Belmonte 50 Miler

Jumanji. That’s what I wanted to yell when I got to the top of each climb. You know in the new version of the movie where Dwayne Johnson’s character is riding a motorcycle up the mountain in the final scene to end the game – yeah, it felt like that. Now of course, I am a Florida flatlander, so anything with any sizable elevation would feel much larger for me than it would for all the mountain goats from Virginia and Pennsylvania that competed in this race. I don’t exactly possess those sorts of talents. When Liam Neeson says, “But what I do have are a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career, skills that make me a nightmare for people like you,” that would not be me. The mountain probably just looked at little ol’ me and smirked, as if saying, “Okay, honey, we’ll go ahead and let you try.”

I was worried about this race not just because of the elevation and terrain, but because of the cutoffs. On the website and in all the updates leading up to race day, they kept saying “strict cutoffs” and “you must be to the aid station” and “strict” and “strict” and “strict”. I can assure you, they weren’t playin’.  If you were not in AND out of the aid station before the cutoff, down to the second, you were out of the race. Period. Meeting cutoffs would be my fight during the last half of the race.

There were lots of worries left behind at home, a fiasco getting the rental vehicle at the airport, not enough to eat and a crappy night’s sleep the day before. But those kinds of things are generally par for the course. We can hope to prepare and plan so that everything will be just perfect going in, but it rarely turns out that way. In any case, I was anxious both the day before and the morning of the race. I’m not usually anxious, but this time I definitely was.

The race went off about 5:30 a.m. and we spent the first two miles on the paved Blue Ridge Parkway before diving into the trail. The first part of the single-track trail descends approximately 500 feet down to White Rock Creek, the first of several water crossings. This section was filled with plenty of roots, some rock, and for added thrill, still somewhat in the dark. After crossing the creek, you begin the first ascent. The first aid station, and later a cutoff checkpoint, was at mile 4.8 at Slacks Overlook. This section rises about 1,300 feet in all to the 7-mile mark. In this first climb, the grade of the trail varies from 2% to 21%. 

So far, the trails were as expected. Brief sections of alternating leaf and pine straw, plenty of roots, sections with a few rocks and sections with a lot of rocks; terrain I have seen before on some 50ks. I wasn’t too caught up in time or pace just yet. I was drinking fluids consistently and nibbling at Clif-Bloks. I knew the biggest climbs were yet to come. 

After that, the first big descent with the steepest portion of the whole race arrived. At one point, the grade shifts to 31%. Can my ankles actually bend that far? And if I trip, how far do you think I’ll tumble? Is it too early for the mountain to draw first blood? Here, the trail again alternated between some smoother sections and technical rocky sections during the downhill. I found it difficult and slow at times because the leaves made it slippery. I was grateful that we did not have rain and there was no longer snow or ice on the trail as it had been weeks earlier.

From here, the course wound through a valley with several more stream crossings. The first two (after White Rock Creek) we were able to tip-toe across without getting our feet wet, but on the next two, you were all in. If you weren’t awake before that, you were now. I’m fairly certain you could have kept your groceries at food-safe temperatures in there. I was feeling pretty good in this section as much of it was nearly flat. Flat being a very relative term here. I was able to pick up the speed and clocked in 11:27 and 11:01 paces but still had rocks, roots, tree branches, and sneaky rocks hidden under leaves to contend with.

The flat section rolled on into the second aid station, Turkey Pen. Here I had placed my first drop bag, which I would hit on the way back as well. I restocked my fluids and food, checked in, ditched my jacket, and headed onward. The next aid station, Kennedy, was 3 miles up the mixed paved and gravel road. I didn’t remember that this next one was the first official cutoff station. If I had, I might have asked my time. If I had, I might have felt a greater sense of urgency to get moving. If I had, I might have known that I was far closer to the cutoff than I realized. In my mind, I had until 12:30 p.m. to hit the turnaround at 26.2 miles. In reality, I only had until 12:00 p.m.

The paved and gravel road begins the longest overall climb of the race. The first 3 miles are on the road leading up to the Kennedy aid station, then the next 3 are on trails. Once you hit the trail, you’ve got 1,400 feet to climb with grades varying up to 16% and full of rocks. This is the Jumanji part. It was like the Kennedy aid station was whispering, “When you see me, begin the climb.” On the bright side, once you made the climb, you spent a bit of time along the top of the ridge on Jeep trails that - although undulating, full of puddles and more rocks - was flatter that what you’d just come from.

At this point, I still felt like I was okay to hit the cutoff at mile 26.2. In my feeble attempts to do the math in my head, if the cutoff was 12:30 p.m. then at this point I would have 30 minutes or so extra once I got there. On the way down from the ridge, you get 1,200 feet of rocky Jeep trail. Rocks, of all shapes and sizes, pretty much cover 96% of the surface. I got brave here, thinking that I might pick up my pace and be more goat-like on the way down. I’m not very nimble. I usually take a more conservative approach on rocky terrain so that I don’t fall. I don’t trust that I can do it. After this brazen downhill pass, I felt proud of my efforts. I was in good shape and had added another 10 minutes or so of cushion. So I thought.

When I arrived at the Stony Run 26.2 aid station, my husband was there holding my drop bag. Before I was even close, he yelled that I only had two minutes. What? What do you mean two minutes?!? This is when I found out that the cutoff was 12:00 p.m. I had to be in and out of there in two minutes. No time to chat, no time to change shoes, no time for anything. I dumped my empty bottles on the ground, grabbed new ones from the drop bag and headed back out. I didn’t think I was going to make the next cutoff. My husband yelled after me that I needed to make the next aid station by 2:30 p.m., 9 miles away. Two and a half hours, nine miles. Flat terrain? No problem. Rocky Jeep trail and a steep rocky descent on the other side? Close to impossible.

With a new and now strong sense of urgency, I pushed back up the mountain. Several people were coming down after me. I couldn’t tell them they were too late. Later on, my husband told me that they literally counted down the last 10 seconds for a guy after me at that aid station. There were very few behind me at this point. Throughout the race, I remember watching people pass me who were tall and had long strides. As I made my way back up the Jeep trail, I thought about how their one stride was nearly equal to two of mine. I was disheartened. I felt like I was working really hard, but it was likely that my hardest wasn’t going to be enough today. That maybe I was out of my league here, for many reasons. I was sure I wouldn’t make the next cutoff.

 At the top of the ridge, I took advantage of the flatter Jeep trails and kept pushing. Maybe I could make up time on the downhill somehow. I kept an eye on my watch, both time and distance left. If I could make the next cutoff, then at least I could say I completed an ultra-distance today, even if it wasn’t the full race. When I hit the descent back down, the self-talk began. You can do this. You can make it. Focus. Get there. Don’t fall. Please don’t fall.

I made the 3-mile descent in under 39 minutes, dropping over 1,000 feet. I was moving as fast as I dared. I arrived back at the Kennedy aid station with 10 minutes to spare. I bent over to catch my breath and was informed by the aid station workers that I now had 9 minutes. They were not kidding. I asked how far and how long to the next cutoff. I had 3 miles to go and about 40 minutes; I had to be there by 3:10 p.m. So, you’re telling me that after 35 miles I have to pull the next three miles at a mid-12:00 pace? Good grief.

Fortunately, those 3 miles were on pavement so that was helpful. I again dropped my empty bottles, grabbed one new one and set off. There were others on this section as well. Not all of them made it to the next aid station.

I arrived back at the Turkey Pen aid station with about 5 minutes left. Same as before, dump, reload, out. I also grabbed a bag of chips off the aid station table. I had been trying to eat when I could: Clif-Bloks, bread and cheese sandwiches, and fruit strips. But I often found it difficult because I was breathing so hard on those climbs that I couldn’t eat and breathe simultaneously. Then I’d hit the downhill and couldn’t focus on not face-planting AND eating. It was definitely a calorie-deficient day.

The next section was going to be the most challenging. I needed to get back to Slacks Overlook by 6:00 p.m. and needed to cover 8 miles to get there. Although it seemed like that would be ample time, it would include that really steep section from earlier, too. Coming out of Turkey Pen, we were back on the more level terrain. I nibbled at my chips off and on, being careful not to put too much in me at once. The other runners around me, although few, were also walking. I remember thinking to myself that we should be running here. It’s flat. But it seemed as though everyone was feeling the exhaustion just as I was. I thought for sure there was no way I could make that huge incline and get there on time. And even if I did, did I want to attempt the last section? Would I have the energy to make the last 4.8 miles from the aid station to the finish? In the dark?

I shuffled through the flat section. Walk, shuffle, walk, shuffle. Back through all four creeks, not even trying to tip toe across a single rock. By now, the back-of-the-pack pack had been leap-frogging each other for some time. The half-dozen or so of us exchanged encouragement and friendly words along the way. Also, just behind us, were the sweepers. We were the end of the line. 

Just behind me, one runner had been following for some time. Once we reached the steep ascent, we started to make the climb together and chatted off and on. It was a slow, slow trudge. My slowest mile was here, at over a 26-minute pace. This other guy seemed to think we would make it to the cutoff, but I wasn’t convinced. At one point, he went ahead of me because I stopped to take an extra breath and rest my legs for a minute. I caught back up to him and followed. Once we’d reached the top of the ridge and began descending, he said again he thought we could make it. We picked up the pace. He checked his watch. I checked my watch. The sense of urgency was renewed. 

I don’t know where either of us found the energy after that slog of a climb, but we were on a mission to make it. The Slacks Overlook aid station finally came into view. On the final stretch to the aid station, we came up behind two other runners who were walking. The guy I was running with called out, “You’ve got only 5 minutes to get up there!”. The other two picked up their pace and so did we. We arrived in the aid station with 4 minutes until the cutoff at 6:00 p.m.

As before, we were in and out as quickly as possible. We had to make 4.8 miles before the race cutoff at 7:30 p.m. and we would lose light in less than half that time. We descended back down to White Rock Creek during the last minutes of daylight. After crossing, there were four of us runners and one sweeper. We still had a bit over 3 miles to go before the finish. Although my new trail friend was ahead of me, he didn’t have his headlamp. Mine lit the way from behind him as we climbed the 500 feet back up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Once we reached the road, there were only two miles left. We had 40 minutes to make the distance. It seemed doable, but our legs were tired and even though this was now pavement, it certainly wasn’t flat. My husband met us in the car on the road and drove alongside, lighting the way. 

By now another sweeper had joined us. The runner that was last in our final four went ahead and eventually out of sight around a bend in the road. Three of us carried on for a few more minutes until the other one behind me went on ahead as well. And now, we were two.

I decided in my mind that my new trail friend and I should finish together. I thought I might have had just a little more in the tank to go faster, but it didn’t seem right to leave him behind. I wasn’t sure what he had left and whether I could prompt him to get moving any quicker. We walked as fast as we could, did some shuffle-running for a bit and walked some more. As we rounded the final curve and saw the entrance to the finish, I said, “Let’s finish this together.” He said, “Oh good, thank you.” As we stepped off the pavement, I grabbed his hand in mine and we made the last tenth of a mile to the finish. We passed through with arms raised. He called out his bib number, and then I called mine. We had a minute and change to spare before the final 14-hour cutoff.

There were a few pictures, medals, t-shirts and thank-yous. There was a flurry of activity among the race crew and volunteers as they packed up. I hugged my new trail friend, hopped in the warm car, and headed back to the hotel. My husband had picked up a Subway sandwich and Diet Coke for me to munch along the way. I was hungry, and grateful.

Although I earned my first DFL (Dead-F***ing-Last), and finished 73rd out of 91 starters, I am proud of my effort. I was the only Florida runner among a field of nearly all locals from Virginia and nearby Pennsylvania. I know that attempting a race like this was a real longshot. Of course, I can go reflect upon all the things I could have done differently, what and how I need to train for the future, but that’s not the most important part of any of this. The important part is that I stepped out, way out, of my comfort zone. I went to the edge of what I thought I was capable of. Because you don’t know what you’re capable of, until you go for it.