MMT 2014 Report: Looking Forward to 2015
By
Ed Walsh
MMT
2014 for the Walshes got off to a less-than auspicious beginning. My daughter,
Laura, who had offered to help my son Michael as my “crew” became ill on
Thursday, just before we left for Caroline Furnace, and had to bow out. My wife
Sandy picked me up at work in Arlington around 11:30 Friday and we jumped on
I-66. Within a few minutes, we heard the
reports of the shutdown ahead but, not knowing any other way to get to Front
Royal, hoped for the best. We got the worst: two hours-plus of gridlock, which added
to the mix of excitement and tension we both were feeling.
Finally getting to Front Royal, we turned
onto U.S. 678 into Fort Valley and almost immediately saw the thundering rapids
of Passage Creek; at one scary point, the water was washing up over the road. I
drove through as carefully as I could, with local folks in pickups pushing me
from behind. The water was spectacular the rest of the way—as all the MMT runners
and staff recall.
On arriving at Caroline Furnace we followed
directions into the parking area—but our heavy minivan, loaded with camping
gear, the six gallons of veggie chili Sandy had prepared for the Gap Creek aid
station, along with pots, pans, and other aid-station gear, became stuck in the
quagmire. I tried backing out, then
inching forward, the tires spinning futilely, and I only sank deeper until the
van wouldn’t budge. Fortunately, three or four runners, passing by, put their
shoulders to the back of the van and extricated me, and I pulled slowly forward
and parked, the van coated in Fort Valley mud. A nerve-racking start.
Luckily, things then calmed down and I signed
in, picked up my shirt, and met Tom Corris and Dave Woll from Lake Ridge, and we
chatted with the growing crowd of runners.
With the sun shining beautifully, everyone was in high spirits, although
the starting area still felt like a giant sponge underfoot. Fortunately also, Michael cruised in, his GPS
guiding him down from Philadelphia right to the camp. After listening to the
pre-race briefing and getting some dinner we headed for the camping area, set
up our tents, and turned in. Because of the wet grounds, the start was moved to
the campground, which worked out nicely for the campers.
Awakening at 3:00 AM, I was surprised that I
had slept soundly and comfortably. Within minutes the entire camp was awake,
with headlamps blazing in every direction. The weather was cool but comfortable
for a short-sleeve teeshirt. More or less promptly at 4:00 AM we were off, the
crowd of friends and well-wishers fading into the darkness behind us as we
headed up Morland Gap Road. Very quickly we were reminded that it would be a
wet day, as we slogged through a cold six-inch-deep stream across the road.
That woke everyone up!
Turning onto the orange-blazed Massanutten
trail we were very quickly in the mud, but then, climbing Short Mountain single
file, everyone was full of energy and excitement. On top, we ran briskly, happy
to see daybreak. Headlamps came off and we watched a spectacular sunrise over
the peaks to the east—forest-covered, silent, majestic.
I got to Edinburg just before 7:00 AM, when I
had told Sandy and Michael, somewhat optimistically, I expected to arrive. I
felt strong after the long downhill to the aid station; I think they were a bit
relieved to see me get there that soon.
I grabbed some diced potatoes and cherries and guzzled some Gatorade (carrying
just water in my Camelbak), and headed up Waonaze Mountain, slowing to a hike,
like almost everyone else. With the
climb behind us, the stretch on to Woodstock is relatively level and
invigorating—Gary Knipling and Paul Crickard passed me effortlessly, as they
always do. The run to Powell’s Fort started as easy and dry, and I leapfrogged
with Chuck Wilson, who was easy to see ahead through the trees in his blazing
bright orange shirt.
The orange trail then turned downhill and
had us again tapdancing through the mud until we reached the dirt road to the
Powell’s Fort aid station. After Powell’s the trail was soggy through to the
turn onto the blue-blazed Tuscarora trail, always a long slow climb—for me—but
we recoup on the fast four-mile stretch down to Elizabeth Furnace. Sandy and
Michael had been there for a couple of hours, since I couldn’t project with any
accuracy when I’d arrive. I was very happy to see them, and they were again
relieved to see I was still upright. It
was about 1 PM.
They sat me down and helped me change shoes,
socks, and shirt, which helped me feel much better. I could feel a blister
rising on my inner right ankle, probably from the irritation of the mud rubbing
against it. Tom Corris stopped by with some words of encouragement, as he
always does. “You’re looking good,” he said.
The sun was warm and lovely as I headed to
Shawl Gap. That was a tough stretch—I recalled doing it during the training run
in February—but then it was at the start, not after 33 miles of running. The climb took something out of me, but the
downhill into Shawl, though swampy, was fast and easy. Sandy and Michael again
met me, but I didn’t stay long, after grabbing a delicious bean burrito from
the aid station team. The three-mile road run to Veach Gap was monotonous, but
you get there. The field had stretched out considerably, and a few runners trucked
on past me, which never bothers me.
I
enjoyed some watermelon at Veach then moved up the trail, a long, slow uphill
slog until it turns very steep. I passed one runner, who had been well ahead of
me, sitting and resting, discouraged by the relentless climbing--although we
both knew the toughest climbing was still ahead. At the top, I chugged along at lower speed. I
felt OK, but knew I had lost something as I was edging close to 45 miles, more
than I had ever run on any section of the course. On a level stretch Dave Woll
sped by me, looking very strong. We encouraged each other, and he handed me an
energy bar and barreled on ahead, out of sight within minutes.
My legs still felt strong, but I was feeling
tired. I wondered whether I had gone out too fast that morning—maybe getting to
Edinburg before seven was not a good sign. My stomach felt a bit queasy, but I
didn’t have anything else to eat—although I had no appetite for food and didn’t
want anything, I wondered whether I had taken in enough calories at Veach to
get through this stretch. Finally I turned down the purple-blazed Indian Grave
trail with its steep, tricky, waterlogged downgrade, where the trail was in stretches
an open running stream. I’m not a graceful runner and my legs felt stiff as I
tried to stay out of the deepest spots, but still often felt my shoe sink
ankle-deep, causing me to stumble and grab at tree branches for balance. I
whispered a few Hail Marys, which always helps. I’ve run this trail twice and
it’s usually a fast sprint to Indian Grave, but I couldn’t muster much speed.
It was getting cooler and dusk was settling
in when I got to Indian Grave, and Joe Clapper and Michelle Harmon and their
team were starting to pack up. I knew I was at the rear of the field. I sat for
a few minutes and ate some fruit and a sandwich, then set out on the four-mile
road run to Habron. I knew I had lost time, but Michelle encouraged me and
walked a bit with me, pointing out that I still had 90 minutes to the cutoff at
Habron.
The
road was tranquil and deserted and I jogged a bit and walked a bit past the
picturesque, thickly grown pastures, with cows staring at me through the fence,
then loping away, startled, as I came near. Soon I found myself dodging giant
SUVs and pickups and got my headlamp out and chugged along, completely alone. I
picked up my pace, arriving at Habron about 8:40 in near-darkness. I was
heartened to see Michael—who knows how long he’d been there? He had driven for
nearly an hour from Shawl, taking several wrong turns in and around Luray to
get there. I recalled that years ago, when he was in high school, the two of us
had driven out there on a Sunday morning and rented a canoe and paddled for
several miles down the Shenandoah, which flowed rapidly past Habron, still at
near-flood stage. So much has changed, I thought—he’s married and living in
Philadelphia, I’m 65, trying to run ultras in the mountains.
Michael sat me down and took my Camelbak off,
and a young woman volunteer brought me a sandwich. I gulped down a couple of
them. “How do you feel?” Michael asked. “Ten miles to Roosevelt.”
I
felt very tired, but still had more than three hours to the Camp Roosevelt
cutoff. I stood up and headed up the trail. Not much running on this
stretch—Habron is an extremely tough climb, maybe the toughest on the course—it
starts off steep and gets steeper and then steeper, and fools you, at several
points, into thinking you’re close to the summit, when you’re nowhere near it.
Soon I was high enough to see the twinkling night lights of Front Royal in the
distance. Or maybe it was Strasberg. I had no idea which—probably both, at
different points.
Although I had changed into a dry long-sleeve
shirt, it was chilly and windy as I approached the top. One runner passed me,
using walking poles. “Are you getting enough electrolytes?” he asked. I nodded,
but really wasn’t sure I had had enough. Nutrition for trail runners is
complicated, because everyone has different preferences and needs. I still
haven’t figured it out.
It seemed to take forever to get to the top,
and my legs had stiffened. Even walking was difficult, let alone dodging the
sharp rocks embedded in the trail and climbing over the boulders. It did not
get easier for the two miles from the crest of Habron to the yellow-blazed
Stevens Trail. It felt good to get to the turn, but I knew I was running out of
steam. I kept losing my balance and sinking into the heavy mud as I tried to
avoid the streams running down the trails. In the darkness, even with my
headlamp, it was difficult to distinguish between water and dry trail. A few
times I stopped, puzzling out where the trail went; fortunately and many thanks
to Kevin Bligan’s trail-marking team, I could always see a luminescent
glowstick showing the way. But I knew I was getting slower. Eventually, I knew
I would miss the cutoff into Roosevelt. And I did miss it, by about 15 minutes.
I arrived at 1:30 AM.
I was very glad to see Michael—we both knew
my race was over. I handed my bib to the volunteer who was recording runners’
times. Carter Wieckling, the light-hearted and gracious “grim reaper,” handed
me the black rose and gave me a hug. Her kind words meant a great deal to me.
Michael gave me my sweats—he and the entire aid-station team were feeling the
night chill—and we headed to the Gap Creek aid station to pick up Sandy. She
was disappointed for me, but glad I was OK. It was close to 2 AM when we got
back to camp. I limped into the shower and cleaned up, then back to the tent
and fell asleep.
I knew that the leaders already had finished
and dozens of runners were still out on the trial in the darkness, seeking to
complete 103.5 miles, doing what I had hoped to do. My 63.9 miles was enough
for me for MMT 2014. Why am I doing this? I asked myself. Then I recalled the
deep sense of satisfaction one gets from finishing a difficult run—or from
meeting any difficult challenge. We confront hardship in order to overcome it.
We seek to succeed at tasks that to others seem impossible. And when we fall
short, as I did at MMT early that morning, we promise ourselves we will try
again.