…hehe…I’m getting crafty with my titles…
True story; I delayed on writing this race recap simply because I am an extremely conceited individual. Translation; I read last year’s race recap for The Back 40 trail race, and I laughed so much reading it that I convinced myself I couldn’t do any better. Vanity truly is my middle name*.
The Back 40, as alluded to last season on “stupid runners”, is a beautiful 20 mile loop in northern Arkansas. The race is held in December so that all can enjoy the reality of winter in the Ozark region as I did as a young, broke college student who had recently been dumped.
Cold. Windy. Grey. Death.
There was no ‘heat wave’ to speak of this random weekend of December, no, it was just cold and windy. The race started at a balmy, tear jerking 21 degrees**. Like all other smart runners I stayed in the tent near the start/finish until the race director politely guided us to the starting point to give his announcements…
Hey! Y’all are fart’n near the open flame heaters I’m not talk’n to y’all in here, otherwise I may die. Get outside!
Welcome back to The Back 40.
Mentally, I came into this race in search of a break. I finally was able to admit it within my own mind. I was tired, worn out from running, and winter sucks. I wanted to relax, do yoga, eat cheeseburgers, and stay away from being in places where the air hurts my face. In my own warped reality; The Back 40 was my ‘swan song’ to a year of traumatic, near death experiences.
All I had to do was survive.
I started in the field where I should have (dead last), and had all the necessary equipment on me. I chose my small UltrAspire device because I only wanted water, Tailwind was for ‘last ditch efforts’, my dear Honey Stinger gels, and I wanted a spot to hold my peppermints. Those same peppermints that I had my wife go grab fifteen minutes prior to start because I forgot mine in Kansas City. The irony is while I hate winter, I do enjoy winter’s kiss in the form of Starlight mints while crying in the woods. There is something soothing of remembering being picked on with candy canes in elementary school from my classmates each time I eat a peppermint…a reminder that somehow, something could be worse compared to dying at mile 15.
There was no gun, no timer, no beep, just our beloved RD yelling, “get go’in” to flush us down the tube of immortality. The twenty mile was the event that I had signed up for. Initially, pre “The Hawk“, I thought I wanted to do the 40 mile option this year. Of course, I realized that, that was a horrifically stupid idea and only wanted twenty out of The Natural State.
Within the first quarter mile I made two very quick realizations:
- There was some idiot that had decided to tent camp in this weather prior to the race. Running by their camp allowed me to laugh in my mind at their obvious stupidity. I mean, what kind of fool would tent camp in December prior to a race? As I passed by the site I realized exactly why someone would, because on the back window of their vehicle it read, “Trail Nerds”. Simply put…MY PEOPLE!
- Three steps into a twenty mile race I definitely learned that I had not tied my tights tight enough along my waist. Due to this tragic realization I was approximately four steps away from reminding what few runners were behind me of the upcoming full moon.
I learned that I could run a race in the event that one of my arms was immobilized (because I could see myself dislocating my shoulder in a mountain race and going on to win it…har-har-har) due to my wardrobe malfunction. I am already shunned in my ‘real life’ outside of the running world, so naturally I was mortified of dropping my drawers to expose my pasty self to all those good souls out for this December stroll. At the same time, I was trying to warm up and get moving, so walking wasn’t necessarily an option either. Embracing my inner-Kílian I continued running, swinging one arm like a mad pirate singing a Disney song, and kept the other snuggly attached to the waistline of my pants.
This went on for a half mile. Finally, when the single track started to remind me of ‘good ole times’ I stopped to adjust my pants. After ensuring that no blood would circulate below my waist, assuring all passing runners that I did not already need a salt tablet, I took off for the rest of my 19.5 mile adventure.
Realistically, a lot has changed personally since running this race a year ago, over the rocks, the hills, and the overall terrain nothing really bothered me. I say this half joking, but by mile 5 I was so thankful that I had decided to attempt races in the mountains. That time helped me mentally understand that I truly wasn’t going to die in Arkansas, and that indeed things could be much, much worse.
At mile six I departed from the two that I had tracked for the majority of the race.
What that really meant; I stopped at the aid station and they were fast. This slow pace would pay off in the later mileage as I would learn that one of our runners was indeed struck by a deer running through the course. People, I cannot make this stuff up.
At mile ten I had started to figure out the system of the trail that we were on. The trail is actually labeled every .25 miles. This can either be a great thing for those of you who are curious about your location, or a death sentence for those of you wondering, “Will this ever end?” Important note: The race and the course do not match. There is a two mile difference from what you see on the course and what your actual mileage is. Meaning, because God (and the RD) enjoy toying with humans, the tree may read 10 miles, but the truth is during The Back 40 you would have only traveled 8. This translated to me doing elementary math the entire time that I was out on the course. I cannot express to you how much of a struggle that can be for some of us.
Finally, I decided that I would look at my watch when I had accomplished thirteen of the
twenty miles. After two aid stations and some time alone in the woods (a lot) I looked at my screen and sent a text to my wife letting her know where I was mileage-wise.
The elementary math came flooding up when I looked at the 13 mile mark.
3 hours and 5 minutes…
It was at that moment, between a man with a chainsaw up the hill and the creepy red balloon near the drainpipe, that realization had dawned on me. I had just set a half marathon personal record by 35 minutes.
…and that’s where I lost it…
Between the broken oven and two water heaters in the ditch along the trail I had snot and tears running down my face; while trying to also ingest a honey based gel. In so many aspects I was one ugly ginger running around in the woods of Arkansas (something tells me I will not be the last). While this year had been triumphant in the sake that I escaped with no injuries and only one DNF; personally I was seeking just one example, one moment that demonstrated that I had grown. GOATz was close, but I chose to drop the 50K, so in my head…it did not count. This though, along the rugged moguls (not to be mistaken with muggles) and razor rocks, this was real, this was proof, this was
evidence that I was doing something, anything right.
Through the mental celebration of growth I missed the part about seven miles remaining in my journey, and through that blissful ignorance, one stumble across a rock and it hit.
Since “The Hawk” I have had a rather annoying cramping issue. It isn’t in my back, calves, quads, hamstrings, etc…I get the same cramp at nearly the exact same part of any long run. Imagine, someone taking a golf ball made of metal, heating it to approximately 212 degrees, and then pressing it along the inside of your thighs, just below your waist.
That is my cramp.
I’ve looked up the causes and adjustments needed to prevent these cramps. In the running community I have found absolutely nothing, but inside the biking community I’ve found that it can be very common. I can tell you that it is debilitating and a silent killer. The bigger issue is knowing that these areas of my legs cramp up only when going uphill. Well guess what…
ALL OF ARKANSAS IS NOTHING BUT AN UPHILL, BOTH WAY JOURNEY TO DANTE’S NINTH LEVEL OF HELL
The last four miles turned into a painful, dragging, slow eternity of torment. Similar to when you get stuck in one of those passive aggressive business meetings after a potluck dinner in a small town church. No? Just me?
Nearing each half mile I was having to stop and stretch out my legs to break up the cramping. I attempted to be productive; I drank the Tailwind, ate the salt caps, licked the salt lick, and about everything else thinking that would diminish the cramping. Nothing.
The fight stayed with me for the duration of the rest of the race. Finally, hopping off of trail onto the paved path that nearly resulted in me going pantless in the beginning, I slowly trotted into the finish line.
I finished The Back 40, 20 Mile race one hour faster*** than I had completed it in 2016. This was the feel-good ending I had wanted for the 2017 year. I’m not Kaci, Kristen, Leia, or any other fast soul. I know this and accept this, but that does not mean I don’t want to see growth in myself like anyone else.
Naturally, while bathing in my accomplishment, the RD laughed and said I had time to start my second loop…
…I’m still slightly apologetic for giving him that “one” good reason why I wouldn’t be heading back out for another lap.
2017, peace out.
**Nope. I hate the winter. I hate the cold. You are not going to be able to convince me otherwise. The end.
***Learning that my first mile, nearing the completion of the moon cycle, was 10:46 helps that PR