Three years ago, this was the site of my first ultra marathon. I didn't realize at the time that it also was my first marathon. Needless to say, various moments throughout that day were incredibly overwhelming, challenging, and altogether life changing. I've been back every year since to battle the rollers, the humidity, the heat, the rocks and roots, and the overall jaunt of the race.
This year, I brought another aspect into the mix. After some coaxing and, well, nagging, I convinced Ben to register for the 50K with me. This would be his first ultra marathon and, obviously, his longest race to date. I just hoped he would want to run with me so I could see how he handled the race. A person's first ultra marathon is an awe inspiring thing to witness and I wanted to witness his.
The weeks leading up the race were tenuous for the both of us. We both, randomly, took off from running for about two to three weeks. And when we did pick up again, we had some motivation problems. In the final couple of weeks before the race, I was able to gather my cajones and knock out some solid training runs, including an 18-mile Monday for good measure. The race, however, seemed to remain on the horizon and not move closer. Suddenly, race weekend was here. Frantically, I began getting my ducks in a row, planning race-eve and -day nutrition and strategy, and running "ideas" and "tips" by Ben for his pondering. We didn't talk much about the race besides the odd "So, are you excited?" and I was starting to wonder whether we were being a bit too nonchalant about it all.
Friday came and on the road we went after the typical stop at Subway. The drive was quiet and straightforward. We arrived at Rocky Hill Ranch at about 7:30 p.m. and saw packet pick up shut down and no greeters at the gate. After getting comfortable and setting out our clothes for the morning, we shut down and tried to get some sleep.
As 4:00 a.m. greeted us, we agreed we're just a few months too old to be sleeping in cars and vowed to end that method of frugality. Stretching our legs and seeking out the bathrooms before the lines began, we got ready for gun time. I gulped down some Diet Dr. Pepper to try to ease some…things…along and, thankfully, it worked. My body has been unpredictable in the mornings since daylight saving's time, so I was nervous I wouldn't be primed for the start. We chomped on some peanut butter sandwiches and bananas, a runner's best friends, before looting our race bags. As we predicted, the 6:00 a.m. start came upon us as if it were sprinting. After making the rounds of familiar, headlamp-ed faces, we queued up.
As we partook in our usual pre-race kiss and hand squeeze, whoops and hollers signaled the start of the race. Across the mat--BEEP--and we began our latest adventure with a fun goal: cross the finish line (1) without vomiting; (2) without despising each other; and (3) having had a spectacular day.
We settled in to the typical single-file line at the start of the first six or seven miles of the course. As with any race, the first leg tends to be fairly mentally challenging for me. While I enjoy dark running--I do my best brainstorming and thinking in the dark, it seems--the first leg tends to be the "shake out" portion. I struggle to get a good rhythm and sometimes must wait until sunrise to really grasp on to the day's happenings. On this particular course, as well, I typically feel like a spastic deer bounding around the forest. This isn't so bad on the one hand, but I'd prefer to feel wholly human during a 50K.
Soon enough, the sun rises, though, and I take back my human senses. It's at this point I think about the 25K crowd starting their race, how far I may have gone by this point, and where on earth I'm going to pitstop. The trees are top-dense, but a little sparse for the coverage off the trail. No strangers in a trail race, right? Right…
As we came in to the first aid station, I let my shoulders relax. The race had begun. The first aid station was stocked with bundles of colorful balloons, the typical race fare, and a nearly full bar of liquor, red wine, and white wine. At that point, I was thankful for one of my race rules: run through the first aid station. Just keep running, just keep running, that whiskey is so not a good idea, just keep running, I sang to myself in my head. Ben, on the other hand, did stop for some water and to drop some trash. As he caught up to me, I could hear the excitement in his voice about whiskey on the next loop. My stomach turned at the thought, but my head (and heart, let's be honest) wasn't so skeptical. We'd see how that worked out about fifteen miles later.
I was anxious to power through the middle portion of the loop for one glorious prize: the field of wildflowers. Joe P. promised we would smell the year's bounty before we arrived. I thought about how the trail drops down to a cooler temperature, the ground becomes moister, and the greenery on the side of the trail unmistakably turns a gorgeous, brilliant emerald green. It was the entrance to the wildflower field.
We fell in behind a running friend, Caleb. We chatted here and there, but not much. The trail and scenery gobbled us up as we scuttled down hills, scampered up and along ridges, and hooked trees occasionally. I positively adore this portion of the trail. It remains technical, but embraces you with joy and beauty. It's wonderful. Soon enough, we came across the demonic wooden Easter bunny. I swear, it gets creepier every year. To its credit, though, it welcomes you to the wildflower field.
This year, I lost my breath from the beauty. Rather than a green field with a smattering of wildflowers here and there, it was a blue, indigo, pink, purple, and white field with the tiniest bits of green trying to peak through the petals. It was incredible and beautiful and altogether overwhelming. I am surprised I didn't trip and fall from failing to watch where I was stepping. Alas, I made it down the Jeep road and turned toward the second aid station, manned by a few of my dearest running friends.
We trotted in and took stock of what we might need. A banana with peanut butter for me, along with a few cups of water. A few greetings and chatter before we set off for the start/finish/turn around. I knew this portion of the course was, unfortunately, unforgiving in its undulating ascents and descents. This, I recalled, was the "hell" portion of the hills with monikers like "The Grind" and "The Wall." Every year since the first, I cringe at the pain I felt in my swollen ankles as I worked my way up both of them with the aid of a walking stick. It was pathetic and excruciating. Then again, I came back. Must not be so bad, right? Right…
Up to this point, I'd led the two of us through the trails. I wanted, admittedly, to set a conservative pace to be sure Ben didn't become the "hare" of the famous children's tale. I mentioned to him I tend to dial it down through the final section so the second loop would be more bearable. We did just so: ginger on the descents, walking the ascents of certain angles, and running the flats handily. Before I could blink, or so it felt, we were on the final Jeep road, past the campgrounds, over the cattle guard, and toward the barn and turn around. I felt fresh and clear headed. I just hoped Ben felt the same way.
We came through the turn around as some 25Kers and 10Kers were finish their races, well the winners of the 25K at least. In fact, we saw Ben's Cactus Rose relay partner, Tracie A., win the 25K women's title. In a few words: she's a beast. She's incredible to watch and so humble. Way to go, Tracie!
We worked through the aid station (Drink. Spit. Heed?! *Olga laughs at my carelessness.* Ick, water! More banana and peanut butter.) and I went to change up my kit a bit. I stripped my long sleeves, dropped my head lamp, and made the decision to drop my CamelBak.
In past years, dropping your Camelbak would earn you a smack on the head from no less than a dozen people (race director included). Hell's Hells is brutal year after year because of the onset of the Texas spring heat and humidity. Racers battle steadily, and quickly, rising temperatures as the sun breaches the horizon, coupled with suffocating humidity that cannot escape the tree tops. It's as if you're running through a sauna on which someone is turning up the heat every quarter of an hour. As you collapse at the finish line, you are greeted with a medal and a warm, warm welcome to spring/summer in this great state.
The temperatures at this race make hydration early and often a priority. Otherwise, sayonara sucker. You're out and painfully so.
Such wasn't the case this year. This year, we started running at 54 degrees. With clouds overhead, the temperature likely didn't raise more than 5 to 10 degrees until midday. I started running with my CamelBak to avoid leers and smacks, and just in case the sun burned through the clouds and caught the meteorologists off guard.
By the time we got to the turnaround, the cloud cover remained and the temperature and wind promised a day full of the same. I was burning up in my long sleeves, though, so I dropped that. I hoped continued running would keep me warm. I also dropped my CamelBak because I hadn't felt thirsty between aid stations.
As we started on loop two, at which point I should have taken more note of Ben's mentioning a headache, I was thankful to have dropped my water pack but wishing I'd kept my sleeves. Thankfully, the wind and cold didn't bother me as much as I was worried it would. However, Ben's headache began to worsen and set the stage for loop two.
We bounded through the first portion of the second loop. I knew once it was over, I would bound some more to a second view of the wildflowers, another round of jubilant hugs at the second aid station, and a ginger jaunt through to the finish.
I led the charge again, excited to be in such high spirits, feeling fresh, and ready to rock the rest of the course. At some point, Ben asked me to slow down. This was the first sign I knew we may have a longer day ahead of us than we'd both hoped. You see, Ben is a speedy son of a gun. He can hold a 7:30min/mile for a half-marathon regardless of whether he's had his Wheaties. Plus, I'd forced a conservative pace (or so I thought I had; the Garmin showed me my error with 9:30s early in the race, dashing my life long goal of being a perfect marathon pacer) early in the race to conserve both of our energy stores. In a word, his request was strange.
I slowed my pace and looked for cues of the upcoming aid station. Before getting there, we both stopped off to use the bathroom. I'd jokingly been asking him throughout Friday if he'd done a "pee check." A "pee check" is a check of the color to see whether you're low on electrolytes, dehydrated, or just right. I asked him at this point and the answer wasn't promising. Suddenly, my focus shifted from a strong personal finish to making sure my husband made it back safely. I didn't want to dictate his race for him, but I knew I had to be more of a guide than a running partner for the rest of the distance.
As we got into the first aid station, I pointed him to a seat (briefly!) and began gathering calories and plenty of water. He needed some energy and he needed to hydrate. As the clues began to piece together, I could tell he was incredibly dehydrated. I also knew trying to talk him down from finishing wasn't going to work, dehydration be damned.
We stayed at the aid station for about 5 to ten minutes. He seemed to perk up slightly, so I bent down and told him what had picked me up from this aid station and back on the trail during my first ultra: "You see that bend in the trail over there?," I asked. He looked and nodded. "That's single digits, right there." He laughed. I knew it had worked. He heaved off the cooler and we left.
We walked a short while and I had him run in front of me to set a pace he was comfortable running. We wound through the woods again, chatting here and there with some other runners. I was feeling cold and, strangely, my stomach was signaling hunger a bit earlier than it should have. I also was started to feel the pounding in the soles of my feet. I didn't say a word, though. I knew I could exponentially increase the effect of my negativity on myself just by vocalizing it, and I didn't want it to seep into Ben's psyche, either. I tried to keep things light, fresh, and upbeat.
Ben kept a solid rhythm through the woods as we each tried to be the first to spot the creepy bunny. As creepy as it is, we look forward to it to greet us back to the flower field. The second viewing did not disappoint and, thankfully, our fresh memory of its lushness wasn't overblown. It was spectacular and rejuvenating. We trotted down toward the final aid station.
Given his pep through the middle portion of the loop, I thought Ben may have just skirted serious dehydration. Unfortunately, another pit stop indicated he was still woefully under watered. We spent more time at the final aid station. I fed him Gatorade, water, and some calories. We talked with the crew there, Dave, Henry, and Deborah. I could see his determination in his eyes and I recalled my sit-down at this aid station three years ago. The emotions from that day welled up inside of me and I felt an incredible amount of pride for my husband. He was resolved to finish, despite the pain and frustration.
As we left the aid station, I promised I'd report back at the finish and let them know we'd made it back alright. I again let Ben take the lead, as my "pacing" wasn't all too reliable. We walked to start, then began some trotting. We didn't talk much at all; I knew he was focusing on finishing and putting one foot in front of the other.
About half way through this portion, we began to crest a small hill that overlooked Smithville. As I turned back to Ben, I saw him unsteady on his feet. He reached his hand out and told me he couldn't focus his eyes. I quickly led him to a stump to sit down. Thankfully, he listened to my instructions to drink water, eat something, and just breath deeply. My knot of worry continued to grow larger.
After about five minutes of rest, I made the decision to ask a difficult question: "Should I go get someone?"
His answer was definite: "No, I'm going to finish. I may not run, but I'm going to finish." I was proud of his determination, but felt helpless. I had no idea what, exactly, he was feeling at that moment and don't have enough experience watching other ultra runners to know whether I should have pulled the cord on his race for him. I trusted him, though, and helped him stand up.
At this point, I knew the only choice was to have him run in front of me. Rather than focusing on where I was running and how, I watched his foot falls, his gait, and his overall comportment. I watched for wobbling, weaving, unsteadiness. Thankfully, none of that appeared. He kept on with a strong and determined hike. We kept that way for about thirty or forty five minutes before we found ourselves nearing the final climb toward the campgrounds and finish line.
He turned to me and said, "When we get to the top of that hill, I'm going to run it home."
I swear, I could have been witnessing what I must have gone through that first year. The entire day was a revisit of that first ultra marathon finish for me and seeing Ben work through it was awe inspiring. I couldn't help the grin spreading across my face.
As we crested the hill, he broke into a trot sooner than I thought, but I was able to catch up and tuck in to the rhythm. He laughed and mentioned how he now understood why I always called my late-in-the-race shuffling a "run"; "I swear, I feel like I'm sprinting!" he cried out, as we shuffled onto the single track signaling the final three-quarters of a mile or so. I laughed and smiled with him. My excitement of the moment began to take hold of me and I almost fell apart from happiness. This moment…this moment will be ours for our lifetime.
We ran through the single-track, up along the barn, through the parking lot and stiff-legged finishers, and began to hear the cheers and the words of encouragement. I peered into the eyes of those watching us, wondering what they must be thinking. Did they see the man I knew running behind me? Did they "get" what he'd done that day? Did they understand? I sure hope so, because it was incredible.
I made sure Ben's left hand was free so I could grab on to it as we crossed the finish line together. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face if I tried. I whispered to him how proud I was of him, how inspired by his determination and grit I was, and how much I loved him and cherished this moment of ours.
Six and a half hours after we'd begun, we crossed the finish line hand-in-hand, greeted by medals and the smiling Joe P. "Welcome to the dark side," he told Ben with a hearty handshake and a genuine word of congratulations.
And just like that, our adventure was complete. In the span of three months, we'd run a PR-setting marathon together and a tumultuous 50K together.
I don't know how Ben characterizes his race quite yet, but I have a feeling he'll be back next year. He has a bone to pick with the hellish hills of Rocky Hills Ranch.
Hell's Hills 50K
April 5, 2014
About 6:30 (final time pending)
