Continental Divide Trail 10K

I'm finally getting around to detailing my Saturday trail race experience. I've been speculating as to why I'm so resistant, and my best explanation that I can come up with is the words will never do it justice. Challenging comes to mind. Grueling covers the tale. Paradoxically, beautiful works as a description. Exhilarating, provocative, taxing, stimulating. They are all worthy of using, but still smack of understatement. It's reminiscent of my trip to the Grand Canyon. I was somewhat doubtful that this natural wonder of the world was going to be that spectacular. But it was. I don't dare describe it, though. And I assure you, every picture I took didn't capture the magnificence. It was breathtaking, and dare I say, tear-worthy. Of course, I was 16 and on a high school trip, so you better believe I stuffed back the tears. Who wants to be the chick who cried at the big hole in Arizona?

Or maybe it's been difficult to blog about because I've been unsure about where to begin my tale. Do I start the morning before the race when I walked into Stella's room and found her standing in her crib with a nearly-golfball sized lump under her neck? Do I tell about googling Mumps and finding that it looked a heckuva lot like her face? Do I write about taking her to the doctor and having her tell me that I wasn't so off track with my mumps thought, but it isn't mumps, just a virus that looks like mumps?

Or do I start with going back home from the doctor's office and regoogling mumps and clicking my way into the downward spiral of diagnosis hell to the point that I was convinced that Stella had something unspeakable? Or that I had to be talked off the ledge of not going to the race, because I didn't need to stay home and stare at Stella and wait...for...I don't know what? Not to mention the fact that she is in good hands with Mark, I'll be gone for 24 hours, and I've been looking forward and preparing for this race for quite some time?

Instead, I will start with arriving with my trail pal in Laurel Springs, NC at 6:30pm, just in time to make it to the pre-race pasta dinner. The pre-race pasta dinner at the Laurel Ridge Moravian Camp was similar to walking into the 7th grade dance, friendless, wearing an ill-fitting dress that your mom made for you, everyone else seems to know everyone else, and you're too frightened to talk to the boys. Only this time, you're a grown woman walking in with a friend, wearing your kid's preschool t-shirt, a skirt you made yourself, everyone is wearing a t-shirt from the last trail race marathon championship, and it would seem they all know each other, are best friends, and are, of course, wondering why the heck you are there. Oh, and it's a trail race, not a school dance.

I loaded up my plate with some whole wheat pasta and marinara sauce, and picked a table that had one person sitting at it--a 9 year old. I figured I would at least know how to talk to her. She immediately asked me if I was a lead runner, and would I be "placing" tomorrow? I stuffed my face with pasta and tried not to resent the child.

Here we are at the Pasta dinner. Kay looks well. Beneath my cheezin' grin, I detect a hint of fear on my face.

I don't remember sleeping that night. I know I did, because my alarm went off at 7am. I nervously gobbled my Grape-Nuts, drank too much coffee, and we headed out into the chilly fog to see the men begin their race at 9am. Ladies at 10:15.

At this point I should mention that my nerves, too much coffee, and a heavy blanket of fog made for a shaky 2 mile drive from my mom and dad's cabin to the race site. Just as I rounded the corner to head up to the race parking area, I nearly took out a star runner who was busy doing a half marathon warm-up. (We eventually had a moment to chat with her. Sweet lady. She also placed 4th. Glad I didn't run her over.)

We saw the men begin their race, and begin some warm-up laps around the camp area. The fog lifted, the chill melted, the sun emerged, and the sweat began to bead. I drank water. Jogged about the campground. Visited the potty. Repeat. Over and over and over and over.

Most men were through by 10am. I was feeling relatively well, excited, warm, but not too warm. Very ready to get started. And then I saw it. A guy being carried out of the woods by two volunteers. He was sopping with sweat and the water that the volunteers dumped on him. He was between consciousness, and not. Any shred of confidence I had was kicked right out of me, and suddenly, I was panicked. I'm not ready. I'm too warm. I'm not hydrated. I started to obsess over whether or not to take my water bottle. I obsessed over whether I should eat my Gu. (I decided yes to both. Good idea, too. I needed them.)

Ladies gathered at the start. A guy said some things that I couldn't hear and I was pretty sure it was important information about the course and the orange flags and not getting lost. The gun blasted. Yes! This one had a gun! And we were off.

It began as a breezy through the fields and down a rooty hill and up a rooty hill and up another field-hill, then back into the woods.

Then we were on some tight-squeeze of a trail. Rock on one side. Down a steep mountain on the other. It was sloppy wet. As a woman in front of me said, just as I slipped in the sludge at this spot, It's rained a lot this summer. Apparently.

We ran and hopped down the mossy, slippery rocks. The rocks that I have dreaded since I first laid eyes on this picture when I originally registered for the race. Then we were down the rocks. Phew. Then heading back up the mountain, into the clear fields again. Halfway through.

For some time, I'd been running with two women in front of me, and two behind. Suddenly, the two in front have found a different (read: faster) rhythm, and I have boosted ahead of the two behind me. Suddenly, I am alone.

And running alone for me is not such a problem. As a matter of fact, I love it. Only there IS one problem, when I'm running alone, I get to thinking. About stuff. This, that, and the other. And then being "in a race" seems to escape the forefront of my mind. I'm enjoying myself. The scenery. The smells. The sounds of babbling brooks. Around this time, I spot my trail pal. At that point I realize that she is insanely further along the course than I am. I wave wildly, remember that I'm supposed to be running faster, pick up the pace, especially on the grassy downhill, then I'm back into the woods again. Still alone. And I'm noticing that the orange course markers really are sparse, and I'm wracking my brain for what that guy said at the beginning of the race, wishing I'd heard what he said or asked someone to repeat the information.

But I just ran along, hoping I was heading in the right direction, very doubtful at times. Then a course volunteer would appear out of nowhere to say, go left, go straight, great job, keep going.

So I did. Next thing I knew, I was heading onto Apple Orchard Trail, the path Kay and I had walked the night before. Familiar terrain. Easy downhill. Gotta be close to 5 miles. Feeling great. Elated. Still have more in me. I pick up the pace.

I notice a slight shift in incline. Oh no! We're heading back up again. Remember the rocks? The dreaded mossy, slipping and sliding rocks that I made it down. Well, it's time. Time to go back UP. They want us, expect us, DEMAND that we climb back up these rocks. I am nearly out of steam. I thought about one of Heath and Stella's favorite books, We're Going on a Bear Hunt.

Rocks. Slippery, slimy rocks. You can't go over them. You can't go under them. You're going to have to climb those suckers no matter how much your body is ready to stop now.

There was no "running" up those rocks--if anyone did run them, my hat is totally off to you. I used my entire body. At the top, a cameraman was perched, clicking away. Oh, good, I remember saying aloud. He laughed. I can only hope the shots he got were "decent," after all, I was scaling rock in a skirt.

I am met at the top by another cameraman, my trail pal. She is grinning, she is cheering, she is finished. (She placed 10th overall. I've mentioned her speediness, have I not?) I know I am so, so, so close to the end. Seeing Kay, being moments from the finish, I start to cry a little, completely overcome with emotion. But that's weird. I can't be the girl who cries when she's almost finished with a race. So I try to stuff it, which only makes it worse.

I pick back up running, hyperventilating as I am trying desperately to not cry. I stop a second. Think about Stella and how she says, I did it! when she accomplishes something like buckling her own car seat or clicking two Legos together. Last deep breath taken, I leap across the finish.

I did it! The Continental Divide Trail 10K, conquered. And I'll never be able to explain how much I loved this race and why. Turns out, I am that girl who cries when I finish running.

Oh well, I also enjoyed the fact that I got a bit muddy. Hopefully that balances my universe, which is very, very good.