50 Miles in the Rain

I’m chilled to the bone now. The rain has shifted from a gentle drizzle to an unwavering downpour. I’m nearing the canyon’s floor, and the temperature has dropped a few degrees. Puddles form on the trail, and I’m still dodging them, hoping to keep my feet dry. My watch beeps, revealing my 12th mile at 11 minutes and 52 seconds. My hands are pruned, and a shiver runs through me.

Much faster runners approach, and I step aside to let them glide past. Encouraging words like “great job” and “keep it up” float in the air. I spot Phil, my bunkmate, focused and determined. I offer a quick “you’re crushing it,” to which he nods, splashing through a puddle. The Sitton’s Gulch aid station, 12.5 miles into the Cloudland Canyon 50 miler, comes into view. Volunteers bustle around, offering support. I grab an avocado quesadilla, refill my water bottle, snatch a banana, thank the volunteers, and jog out. Quick and efficient, I don’t linger for more than a minute. I decide to don my rain jacket, tucking my hands into the pockets for warmth. The next mile is covered in under 12 minutes. I have 3.5 miles and 1200 feet of climbing before the next aid station at the group lodge.

My car holds a dry pair of shoes. The climb out of the canyon is steep, and I focus on keeping my heart rate down. Rain pelts harder, but my shoes grip the metal stairs with surprising ease. At the canyon’s top, a photographer captures the moment. Rain clouds hang low, justifying the canyon’s name.

The sounds of loud music and cheers signal my approach to the group lodge. My key fob, snug in my back pocket, opens the rear hatch, and I change into my Speedgoats, ready to return to the trail. No need for the aid station; I have a dry pair of socks and sweet snacks waiting in a drop bag at the Ascalon aid station, 7.75 miles away.

With the most challenging terrain on the course behind me, I’m focused on maintaining my pace. I’m headed into uncharted territory with my longest run topping out at 32 miles. My training was solid, but interrupted by a car accident. While driving my family home from dinner with friends, we collided with another vehicle attempting a risky maneuver across two lanes of oncoming traffic. Air bags deployed, and both cars were total losses but thankfully we all walked away. The severe impact took its toll however, and my neck was injured. In the weeks that followed, I had to dial back on intensity and adjust my training regimen, falling short of my weekly mileage goals. Nonetheless, I’ve learned to navigate setbacks in a way that doesn’t jeopardize my long term goals.

Puddles on the trails converge, making avoidance impossible. I strike up a conversation with Mikey, a single dad from Georgia, and we share our reasons for taking on this challenge. Mikey’s determination to inspire his teenage daughter resonates. He finishes his first 100-miler within six months of declaring his goal on Thanksgiving fueled by doubtful laughter from family. I share my journey, disrupted by overuse injuries and a physical therapist’s prognosis that I wasn’t wired like ultra runners and probably couldn’t finish an ultra. Mikey flashes a gold toothed grin and says, “that motherfucker did you a favor, and he probably doesn’t even know it.” I nod in agreement and pledge to finish a hundred miler one day. “I don’t doubt it,” Mikey replies. He slows to conserve energy, and we exchange nods, a silent agreement to meet at the finish line.

Conversations flow effortlessly on the trails, especially in the middle of the pack. We’re all chasing the finish line, testing our limits. We’re not here to win ultra races; we’re here for the personal challenge. I chat with several runners over the next miles and reach my drop bag at Ascalon. A change of socks, ice-cold Coca Cola, hot dogs, and bacon rejuvenate me. A quick call to my family at 25 miles, and my son’s “great job Dada” echoes in my ears.

A fellow runner, Andrew from Tennessee, offers coconut cream for my chafing. Grateful, I apply it, and the flats become runnable again. Another Andrew, who goes by Andy, joins me and we stick together for the next 15 miles. We share stories of family, balance, and life’s challenges. This is my first 50 miler, and Andy, a seasoned runner, shares his experience having run two before and countless 50k’s.

The last aid station before the finish line brings a surge of energy. I run ahead of Andy, overdo it, and have to walk again. He catches up, and soon we’re joined by the other Andrew. The trio sticks together as darkness falls, headlamps cut through the darkness and illuminate the path ahead. Around mile 47, I pull away and find myself alone. Voices and headlamps intermittently break the solitude, but the Andrews remain unseen. The last hour and 30 minutes of the race unfold in solitary strides, a mix of jogging, walking and rock kicking. My neck hurts, and I’m sure that toe nails will be lost. Music and lights from the group lodge signal the finish line. A final sprint with whatever is left in my legs carries me over the line.

The clock stops at 12 hours, 52 minutes, and 29 seconds on my first 50 mile trail race. Waiting for the Andrews, I grab a beer – the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Andrew finishes eight minutes later, and Mikey crosses the line at 13:07, high-fives and congratulations exchanged. Andy finishes at 13:20, sharing his struggle in the last miles. We agree to stay in touch.

In the group lodge, a free bowl of vegan chili awaits. I’m not a vegan, but the lack of animal protein doesn’t affect its deliciousness. Bunkmates gather, sharing their experiences. Phil finishes in 9:33, securing 8th place, while his buddy Christian, aka Su, finishes in 12:05. Applause erupts as each runner comes in for their chili.

Post-race, a hot shower reveals the extent of chafing I hadn’t felt while running. It’s simultaneously the best and worst shower I’ve ever had. I share the men’s-only bunk room with once-strangers-now-running-buddies. Sleep is fitful, but I awaken at 4:30 am, eager to head home. Goodbyes are said, and I hit the road at 5:30 am. The GPS estimates an 8-hour journey home.

Pulling into my driveway at 1:30 pm, I can barely walk. Max, my youngest, naps, and hugs from my wife and oldest son, Jack, greet me. I never imagined that, by middle age, I’d find so much joy in spending a weekend in the car to run 50 miles in the woods.

I’m not rushing towards the hundred miler anymore. Focusing on my health and getting back to a more measured approach after I recover makes more sense than trying to charge through injuries to get my first 100 mile buckle.