With all this in mind, I’ve been slowly involving myself in
CAT training runs, and have been so happy with the company and the challenges
they provide. After a pretty great
CATAss 50K in July, I bit the bullet and signed up for an August 50 miler with
the intention of familiarizing myself with the feel of being on my feet, moving
forward, for that long. Enter Wildcat
Ridge Romp, in Rockaway, New Jersey—my oft-maligned, greatly beloved home
state.
A cursory glance at the elevation profile suggested that
this race, a series of loops around a 10 mile course, wouldn’t pose the same
challenges as MMTR.
And, from everything I understand, that’s true. It did not pose the same challenges as
MMTR. It posed a whole different set of
challenges.
Race morning had me up at 4am, caffeinating and distracting
my mind with the latest issue of Outside. My boyfriend Michael and I checked in around
5:30 as two members of a pretty small field of runners. Knowing that we’d be stopping by the car
every 10 miles, we set up our supplies there, along with a notebook to keep
each other posted on our progress. The
race director briefed us quickly, triggering just a touch of cognitive
dissonance when he followed up his reminder to check out the view of the Verrazano
Bridge and New York City skyline at mile 3 with a word of caution to keep our
eyes peeled for bears. Then, pointing to
a spot on the ground with his foot, he said, “This is the start. 3, 2, 1, go!”
I chatted with a few guys on my way out, and was not unaware
that only two other women were in the pack of 16 or so runners. By the second mile, only one of these women was
out of sight up ahead of me. I did check
out the Verrazano at mile 3, made tracks through mile 5, and then descended
from the ridge into a rock field that slowed my pace by over 3 minutes a
mile. As I picked my way across the
tricky—even “technical”—terrain, I felt grateful for what would be a repeated
opportunity to slow down every lap, even as I was struggling to find places to
put my feet. Mile 7 had us crossing a
dam and hauling ourselves up and over some high concrete barriers, and the aid
station at mile 8 was notable not only for its totally charming and
enthusiastic volunteers, but also because it marked the beginning of a gradual
downhill to the start/finish area. I put
in my first lap in a solid-feeling 2:08, left a little hello for Michael in the
notebook, and headed out again.
Lap two was a confidence booster, as I felt totally in
control of my race. I knew when to
expect some downhills, and the anticipation of the respite they would provide
helped me to keep pace through some of the climbs. I didn’t check out the view this time around,
but I did see some wild turkeys, so that was a fair trade. When I came into the start/finish at mile 20,
the race director told me that the woman ahead had about 11 minutes on me. I promptly forgot this information as soon as
I left again. I blame it on Mountain Dew
brain freeze.
Lap three was, unexpectedly, the most mentally challenging
of them all. I had gone into the day thinking
that the fourth lap would be my weakest, but the Dew, the climb out of the
start/finish, and the knowledge of all the miles to come had me reminding
myself, “It never always gets worse. It
never always gets worse,” pretty frequently during this one. If it works for David Horton, it works for
me. The best part of this time around was
mile 25, when I took a break from mantra-repetition to congratulate myself on reaching
the halfway point. “Way to go,
Rorem. You got this,” I said out loud. I’m always “Rorem” when I dole out
encouragement to myself.
Coming into mile 30, I knew my pace had dropped off pretty
considerably. And, while my average pace
had climbed each time I stopped at the car to leave a note and demolish some
chips, this next lap was the first in which gaining that time back proved to be
a challenge. I kept myself going by
setting short-term goals. “Okay,” I’d
think, “You’re good if you bring it down 5 seconds by the end of this fire
road,” or, “You’ve got one mile until The Rocky Part. Make it count.” In between these thoughts, I reminded myself
that the next time I passed these
landmarks would be the last time.
Around mile 37, I passed the woman who had been in front of
me throughout the race, and chatted with her for a second to see how she was
doing. She looked pretty rough, but was
clearly not in any kind of real trouble.
I told her to keep it up, and kept on moving. Based on Michael’s notes to me, I knew I’d
see him at some point before I hit 40, and the thought definitely cheered
me. At 38, he caught up, looking strong
and proud as hell to see me on my way to 50 miles. Knowing he’d be breaking 12 hours in the
100K, I was equally as proud of him.
Finally, finally, I started on my last lap. I was not excited to eat at this point, and
was mostly just sipping water and trying to keep moving forward. However, as I scanned the trail ahead around
mile 42, I registered a sight that was just as energizing as a gel: a large-and-in-charge
mother bear with a cub. I slammed on the
brakes (it didn’t take much), and looked behind me on the trail to see if
anyone was there to keep me company.
Nobody.
I decided to wait it out for a little, since it appeared that
the bears were wandering off. As I stood
there, about 40 feet from them, the cub caught a glimpse of me, and bounded
away, startling a second cub that I hadn’t seen into climbing a tree. As if this weren’t enough entertainment for
me, this little tree-climber lost his grip about 10 feet up, and slid back down
as though the trunk were a fire pole. I
hoped that the mother wasn’t feeling too protective of her baby’s young ego. Mother bears anywhere are fierce, but we were
talking about a Jersey girl here.
Fortunately, another runner came up right about then, and he
and I decided to stroll by calmly, chatting loudly. Once we got about 100 feet down the trail
from our ursine friends, we picked it back up to a jog. To be dead honest, the combination of relief
at surviving the encounter along with a fair amount of tiredness blurred out
the next several miles for me, at least until I remembered to take in some fuel
around mile 47. A few bites of a Power
Bar seriously hit the spot, and I was renewed enough to commit to running the
final miles, however slowly. And I
did.
Approaching the finish area, I could see Michael with his
arms above his head, cheering me on. I
matched his gesture, stumbled across that imaginary line, and felt pretty
pleased with myself. I had the distinct
honor of being both the first female
50-mile finisher, as well as the very last runner to finish the race (though it
was close on the latter). My first win and my first DFL, at the same
time?! Too good to be true.
I decidedly have my work cut out for me before MMTR—I still
expect to be sliding in under the cut-offs all day, struggling up the climbs,
trying hard not to be hesitant on the downhills, and just working like crazy to
clock in under 12 hours. But my love for
the trails, for pushing myself, and for running my heart out has redoubled, and
I will tackle MMTR one climb and one cut-off at a time. I’m hungry for a finish, and now I have a new
mantra to add to my arsenal: “50 miles. You’ve
done this before, Rorem. You got it.”
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