Bell Ringer 50k - Burns, Tennessee

I picked up a copy of the Magnolia Journal a few weeks ago at the grocery store. I’m not sure why exactly, as I hadn’t purchased a real magazine in years. I generally enjoy elements of the growing Chip and Joanna Gaines empire, but I’m not exactly a superfan. The magazine lay on a trunk in my front living area since then, unread, and untouched. As I shoved the last few charging cords in my backpack for the trip to Tennessee, I decided to toss in the magazine thinking I might read it on the plane.

The issue’s theme was presence. Sometimes ‘presence’ can get you in trouble. I’m often busted for not responding to texts in a timely manner because I’m so busy being present for something else. Friends or family will say, “But I texted you 3 hours ago! Two days ago! Last year!” Whoops.

I try to give my complete attention to the person I’m talking to or with, or to the task at hand. Even the dogs are included. Like, um, what were you saying? I was throwing the ball for Willie.

Sometimes I’ll see a message pop up on my phone or watch, and if I’m in the middle of something else, I’ll often just say meh, I’ll get to it later. Being present was the opposite of daily life for a long time. When I was teaching, multitasking was a scientific art form. You were managing dozens of tasks, those unpredictable creatures called children, a lesson content’s accuracy and delivery, the clock, the environment (too hot? too cold? what’s that smell?!?), the interruptions, the paperwork… You could not wholly focus on one thing at a time, give all your attention to one task or to one student. At the end of the day when I stepped out of the classroom, being present meant not having to multitask. Not having to be stretched thin. Not feeling divided. I like to be present.

Presence would be required to complete this run.

The Bell Ringer 50k, Burns, Tennessee at Montgomery Bell State Park would be my first “race” since May 2022. My attempt to get back on the training wagon had been mostly unsuccessful. Training runs went out the window more times than I can count. Weekly mileage was low. But the travel was booked and paid for, so I was stepping up to the line on race day regardless of my lack of race preparation. I was, however, prepared for a slow pace. I was prepared for this one to dole out some hurtin’. I was prepared to accept a DNF.

On a whim, I’d mentioned to my mother about a month before that I was taking this trip, and jokingly invited her to join me. She did. I didn’t know she was coming until just a few days before. It was a nice surprise. At least if I failed, my biggest fan would be there to provide comfort and aid in my recovery. Recovery sessions that would include red wine and red velvet cake, of course.

 Race day was on the cold side with a forecast for light rain later on. We showed up with plenty of time, having scouted the venue the day before when picking up my bib and other race goodies. The race went off promptly at 7:00 a.m. My plan was to take it easy on pace and stay out of the rushing excitement of the first few miles. I wanted to conserve energy, not knowing if I was going to have enough to make it to the end.

 The first two miles or so were on pavement. We left the lodge and ran the road a bit, turning off onto the golf cart paths and then onto gravel road. I felt like I was going deliberately slow, but my pace for those first two miles was 11:39 and 11:55. It was a bit faster than I thought I should be. To stay ahead of the 9.5-hour final cutoff, I needed to average around a 17:00 to be safe. While normally I might be disappointed at that pace being my target when my usual would be a few minutes faster, I had no lofty ideas that I was capable of anything more. I only wanted to finish the run before the cutoff. The early, quicker pace didn’t last long once we left the gravel road and I eased into 14:00-15:00 for the next 7-8 miles. My plan was to stay as present as possible. Focus on the now. Run the mile you’re in.

 Initially, the climbs and descents had seemed manageable, and the roots and rocks were either minimal or average as compared to previous races. That would change. I could tell that the lack of training was about to surface, too. Fueling and hydration were going well, but after leaving the halfway point aid station the heaviness started to set in. The trails became more riddled with roots which made running with tired and unprepared legs more challenging. The course was visually repetitive, no sweeping vistas or stunning falls to be had, nothing to take my mind away from my imagined impending doom. Doubt was knocking on the door.

 Now was when I needed to call upon being present. If I was going to finish, I needed to stay in the moment I was in. I had to resist the urge to drag up the past few months and think about the work I hadn’t done. I couldn’t think about the longer races I had done before, or the terrain I had tackled before, or anything that was from before. None of that mattered right now. I couldn’t think about what was ahead, either. It was too big, too daunting, too uncertain. I couldn’t think about how many hours I had left. I couldn’t think about how many total miles I was trying to complete.

 I’d already chunked the first half of the race into two parts. First, get to 7.5 miles. That was halfway to half. Then, the target was the halfway point at 15.5 miles with the larger aid station and drop bags.

 After leaving the halfway aid station, I set my target on 21 miles. That distance meant that every step afterwards was less than 10 miles to go. That’s single digits – 9 and change. Single digits always seemed easier. But my pace started slowing even more – now into 17:00, 18:00, and even a mile at 20:00.

 Finally, 21 miles completed arrived. I stopped to get food from my pack and give myself a pep talk. It’s less than 10. You can do 10. You can always do 10. 10 is easy. I told myself not to look at my watch until it beeped at the end of each mile. I tried to focus my attention on the trail underneath my feet. I didn’t look behind or ahead. There was no one there anyway.

 Beep. Okay, 9 miles to go, that’s 8 and change. Pace is picking back up, back down into the 16:00s.

Beep. 8 miles to go. That’s 23 complete. That’s the longest you’ve covered since May, are you sure you can do this? I shake off the thought.

Beep. 7 miles to go. You should eat.

Beep. 6 miles to go. You’ve got 2.5 hours left. You’re okay, you won’t run out of time.

Beep. 5 miles to go. That’s the distance you failed two weeks ago when you tried that trail marathon and dropped at 30k instead. I take a deep breath and will the negative thoughts away.

Beep. 4 miles to go. Pay attention, you just tripped. Don’t ruin your chances by falling.

Just when I could feel confidence nudging its way up from the dark, trying to squeak through and make a triumphant comeback, the pink flags that mark the course disappeared. I had just crossed a small creek. A pink flag had been at the water’s edge before the crossing but none on the other side. I paused but decided to go on. At the time, it appeared obvious that I was to cross the creek and continue. A few more tenths and I crossed the creek again. No flags here either, but similar to the last crossing, it appeared that this was the only path. A few more tenths and yet another creek crossing. Still no flags. I looked around and decided to follow the only trail I saw on the other side of the water. From here, the trail began to climb.

 Memories of missing flags and making wrong turns in previous races began to creep in. I tried to remember how far I’d gone since the last flag. Since the last crossing, I’d been trudging up gnarly, toe-kicking root-covered trail for some time. Had it been a half mile? A mile? I could hear road noise above me. I stopped and pulled up the GPS map on my phone to see that my location wasn’t far from the main road. If I’d made a wrong turn, or missed the course markings, it would put me behind when I backtracked. If I decided to go back down the hill only to find I was correct to have climbed up, then I would have to climb it again, doubling the wasted time and pushing me close to cutoff. I wasn’t sure if the trail would cross the busy road, but I decided to continue for 2-3 more minutes knowing that if the trail did cross, there would be flags there.

I continued up the trail. My eyes scanned the edges of the trail for fallen flags or dropped trash from other runners - anything that would signal I was on the right path. After another tenth or so, the trail began to wind to the left. A pink flag. I exhaled an enormous breath and my pace quickened again. I didn’t miss it. I could make it.

Beep. 3 miles to go. 5k left. 5ks all day. You’re on track. You didn’t mess up. Keep going.

Beep. 2 miles to go. I started to feel some certainty. The self-confidence that had been silenced before pushes through. The final aid station should appear with a mile to go.

Beep. 1 mile to go.

I descended a rocky slope towards the aid station. I could see the volunteers milling around. Progress down the hill was slow as my knees and quads ached from the day’s effort. At the base of the hill, a man walked to the edge of the trail to greet me. He asked if I needed anything and told me that the finish was 0.8 from there. With a smile, I declined his offer and thanked him for being there. This was happening.

The adrenaline of anticipating the finish quieted the soreness in my body. A short climb followed the final aid station. In some ways, a sense of relief settled in. Barring a wrong turn of epic proportion, which frankly wouldn’t have been all that surprising based on my history, I would finish this run.

With just a few tenths to go, I passed below a home on a hill where a man cheered me on. He warned me of the impending stairs ahead that I would need to climb to return to the finish at the lodge. Stairs? Pffh. Sturdy stone stairs were a welcome sight after miles of my wobbling over the uneven terrain.

After the stairs, I entered the parking lot and followed – yep, those glorious pink flags – up towards the finish. My mom stood at the top of the final hill and waved. It was evident by the massive crowd of maybe FIVE that I was clearly at the very, very back of the pack. I had pretty much known my position all along, but the emptiness of the finish area was a prickly reminder that this run had been a struggle. A reminder that I had not done the work I should have done.

I crossed the line and accepted my finisher award.

 When the race was over, I continued my efforts to stay present. I didn’t dwell on the day or lament the training past. Mom and I enjoyed some food, wine, and conversation that evening. We live a few states away from each other, and the chance to spend the short time together was a gift. I even got an invitation from strangers to join around the campfire that night and they welcomed me like an old friend. The hosts of the home where we stayed had invited friends over to celebrate the season. I chatted with some lovely people that, even though I can’t remember all their names, made me feel as though I belonged there. Yet another unexpected and pleasant surprise.

In the end, I’m still proud of my determination, grit, and ability to stay present to complete the task I took on. I also know that I can – and will – do better. It does seem to hold true that the best presents are often simply the gifts of presence.