Cayuga Trails 50-miler

At mile 19, I realized my pants were on inside out. 

The cool part was that it didn’t really matter that my pants were on inside out, except for the fact that I couldn’t use the zippered pockets on each side, which is how I discovered my blunder in the first place. The pants looked and functioned the same otherwise. I was trying to unzip a pocket to put an empty cinnamon applesauce pouch away and couldn’t find the pull when the discovery occurred. Hmm. Clearly, a step was missed in the pre-race routine. Guess I’d just be holding on to this empty pouch just a wee bit longer…

To rewind a little… I signed up for the Cayuga Trails 50-miler last year in 2020, but, as we all know, Covid was and still is a self-centered punk who wants the whole world to revolve endlessly around him. Races and parks were closed from sea to shining sea. The 2020 Cayuga Trails races were postponed to July, but I couldn’t make the new date. The race organization, understanding and generous as they are, refunded the entire race entry fee to anyone who couldn’t attend. Sweet. When 2021 arrived, I signed up for the race again. The 2020 race would have been my first 50-miler, but now in 2021 it would be my fourth attempt at the distance.

As with most racing events, there are often many things you can’t actually control. As evidenced by my inability to put my pants on correctly at 4:30 a.m., it seems I was in control of much less than I thought. Steady rain had been falling in the area for a day or two and so the previously bone-dry trails would now, well, not be, and the previously warm temperatures would, well, not be that either. Cold rain greeted us all at the race start along with mud, mud that would only get worse as the day wore on.

The race wasn’t allowing pacers or crew due to permitting and Covid (see?? Covid is so selfish!!). My mom had flown up to New York from North Carolina to meet me so we could spend some time together after the race. We planned to hit up some wineries, sip, sip, sip, and eat food for the next few days. That was the extent of our itinerary. Greatest recovery plan EVER.

The plan on race day was for Mom to drop me off at the start with my two drop bags and then come back a little while before I finished. My husband at home would track me with Garmin and text my progress to her throughout the day so she’d know when to return. When we arrived at Robert H. Treman State Park, we parked along the edge of a single-width (roughly), dirt access road just a tenth of a mile or so from the starting area. Daylight was just breaking, a light rain was falling, and the course was getting progressively more slippery with mud. Within seconds of parking the car, other vehicles parked both in front and behind our rental car. We wondered if Mom would be able to wiggle the muddy Elantra out of line in order to leave.

All the usual pre-race rituals of a visit to the porta-potties, the packing of the pack, and the shoving of some bacon into my face were completed and we were off. I was in Wave 1, the slow wave, which started at 6:00 a.m. The final race cutoff was 9:00 p.m., 15 hours later.

Now, if you’ve been following along on my running journey, you know a few things about me:

1.     I live in flat, oh-so-flat Florida. We can find some elevation but it’s not much and it sure isn’t terribly technical in most places. Today’s run was NOT going to look like Florida.

2.     I’m not very fast. On any terrain. On most days.

3.     I don’t take myself too seriously with training or recovery. I am not a slave to the watch or the calendar,  and firmly believe that wine and potato chips make a perfectly acceptable dinner. 

4.     I sign up for races that are on the edge of what I am capable of, and for most intents and purposes could be considered “out of my league.” I like to see if what looks impossible for someone like me is actually possible. I want to improve myself, to see if I can do more, if I can do bigger or better. It’s kinda like when Apple Maps shows me the estimated time of arrival, I say, “Challenge accepted.”

I knew this run was going to challenge me. I ran a tough 50-miler 11 weeks ago, beating the final cutoff by a mere 1 minute 52 seconds, and another one 8 weeks ago, beating the cutoff by about 12 minutes. Two 50s back-to-back certainly wasn’t the brightest decision I’ve ever made. My training plan in between those races and this one was derailed by everything under the sun. I had no idea whether I had done enough or had done too much. I was sleep-deprived between having a few late nights the week before the race and a very early flight the day before. I wasn’t going to make excuses for why I couldn’t race. It may or may not turn out the way I hope for, but it could also go better than expected. Or, it could be a disaster. Or, it could be a DNF. Regardless, I signed up for it, I committed to it, so I was doing it.

The first few miles of the race became exciting pretty quickly, and once my sleepy legs warmed up the soggy conditions were manageable. I’ve run in the cold, in the rain, and in the cold rain before, so I wasn’t too worried or unnerved by it. Besides, unlike my pants, the weather was out of my control. It was my job to control my response to the weather. I could handle this. It didn’t take long for the splendor of the course to show itself and for the climbs to begin. Just over a mile and a half into the race, the first beautiful waterfalls appeared. For a native of the Sunshine State, even with all its own beauty and uniqueness, I couldn’t help the tiny grin spreading across my face to see these wonders of the north. It was part of why I signed up for this race in the first place. Lucifer Falls, the first big one, had many runners stopping to snap a quick picture.

The miles began to tick by. We climbed stone and concrete stairs, and then some more stairs, and some more stairs. I marveled at the waterfalls, the bright green everything against the greys of the stone staircases. I smiled at the moss that grew around the edges of the stairs and stone walls. Moss is friendly, you know. It’s soft and fuzzy. It hugs the surfaces it grows on and softens the sharp edges. Moss says, “Hey buddy, I got you. I’m gonna stay riiigghhht here, don’t you worry.”  

Another reason I chose this race was because I thought it would be thrilling to run alongside the rushing water (Enfield Creek) with no barrier between you and impending death. I mean, seriously, you could just fall off the edge and ploof, there you go, down the waterfall. Race over. The element of morbid danger makes these endeavors just a wee bit more exciting. I was mindful to be careful on the slick surfaces of the stone pathways and steps. I’m not always confident that I can be sure-footed, so I took my time in these sections. Others were able to quick step right through, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I’m still learning to trust my own feet and be better balanced on more difficult terrain.

The race consisted of two repeats of three smaller loops. The first two loops added up to about 10 miles, hitting the first aid station about halfway through. I’d packed Clif Bloks, Tailwind, Gatorade and applesauce in my pack for the first 10-mile stretch and felt good about my intake so far. The climbs and elevation were becoming evident in my legs already, but I tried not to let any doubtful thoughts creep into my mind. I tried to keep positive thoughts at the front: I have done this before; I can do this again. 

Somewhere during the first 10 miles, we passed back through a section of trail a second time (there were a few spots we double backed on). The first time through, the trail was clear. Not 30 minutes later on the return trip, we encountered a downed tree. I turned back to the runners behind me and asked, “This wasn’t there before, right?” They agreed. Yikes.

At the 10-mile mark we arrived back at the start/finish area, called Y Camp, where the drop bags were located. To my surprise, Mom was still there. It seems that the car was tucked in just a little too tight for her to leave. She was in it for the long haul today. I swapped out some bottles and repacked snacks. I quickly built a bread and cheese sandwich and I was off again. The next loop, the last of the first “repeat” was about 15 miles long and would wind through Buttermilk State Park. After completing that, runners return to the start/finish aid station. Along the 15-mile loop you find the last aid station and get to pass it twice. One of the best things about this event were the frequent aid stations. Nearly every 5 miles, you hit one. That meant runners got to carry less. Less muling, more running.

About a mile and a half after leaving Y Camp at the start/finish, you make the largest and deepest water crossing at Cayuga Inlet. There were several other shallow crossings in the race, but those were only shoe depth. I imagine that on a warmer year, this Cayuga Inlet water crossing feels amazing, refreshing, just what a trail runner needs to perk up and carry on. But at that moment, I was already chilled and wet from the rain. Water crossings in training or races isn’t much of a big deal, we do that sort of thing all the time back home. But this one would be chilly, and I had no idea how deep it would get. I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the possibility of a polar bear plunge. As I approached the water’s edge, another runner was finishing his crossing ahead of me. I watched carefully for clues to the conditions as he suddenly went from mid-calf depth to waist-deep at the bank before his exit. Oh, well now, that’s just spectacular. My turn.

The water was zipping along at a steady rate. I stepped in slowly, making sure to have a steady footing in the mid-calf water before moving forward. Yowsa! That’s coooollldd. I took a few quick steps in an effort to make the crossing go a bit quicker. But the speed of the water and the sudden change to a shallower depth in the middle of the crossing caused me to trip and fall forward. I put my hands out to catch myself on the smooth rocks. It was really almost a face-plant but I’m just going to pretend it was an epic stunt move of some sort. So graceful. Such cat-like reflexes. Yeah…not, so much. I stood back up and continued across. The shallow center of the crossing began to slope downward again as I approached the bank. As I moved forward, another runner had begun his crossing behind me. He was eager to pass, splashing up past me on my left and falling down into the same hole the previous runner had. Guess I’l stay to the right. My choice of route proved a success and the water depth remained just above my knees.

After exiting the water, I continued down the trail. My leg muscles, which previously had some warmth to them 5 minutes ago, were now stiff and cold. It felt like the warm up period was starting over. From here the trail remained flat for a little while. Throughout the course there were flat sections that should have been easier running. There weren’t even rocks or roots in some of them! Eureka! But the rain had other plans, and these would-be easier sections were becoming muddier and more slippery by the minute. The more rain that fell, combined with the more feet that passed through, the more the conditions of the trail deteriorated.

The rain continued through most of this first round of loops. My mile paces ranged anywhere between 12:22 and 21:08. I had stopped frequently to take pictures during the first round or repeat, which is unusual for me. I often take a handful of pictures on the run, but this time I made it a point to stop. I told myself that it was worth the it to remember the views, to take it all in and not hurry through a place I may never get back to. Not knowing what lie ahead in the race, I felt it was worth the extra time. I tried to keep from worrying about being slammed against cutoffs like the last mountainous race I completed.

At about 15 miles in, I hit the Upper Buttermilk aid station for the first time on the loop. Upon arrival, the clouds parted, the angels sang, unicorns pranced in the flowered fields and the heavens shone down upon the most glorious sight for runners to behold: BACON. The aid station was stocked with all manner of wonderful things and the volunteers greeted us with smiles and cheerful encouragement. I, however, zeroed in on the most important thing on the table. I picked up a piece of the crispy bounty and tossed it in my mouth. Good. Night. I told the young man at the skillet that this bacon, this right here, THIS was expert level. I told him that I was a married woman but that bacon was making me question my life choices. It was that good. I stuffed in a few more pieces and grabbed some strawberries. I gave the bacon-skillet god strict instructions to save some for my return in a few miles, and I was off again.

There were more steps and stairs with soggy and slick conditions. Refueled with delicious treats, I felt a small surge of energy and tried to keep my pace moving. We were now coming into the amazing views of Buttermilk Falls. Both parks remained open to visitors during the race. At times it was a little tricky to run around people who were near the waterfalls. I slowed several times during the second repeat of this loop because there were children standing alone on the steps, well out of arm’s reach of their caregivers, and I felt concerned that me moving more swiftly by would startle them.

The lack of barriers between me and the rushing water kept my mind squarely focused on foot placement in the slick conditions. The grin I had when I first saw Lucifer Falls returned as we descended down and around Buttermilk Falls. I felt grateful to have the opportunity to be in this place and to have the ability to see it all on foot.

After descending and rounding the pools at the base of the falls, the climb back up the other side began. We would cover another few miles before returning to the Buttermilk aid station, where the bacon-skillet god would of course be waiting with my treasure. As I approached the aid station, now at about 20 miles in, a woman who had been there the last time blurted out, “There’s no more bacon! I’m so sorry, I figured had to tell you quickly and just get it over with!” We shared a laugh, appreciating her efforts to just rip the Band-Aid off. But deep in my bacon-loving soul, I was disappointed. I thought we had an understanding. I thought I had communicated my wishes clearly and effectively. I was almost crushed. Fortunately, there were now yummy cheese quesadillas and that would work out just fine. I crammed three of them in my face before waving adieu to the aid station volunteers and snatching one more quesadilla for the trail.

It would be another 4 and a half miles or so back to the Y Camp aid station. This section included wonderfully flat but extremely muddy, wet sections of trail. There were wood planks in places to help you traverse some of the mud, but everything in between was deep enough to not only cover your shoes but suck the backs of your shoes off as well. I was slightly frustrated here. I knew the elevation of the race would be hard for me, for certain. But I also knew there would be these flatter sections and I thought I would be able to make up time. I couldn’t. My road shoes, although new, had little grip in the slippery, grey mud. Every time I tried to pick up my pace I’d step off-balance just enough and start to banana-peel. I have trail shoes but if I wear them longer than 15-20 miles then my ankles hurt for days (I overpronate). I often wear my road shoes instead and in most cases I can handle the terrain with them fairly well. It wasn’t workin’ out for me on this day.

I made it back through the water crossing at Cayuga Inlet (it was still cold, in case you were wondering) and arrived at the Y Camp aid station in under 7 hours. Mom was still there, chatting up a few others that had been lingering in the pavilion as well. I realized that since she was stuck, she probably hadn’t eaten anything. We didn’t plan on her staying so we hadn't brought any food or drink for her. As I repacked my fuel, I knew I wouldn't be using all of what I had left so I let Mom know she could get some too. By now, the rain had mostly stopped. I was halfway done and felt decent, capable of continuing although my knees were a bit achy from the extra pounding of the stone and concrete stairs, as well as a short road section.

I left Y Camp and started the repeat of the course. By now, those completing the shorter distances were finishing up and the trail had fewer runners. Since the rain had let up, however, there were now more visitors on the trails to avoid. As time wore on, the elevation, the wet cold, and the distance were starting to wear on me. I posted five 20-minute miles in this 10-mile section. I was still under the cutoffs as I checked in at the first aid station and then again back again at Y Camp. I didn’t feel like I’d hit the wall, but I was definitely slowing up. In my rush to get in and out of the aid station at Y Camp to begin the last 15-mile section, I forgot to grab my last bread and cheese sandwich. Within a mile or so, I was hungry. I still had Clif Bloks, applesauce, Little Bites muffins, and a stash of strawberry Twizzlers, but I worried it wasn't going to be enough.

I again crossed Cayuga Inlet without taking a swan dive into the chilly water. By now, after the majority of the field had already passed through, those should-be-easier flat trails were even worse. Water was now draining out of the adjacent brush and grass onto the trails, creating more puddles and more mud. I had 5 hours to get the last 15 miles done and I felt fairly confident I could do that, even with the climbs ahead. But this mud? I wasn’t skilled enough to get through it quickly and I knew it. And so, I marched and trudged and slopped through the boggy sections the best I could.

Somewhere along the way, the sweeper appeared. I had been leap-frogging and chatting with several guys over the last few miles but hadn’t been keeping track of how far back in the pack I really was. When the sweeper came up to me, picking up the pink flags as if he were picking flowers, I did my best not to be disheartened. Here I was…Florida girl, out of her element on this flippin’ mountain that I chose to be on, trying to get this difficult thing done, and I am yet again dragging at the end just like my last big mountain race. I forced some smiles, made small talk with the sweeper and the few other runners, and tried my best not to feel like a failure. When arriving at the final Buttermilk aid station, I celebrated my DFL status loudly, hands in the air and cheering myself on, as if it were a prize to be had. There wasn’t much left for food aside from fruit and some brownie bites. I was again hungry, but none of these things were what I needed or wanted. I grabbed two brownie bites anyway and set off for the last 4 and a half miles back to the finish.

By now, the grey cloud cover that had been hanging over us all day was making sunset come faster than it should. Daylight was dwindling, fast. I had packed my headlamp just in case, and from the looks of things at mile 45, I was going to need it. From the final aid station, I knew I would have a few tough climbs and descents left, but the last 2 miles or so would be close to flat. I was still under the cutoff but was hoping to not push it to the final minutes like I did 11 weeks before. I slogged back through the section with the wooden boards, waded back through Cayuga Inlet, and with my lamp in hand, began the final mile and a half, a nearly flat and dry stretch back to the finish.

And then I took a wrong turn.

With only a half mile to go, the end-of-race adrenaline now moving me at a better 16-minute pace, I turned off the trail at a road crossing and mistakenly descended nearly a half mile down a steep gravel hill. I was two-thirds of the way down before it started to register in my mind that there were no pink flags and that the end of the race was supposed to be flat. As I reached the bottom of the hill, I arrived at a campground area I’d never seen before. RVs, campers, tents, campfires, people milling about just before the dark blue sky would turn black - and it was all wrong. I spoke out loud to myself. “This is wrong, its not right, it’s not right! Where are the flags? There are no flags. This isn't it. Oh s!*t…I have to go back.” I turned around and faced the hill. There was no other choice but to go back up to try and retrace my steps and find my mistake.

I started off again, running up the hill with what energy I had left. With a tenth or so to go before the top of the hill I began to walk. I pointed my light up the road and scanned for pink flags. There they were. In the encroaching darkness, I’d only seen the two that were on the road itself, leading up onto the trail. I hadn’t seen the others just a few feet up on the trail because I had been too far away to spot them with my lamp in the dimming light. I had been so focused on finishing that I simply wasn’t paying close enough attention. Unlike the weather, following the pink flags was in my control, but I’d messed it up.

Now back on the trail, the urgency to finish was renewed. I didn't know how much time I had wasted on my “bonus mile” so thoughts of missing the final cutoff crept into my mind. Fortunately, this section of trail was dry so I was able to move quickly again, back on a 16-minute pace. Soon I could hear the voices and the sound of the generator whirring in Y Camp getting louder and louder as I ran. Finally, I emerged from the woods and crossed the line at 14:42:12. The few people who were left gave a cheer and clapped. The photographer snapped a few photos. It was done.

Mom had gathered up my things and picked up some swag in the form of an extra shirt and bag. She’d grabbed some post-race food, now cold, and had it waiting. But I had no 50-mile medal to show for my efforts. It seems that somewhere during the course of the day, the medals for 50-milers had run out. Mom had picked up one that said marathon and saved it for me, but, it just wasn’t the same. I shrugged off my disappointment and focused on getting warm and getting back to where we were staying.

This race gave me loads of mixed feelings after it was done. I felt lots of things at once. I felt proud of tackling another race with elevation, the most I’d ever done. I was proud of hitting that 50-mile distance again. It’s still new for me. Aside from shivering after the finish from the damp and cold, I felt okay physically, just the familiar soreness and fatigue like in other races. No injuries, no blisters, no chafing. I didn’t fall, trip, or kick my toes into anything like I usually do. Hydration was good, fueling was almost as good. These were all good things. But then I also felt frustrated. I was again finishing near last. There were brief moments I felt slow and inadequate as others zoomed past me on the trails. I failed miserably on the flat sections. Why do I not have the right shoes? Why do I not train more for climbing like I know I should? How did I miss the trail flags that were so obvious and make that wrong turn? How the heck did I not notice my pants were on inside out UNTIL MILE 19?!?

In the end, this event and experience were wonderful. I felt grateful to have had the opportunity, ability, and support from others to participate. The course was gorgeous, and if given the chance, I’d do it again, with the mud, rain, and all. I will continue to work on the things I can control in an effort to improve myself as a runner. Maybe I’ll start with learning how to put on my pants…

**Mom helped me follow my recovery plan perfectly.