On the trail of the bear

We were 2 miles into the race, just outside of Boone, when the hills kicked in.  It’s easy to be intimidated by a steep climb, and to be intimidated by the prospect of 26 miles of hill.  And there is really only one way to face the challenge: one ascent at a time.  Not only does that mean not worrying about how steep the successive climbs may be, it also means not worrying about how quickly I get over the first one.  In the Grandfather Mountain Marathon, there are three very difficult climbs right at the beginning.  It’s important not to go out too quickly in any marathon, but especially so in this one.

We go on to the first pitch as the light continued to fight for dominance over the night.  Although we started at 6:30 when dawn should have been imminent, but a solid layer of clouds lay over the Highcountry.  Even though it was in the mid-60’s as we left Kidd Brewer Stadium, a steady breeze and no direct sun meant good conditions for a long run.  From the start it was also clear that, while perhaps cleaver, I was not exactly original in running this race wearing a kilt.

At about mile 1, a short man with a sharp Piedmont accent asked if I had run this race in a kilt before.  Somehow my monosyllabic answers did not clue him in to the fact that I was not interested in conversation.  Like Omarosa, I did not come here to make friends; I came here to run a marathon.  By the second climb, we were beginning to sort ourselves out: conversationalists toward the back, elites in the front, and dedicated mid-packers (such as myself) in the middle.

The third climb of the day passed by Yonahlossee, an early summer camp turned tennis resort, and to the Blue Ridge Parkway.  Passing under a massive stone arched bridge, I knew we were almost finished climbing for a while.  It was time to start thinking about time, and to enjoy one of the most beautiful parts of the Parkway.  A long, gentle descent brought us to the half-way point at Julian Price Park.  I passed the 13 mile marker at 2:02 with plenty of energy in my legs and more descending ahead to help pick up the 2 minutes I would need to finish in under 4 hours.

Of the two places that surprised me in the run, the first came as we exited the Parkway and prepared to traverse a gravel stretch on the way to Highway 221.  The road from the Parkway to the gravel pitched up in a way I had missed when Brocephus and I scouted the route the day before.  Panic at such a time is not useful, and the most helpful thought came from the speaker at the previous night’s pasta dinner.  Zika Rae reminded us that a high cadence is more important than a long stride, so I concentrated on turning over my feet like Lance Armstrong on L’Alp Du Huez.  It worked, and I was on to the gravel, ready to address the hardest part of the day.

At the top of the steep gravel road, I was flushed with excitement at having survived the shittiest part only to be faced with another climb we had not registered.  This first ascent of 221, up to about mile 19, came at the wrong time and challenged my determination more than any previous climb.  Many runners use mantras, and I use the line, “I bind unto myself today” from the Irish hymn St. Patrick’s Breastplate. The next words are “The strong name of the Trinity” but I just use the first part.  It inspires me to draw strength from the cloud of witnesses I believe are around us at all times and who wish for us to do our best.

On my right hand, I was wearing a tourmaline ring that was my mother’s who passed away 3 years ago, unable to free herself from the shackles of weight and lost mobility.  As I touched that ring, I bound to myself the lightness of her spirit and those of my family and friends who had tolerated, supported, and encouraged this ridiculous endeavor.  If there was a time to give up, this was not it.  Reaching mile 20, with a final reserve of energy in my legs, the road leveled out again and I could begin to think about the end.

But not too soon.  Not so much because the thought of six more miles would be too discouraging, but because to not enjoy these six miles would be simply criminal.  Along this stretch, the skies which had been overcast all day broke into brilliant, crystal Carolina blue.  As breezes kissed the back of my neck, I glanced up at the majesty of Grandfather’s peak and the marvel of the Linn Cove Viaduct.  Around this turn was a waterfall, around that turn a beautiful outcropping of granite.  The roadway was dappled with sunlight filtered through the gracious canopy of leaves.

I awakened from this reverie at mile 24 with 3:40 on my watch and one last climb to conquer.  It would be tough to judge how much energy to dole out at a given time, but I put on the strongest pace I thought I could maintain over the next two miles, keeping my eyes peeled for the entrance to the Blue Ridge Parkway that would indicate slightly more than one mile to go.

Crossing the 25 mile mark, I was relieved to see 3:50 on my watch.  Surely I could turn in a 10 minute mile.  But what about the 2 tenths at the end?  If there was ever a time to go hard, it was now.  There was not much left to give, but I put what I had onto the road.  Passing the main entrance to Grandfather Mountain, I could hear the bagpipes on McRae Meadows.  We turned off the highway and went up a slight hill before dropping down to the last ascent to the track and games.

On that descent, there was some question of certain bodily functions spontaneously erupting.  Would I be allowed on the track if I had soiled myself?  Doesn’t matter.  Have to go for breaking four hours.  As I gained the track, my watch read 3:59:48 (or something close to that) and I would not make it around in under 4.  Then it occurred to me that to qualify for the Boston Marathon, you can use the full portion of the minute (ie: I could qualify with a 3:15:59 but not a 3:16:00.)  Why not push it all the way around the track and see if I could make 4:00?

The cheers came up from the crowd as I circled the games.  Not as many as I thought would come, but they have seen more than one kilt in their days.  I was also not paying so much attention.  Everything I had, which wasn’t much, was going on the track.  I reached the finish at 4:01:26.

I reached the finish line.  Having ascended 2,000 feet and descended 1,000, I reached the finish line.  Having logged many, many weeks of early mornings and long runs, I reached the finished line.  More than 6 months of planning and preparation had led to this point and I had done it.  Would it have been nice to hit my time goal?  Of course, but Ace said it best by saying that this is what keeps us going out the door.  Which I will most certainly be in the next several days.  But not today.  Today I will take a well earned rest and be grateful that I get to do these stupid, crazy things.