Long Play 33 1/3, Brooksville FL

It must have been intuition that I chose to wear that top for the Long Play 33 1/3 event. Just four weeks after Frozen Falls 50k in Tennessee, I figured I could complete the run since it would be on familiar terrain and with much, much less elevation. This was home turf. This is the kind of stuff we run all the time. In fact, I’ve included a few “stock” photos because I have, indeed, been here before. I can get this done today, I thought. It won’t be easy, but it’s in the bag. Girl, please... Done.

But rent was due. And I had to pay up.

I was on time for bib pick-up race morning, and although a late dinner the night before made me less hungry for breakfast, I unwillingly stuffed some waffles and bacon into my face anyway while in the parking lot waiting to begin. I had plenty of time to gear up, pack the pack, lube the feet and all the other bits, and for all intents and purposes, I was ready to go.

After a brief rundown of the course by the race director, that I mostly ignored while quietly chatting with my trail friend Josh standing near, we were off. My plan was to take it easy, being especially mindful of heat. The last few races I’d done had been during much colder conditions so I knew I should be careful about hydration. The temperatures hadn’t been high enough for me to seriously start working on heat training and tolerance just yet. I had no illusions of PRs and epic paces. I just wanted to get from point A to, well, Point A.

I settled into some nice and easy 12–13-minute paces for the first 8 miles or so. This section of trail has no real elevation and was mostly covered in a blanket of soft pine needles and leaves. There are patches of sugary sand and occasional roots, but compared to my most recent running adventures, it wasn’t too technical at all.

People had been passing me by, chirping one of many standard trail and ultra greetings, “You’re doing great” or “Good job” or “Keep it up” or “Nice work”. I like these greetings. I don’t care if they actually mean it. I don’t care they are passing me. There’s something about the acknowledgement of your existence that means something, an affirmation that you are part of the tribe. I was content to just cruise along at the pace I’d set. The cutoff was 10 hours, so I wasn’t too worried about pace anyway.

And then, the landlord showed up.

We were following the yellow trailblazes along the edge of the Withlacoochee River. Along this section of trail are tall, stately cypress trees. In sections where the trail wove closer to the water and cypress, the ground was firm, with moist dark earth and the knobs and knees of the cypress trees protruding from the ground. In places where the trail snaked away from the cypress and towards the oaks and scrub, the surface became dry, loose, and sandy with a combination of horizontal roots in different thicknesses. There is no elevation here either, but the ground undulates from a combination of tree roots and the chunky earth leftover from the digging of wild hogs.

My right foot caught underneath a stringy root stretching across the trail. The root gave way just a little but held on, sending me falling slowly forward, down into a sunken area of sandy trail onto my knees and hands. The runner 30 yards behind me called out, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, my right calf is cramping a bit, I twisted it but, we’re good!” I hollered back. I got up and somewhat dusted off my sand-powdered hands on my sweaty shorts. It was a useless effort, but I do it anyway. The runner catches up to me and we walk a few yards together before beginning to run again. I find out the runner’s name is Woody. We small talk for a bit and the slight cramp in my calf gently subsides.

As we approach the 10-mile mark, my left knee begins to ache. Although the fall hadn’t been hard or swift, the uneven ground caused both legs to rotate just slightly as I went down. This is also what caused the right calf to cramp as the engaged muscle changed direction in an awkward way.

About this time, my trail buddy Bruce showed up to get in some training miles. His schedule that day hadn’t allowed him to run early with some of our other friends, so he decided at the last minute to intercept me out on the course and put in some miles together. He knows those trails well, so it wasn’t hard to find me. We’d met up at a spot where the paved road intersected the trail. He’d parked his car down the road and ran to where he could catch me at one of the many places where the trail crossed over. I didn’t know for sure that he was coming, so it was a pleasant surprise when he popped up.

By now, the ache in my left knee was growing. The muscles felt tight, unstable even. The 12-13 pace began to drag into 14-15 per mile as I stopped frequently to try and shake the ache away. The dull ache became dull pain, creeping upward into my thigh muscles. Bruce chattered on, trying to make conversation but was ahead of me and likely hadn’t noticed my gait had started to become lopsided. With every few yards, the ache and pain intensified. By mile 13, I began to question whether I would be capable of finishing.

With my concentration focused on the discomfort in my leg, I wasn’t thinking about the other things I needed to be doing. Drinking fluids. Eating food. I was digging myself into a hole. I felt miserable from the pain, heat, and lack of nutrition.

I started to become angry and frustrated. I was hurting, having sabotaged myself with a careless fall and getting behind on fueling. Really? On home trails? Non-technical? I can’t even keep up with my friend who is so far ahead of me he continues to go out of sight around the curves in the trail. So much for his training miles... We’re doing nothing but walking. Shuffling. I fought back the tears that were trying to come forward. What? Now you want to cry about it!?

We weren’t even halfway through the run, and I was starting to feel sure I wasn’t going to make it. It’s hard to say why. The pain wasn’t severe and sharp, but dull, constant, and growing in breadth. If my foot turned or rotated on any uneven ground, it intensified but let up when straightened back out. I have run through far worse pain, but for some reason, I couldn’t shake this. Was it fear that it would get worse? Was I making excuses not to push myself, pretending that this race didn’t “mean” anything since it was here at home instead of far away where I had more riding on completing it? This was the rent being collected. This was me NOT getting away with it this time.

I tried to focus on getting to the 18-mile aid station. Why, I didn’t know. I had a drop bag there, but it was full of the same junk I was carrying with me that I didn’t want to eat or drink anyway. Oh, more of the same. Lovely.

Bruce and I trudged on. Mile 15, mile 16, mile 17… I couldn’t help feeling guilty for ruining his training miles, even though I knew he’d be understanding. It was ‘my’ race but somehow, I felt responsible for ‘his’ miles. I felt like I was a disappointment. I stifled more tears.

Finally, we made it to the aid station. I put on a brave face as we approached. I knew I needed to eat and dug a bread and cheese sandwich out of my drop bag. I replaced bottles of fluid in my pack and drank some ginger ale with ice. We chatted a minute or two with the volunteers, one of which was a familiar face from a previous run, Craig. With food in my belly and a slightly renewed sense of hope, I continued on.

The miles were agonizingly slow. At this point, 19-20-minute miles were becoming standard. Now, I started to think about the cutoff time. There was a real possibility I would be close. I tried to pay more attention to eating and drinking. I had an applesauce and a few chews. I had been thirsty recently and only carried Gatorade with me knowing that I could get plain water at the aid stations. Unfortunately, two of the unmanned aid stations we’d passed that day had run out of water. At the most recent one, a woman who had been near us over the last few miles had run out. When we approached the aid station, the woman runner was between Bruce and I, with him well ahead. Seeing the lid off the cooler I called out, “Is it empty?”

“Yes,” he replied. The runner in front of me slumped, visibly worried. She was only carrying a small handheld of maybe 16 ounces at best. Her handheld was empty. She had no pack. We all stood around the table and stared at the empty cooler. Bruce handed her his Aquafina water bottle, “Here, take this one.” It was the only bottle he had left, but knowing his car was only 3-4 miles from there he offered it to her willingly. The woman hesitated but took it gratefully. She might have gotten into real trouble if she hadn’t.

Just like in previous runs, I placed my next target on getting to the single digit point - the mark that means you have only single digits of running miles left. I put my head down and pushed forward. I grumbled and pouted. I felt like this is exactly what you get when you don’t do the work. It’s what happens when you take the work for granted. It’s the result when you don’t pay attention to what you’re doing. I felt so stuck.

Right about the time the single-digit objective arrived, we were at the paved road where Bruce would be done for the day. He’d mentioned he had another water bottle in his car, and somewhat sheepishly I asked if I could have it knowing he could get another at a convenience store close by. As good friends do, he handed it over without a blink of an eye. I, too, was grateful.

Bruce assured me I could get this thing finished and reminded me I had only single digits left. I said goodbye, crossed the paved road, and picked up the trail on the other side.

My next target, besides counting down the miles, was the final aid station. Once I hit that, there would be just under 5 miles to the finish. If I got to the aid station, there would certainly be no quitting, no giving up. The next four miles saw averages of 19-20 minute paces a piece. My legs, both of them at this point, were aching and fatigued. The left knee still twinged in pain with any unstable step. By far, this run had been one my worst performances ever as far as average pace for these trail conditions. The thought plagued me. I walked, shuffled, walked, shuffled. I kept my head down. Was the problem physical, or was it mostly in my mind?

Eventually, I heard the unmistakable ring of a cowbell. The aid station? I was on a wide service road with a slight incline. I didn’t see anything ahead of me, no people or tents, nothing but trail and forest. As I reach the top of the incline and make a right turn onto another service road, a man with a stout gray and white beard appeared with the bell and welcomes me to the aid station. Cowbell sounds like hope.

I enjoy some ice-water, more iced ginger ale, some conversation, and a few bites of potato chips before heading out on the final stretch. After a few minutes, I remembered my own words to Brandon at Frozen Falls a month ago. “Is it getting any worse?” The answer was no. Game on.

Remarkably, my pace improved somewhat even though my legs felt numb with fatigue and dull ache. I knew what to do here. These feelings were familiar, where frustration turns into focus, and you think of nothing else except getting done. With this tiny bit of renewed determination, I completed the next 3 miles in the 18s, then a mile in the 17s. I pushed on. I made the final approach to the finish, the last 3/4 mile in the 16s for pace. I crossed over the line at 9:37:26 and collected my finisher awards. As I walked to my truck to go home, I couldn’t decide if I was still frustrated or if I was proud I’d made it. It seemed as though I had made the whole thing harder than it needed to be.

Often, I think I lose sight of the bigger accomplishment among the smaller struggles. There are times I don’t see the forest for the trees. Did I just complete 33+ miles on foot in a single day? Sure did. Is that pretty amazing, no matter how fast or slow? Sure is. I am a mere mortal, in fact, running around the woods as a hobby.

Maybe that’s the lesson in this one. Recognize that, while not always perfect or pretty or what you expected and hoped for, there is great value in celebrating the whole. Reflecting on the singular points of a task can give us clarity and direction for how to improve. But when you keep your head down, when you narrow your mind and thoughts to one thing – like a bum knee - you miss the big picture. I let a detail consume me, obscuring the wonderfulness of the task at hand. I couldn’t enjoy any part of it as a result.

I think I paid the rent for now. I’m all caught up with the landlord and the threat of eviction from ultrarunning has been thwarted. I didn’t get away with anything like in the last two races, that’s for certain. There’s power in the process, and it seems that with each run, I learn not only a little more about running, but a little more about me. That’s pretty amazing, too.