn’t even look. I just followed. It didn’t help that the flags were yellow, and all the leaves on the ground were, well, brown and YELLOW. Not only was I not looking like I should have been, nothing caught my eye either.

Now, we had a decision to make. The sweepers were honest and told us it would be tough to finish on time at this point as they knew the difficulties that lie ahead on the course. They said it was possible but… we could either head back to the mile 26 aid station now only 2ish miles away, the “easy way”, or we could try to make the next one 4 or 5 miles away before the cutoff, the “hard way”. We all quietly stared at one another, unsure of what to do. I finally clap my hands together and say, “Well, I’ve never DNF’d and I’ve never quit, but I’ll take a DNF over a quit any day.” I turn away and head off on the bluff trail at least determined to try. I didn’t look back to see if the other two followed or not.

At some point, I must have slowed for something and Joey passed me again. I don’t see him until a few miles later on the trail, but he disappears from sight. I didn’t know if Skip had followed until I saw him later at the aid station where we had to drop out. 

Between the moment I set off from the sweepers to the moment I arrived at my last aid station at mile 33, I had lots of mixed feelings. First, I was tired and hungry. The fueling errors – mine to own – had clearly impacted not only my physical ability but my mental focus as well. I was also ticked about the wrong turn. I wasn’t mad at Joey for making a wrong turn, I was mad at myself. It’s my own responsibility to pay attention. Even though a little better course marking would have been helpful, I also should have listened to my gut when I felt like we were on the wrong trail. It would have only been a quarter mile or so hike back up the trail to retrace our steps. Is it possible, even likely, that we still wouldn’t have made the final cutoffs? Yes. But we wasted at least 25-35 minutes on the extra mileage and subsequent standing around talking about the problem.

I arrived at the mile 33 aid station, a horse barn with a table inside holding soup and grilled cheese wedges. Joey was already in the barn. A woman approached and asked if I was one of the runners who had gotten lost, she wanted to know more about what happened. I explained what I could remember about the intersection. I told her that I just didn’t remember seeing the two lonely flags across the incorrect trail the first time I went through and had just followed another runner. There was a lone flag on the bluff down the road a bit, but I never saw it the first time either. Standing here in front of this horse barn, I still hadn’t stopped my Garmin yet. There was something about hitting stop that made a DNF real. A man that was there kindly told me my race was done, that I had missed the cutoff by 35 minutes. I stopped the watch. I hit save. I took a deep breath. I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t upset. I didn’t cry. I was disappointed, of course, but there was nothing left to do.

Another aid station volunteer asked if there was anything he could get for me, I joked about losing or something and said, “I think I should celebrate with a beer for my DNF?!?” He laughed and said he thought he had some in a cooler. He ran off and brings back some IPA thing. I accept, pop it open, and exchange a few words with another lady about my wrong turn before heading inside the barn. Joey was sitting on a bench, back against the wall but slumped over, head down. I walked over to him with beer in hand and reached out to fist bump. He looked up with a most forlorn expression, perhaps even a bit misty-eyed, and half-heartedly bumped back. I said something about how we tried but the course was hard, etc. He looked away and pulled down his hat. I chatted with another volunteer, who was busy prepping Tailwind, about race goals I had for the future, the other races I have lined up, and at some point, Joey got up and left. I could see him outside on his phone for a bit, but then he was out of sight. He never returned to the barn.

Skip showed up a few minutes later. He almost seemed glad his race was over. He snacked on a Kit-Kat from his drop bag and we chatted a bit. The race folks told us that one lady had space in her truck for Joey and I and would take us back to the start, and another guy had space in his truck for Skip along with 2 other runners that had returned to this aid station after missing the cutoff for 38 miles. As I got into the truck to leave, I asked the woman who was driving where Joey had gone. She hesitated a moment and said that he wasn’t “ready” to leave yet. I wasn’t sure what that meant. She walked away for a few moments to pick up or do something, and when she returned, I asked again if we were waiting for him. She said no, he would catch a ride later. Suddenly, I wished I had said more in the barn. 

It was a 10-minute ride, at best, back to the start. When we arrived, I picked up my drop bag, put on a dry sweater and grabbed a taco from the finish line table before heading back to the motel.

In the end, I didn’t learn anything new about myself or about running. I know the mistakes I made, the things before and during the run that I could have done to perform better and possibly finish. What I did get was a big reminder to do the things I know to do. You can’t always just hope for the best and get by. At some point, it will all catch up to you. I have completed 102 official races, with a few unofficial, since my first half marathon in 2014, with distances ranging from 1 mile to 50 miles, on roads, on beaches, in swamps, and on mountains. This DNF will neither define nor discourage me. This DNF just reminds me that I need to get to work.

I know it’s widely quoted, and there are many other kernels of wisdom within the speech in its entirety, but this quote is printed on the back of a race shirt from the HIllsborough Marathon I did a few years ago. Following this DNF, I think it applies:

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

-Theodore Roosevelt

I know very little about those other two runners I spent a brief amount of time with on Lookout Mountain. There are runs and races where you might spend hours with the same pack of people. You exchange stories and race ideas. You pass the time, the trials and tribulations of these endeavors with one another only to finish the race and never see them again. You might even gain a Facebook friend or two. I know that Joey is tall, wears all black including his backpack, is from Boca, Florida, knows that when we do hills here it’s called “bridges”, and when complimenting the other runners as we pass, he likes to call everyone “brotha.” I know Skip doesn’t like beer all that much, wears glasses, is also tall, has a yellow rain jacket, and was going to ask for a late check-out from his hotel on Sunday. That’s about it. Although our interactions were brief, and you can’t call us friends in any real capacity, I hope that Joey from Boca carries no guilt for making that wrong turn. It’s not your fault I didn’t finish this run. I didn’t get to say that loud enough in the barn, and I wish that I did. 

Keep your head up, brotha, we’ll get it next time.