Jay Mountain Marathon - Race Report
I didn't really proof this, so i'm sure there are many typos.
A quick look at race start quickly gave a little insight into how my day was going to go. There was a "corral" where the runners were to start. The course was flat for about ten yards beyond the starting line and then started up a steep hill. Prior to the start of the race, the race director gave a speech detailing the course and what to do if you needed to drop out, etc. As he was describing the ascent up Jay Peak, he said, "if you want to run up the peak, be my guest," and then he started laughing. As he continued to describe the course, I gave a few nervous chuckles.
At 8 am, the signal was given to begin and I started up the first hill. From the start, it looked like the hill flattened out at the top. However, once I reached the top, the course turned to the right and we entered the woods on a snowmobile trail still ascending. We continued to ascend as the snowmobile trail turned into a single-track trail in the woods. Patches of thick mud appeared at somewhat regular intervals, but they weren't too hard to avoid. After what I can only guess was a few miles, we reached a section where the terrain was so steep that there were two sections where we had to use an attached rope to help pull ourselves up the incline. The single-track trails continued as I made my way up more and more incline, with very little downhill or flat sections. Calves burning, sweating, and panting, I arrived at Aid Station #1 after 4.5 grueling miles of almost all uphill running. I downed some water and Gatorade, ate some pretzels, and snagged a few M&Ms before heading out.
Leaving Aid Station #1 found me running a short distance down a dirt road before heading back into the woods. I'd noticed the humidity prior, but it was starting to take its toll. When I reached the first brook section, I was momentarily relieved as the cool water chilled the air a few degrees. Relieved, that is, until I stepped into the water and my feet started to cramp up from the cold water temperature. I kept moving and my feet eventually gave up on trying to cramp, but the footing in the brook was quite unstable. The water ranged from ankle to waist deep and the entire brook bed consisted of slick rocks ranging in size from pebbles to large boulders. Slipping and falling was inevitable, but I tried to minimize the spills. Eventually I fell at one point and hit my knee on a large rock that was hidden below the surface of the water. A sharp pain shot up my leg and I was momentarily unable to put any weight on my leg. I limped forward as I began to wonder if I was going to have to drop out of the race. I slowly maneuvered through the brook as the flexibility returned to my knee and the pain slowly faded. People all around were falling into the frigid water. Eventually I saw an exit point and climbed the steep embankment onto the road only to find out that the course went right down the embankment on the opposite side of the road and back into the water.
I successfully navigated the remainder of the brook section without any more serious falls. As I exited the water and began to once again run uphill, the small rocks that had found their way into my shoes and socks positioned themselves into areas of extreme discomfort under my feet. As I rounded a corner after the crest of a hill, I heard clapping and cheering, which meant that Aid Station #2 was within reach. Soon I saw the welcome sight of tables of Gatorade and the knowledge that my first drop bag laid nearby. I grabbed some quick snacks and chugged some water and Gatorade before turning to the right to accept my drop bag from one of the volunteers. As I got my bag, I got my first glimpse of Jay Peak and my eyes widened in complete shock at the ascent which lay before me. "Holy Crap," I muttered as another racers just simply agreed with a "yeah." I'd seen the peak from a distance while driving to the start, but there was no way of grasping just how steep the ascent was going to be before arriving at AS #2.
Casting thoughts of my impending ascent aside, I took my drop bag and sat down in the grass. I immediately removed my shoes and socks. I wiped off my feet with a towel, put on fresh socks, and shook the rocks out of my shoes while ingesting a handful of beef jerky. I slipped my shoes back on and they had drained so well that my feet barely felt wet at all. I hopped up, put a power gel in the back pocket of my shirt, and strapped on my Camelbak. Before me stood the daunting task of a 2000 foot ascent over the course of the next 1.7 miles. I handed my drop bag back to one of the volunteers and started a slow jog uphill, but quickly realized that I would not be running to the peak. I joined the scores of other runners who had relented to the mountain and were making the hike to the summit. The trail became steeper and steeper as I wound my way toward the sky. Breathing heavily and sweating I kept putting one foot in front of the other as my calves burned intensely. As I passed other runners or other runners passed me, everyone inquired how I was doing, gave a quick vote of confidence, or joked about the insanity of the race. I was beginning to realize that this was not a race but a test of human endurance and will, and that we were all in it together.
The temperature dropped as the wind picked up and carried dark clouds with it. The promised thunderstorms appeared as if they were going to make a visit after all. About 3/4 of the way up the mountain I decided I needed a little boost of energy so I ingested the PowerGel to try and power me through to the summit. As I rounded a corner, I saw some runners coming down on another trail from the summit. I knew I had to be close, but a brutal climb still stretched out in front of me. I reached the summit with several other runners to the applause of a small crowd at Aid Station #3. I grabbed some food and drank some Gatorade before removing my shoes to
pick out a few straggling rocks that had made their presence known the entire assault on the summit. Ten miles down. Twenty-three to go and my legs already felt like jelly.
I started the descent thinking that I could easily cruise down the mountain and recover a bit before tackling the remainder of the course. What I found out was that although the descent was faster, it definitely wasn't any easier. The route down was just as steep as the ascent. If I were to
let gravity do all the work I'd pick up way too much speed and likely end up tumbling down about 2000 feet. Trying to slow my progress was painful on the knees and quite difficult. The process of slowing my rate of speed caused my foot to slide to the front of my shoe on each step. With the
quick rate of descent, the friction caused between my foot and the shoe quickly created an intense heat, which began to make my feet burn. I was actually worried that I would literally scorch my feet to the point of blisters, but I had no way to stop the action of my foot sliding in my
shoe. As the landscape continued to drop away in front of me, short, wooden bridges covered a series of small ravines that gave me relief, albeit very short, from the burning of my feet.
Eventually the angle of the descent eased to something a bit more manageable as we re-entered the woods and began the bushwhacking section. This stretch of "trail" was simply marked by flagging tape and arrow signs; there was no actual trail. The mud was thick and there was no way to avoid it as I kept an eye out for the next course marker. Legs heavy with caked mud, I continued to forge my way through the thick trees and undergrowth losing the course several times. The 4.5 miles from the summit of Jay to Aid Station #4 seemed more like 45 miles, but I eventually came upon the Aid Station where I grabbed liquids and food to recharge. My legs really felt beat down and I was wondering how I was going to summon the strength to complete another 19 miles of insanity.
Leaving AS #4 the course treated me to a couple miles of packed gravel roads. Initially, I was quite glad to have a surface a bit more familiar, but I quickly realized that the harder surface was causing some pain in my knees. I enjoyed the mostly flat and downhill terrain, but I was, somehow, almost wishing to be back in the woods fighting through shin-deep mud. The friendly banter among runners continued as veterans of the course laughed about wondering why they were doing the course again before revealing that they'd likely be back again next year. This seems to be common among runners. Days after a grueling race, we seem to forget all about the pain and suffering, only remembering the challenge and the fun parts of the race. Then about 15 miles into the next race we question why we are doing it again. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
The gravel road behind me, I re-entered the woods and found myself once again fighting through mud, dirt, and gallons of sweat. The sweat was making its way into my eyes and I had no way of preventing it. Hands caked in mud, I could relieve my stinging eyes, and so I squinted, grunted and kept putting one aching foot in front of the other. I navigated a short brook section, saying hello to the locals that were sitting on their back porches watching the runners stumble through the water.
I eventually arrived at Aid Station #5 and grabbed some salty boiled potatoes. A couple of the other runners were worriedly discussing making AS #6 before the 6 hour cut-off. We had an hour and twenty minutes to make the mere 4.5 miles from AS #5 to AS #6, but the average travel time between the two was 90 minutes with the fastest ever being 45 minutes. I quickly stuffed my face with food and drink before departing not wanting to be cut off. Shortly after leaving behind AS #5, I remembered that the cut off had been extended due to the longer course and the wet conditions of the course. I ran along a mowed path through a field as I talked with an older gentleman who had previously run the full and the half marathons, so he knew the course relatively well. I knew there was an impending ominous stretch of brook running before I made it to the next aid station, but it seemed to never arrive. We crossed a waist deep stream and then went back into the woods. I found myself running alone through the woods up and down hills and through the mud. Finally, after a very steep descent, I arrived at the next brook section. Relieved to cool off in the water, I quickly felt small rocks make their home under my feet as I navigated the frigid waters. In several places the course returned to the steep embankments through the thick dirt before spitting me back out into the water. Every time I took a weird step, my calves tried to cramp up. I had to clamor over large rock formations along the bank several times to avoid waterfalls and deep pools of water.
I exited the brook and moved up a steep section of trail that meandered through the woods. I was glad to be done with the brook section, until I turned the corner and realized that the trail had only detoured through the woods to take me around a very large waterfall that was obviously too dangerous for runners to attempt. There was an unmanned water station just before the makeshift stairs back down to the brook. I quickly filled my camelbak with water and re-entered the brook. Under my feet was an army of small rocks creating discomfort on every step. Now my hips joined my quads in their relentless effort to cramp. The course left and returned to the brook several times before finally leaving behind the gurgling stream. I felt as if I had to be closing in on the next aid station, but i really had no idea since my watch decided to quit working prior to the race. I fell in behind a trio of friends who were running the race together and we made our way through the woods. Another runner caught up to us as we found ourselves in the "swamp" on a single-track trail that was nearly impossible to run through. The ground consisted of trampled dried grasses, thick mud, and multitudes of puddles of water. The grass around us was eye level and was only broken up by areas where the water formed small lakes. Small tree stumps and fallen limbs slowed our progress as we passed a beaver dam on our right. Fighting to avoid mud, it eventually became inevitable what we had to run through it. I took a couple falls in the mud as did the other four runners I was with. The heat through the swamp area was sweltering. We finally left behind the swamp, but in accordance with the rest of the course, just as you are glad to be done with a section, the course presents another ridiculous obstacle.
The obstacle this time was yet another steep hill, which found most runners walking. The course went past a driveway and found its way onto a primitive dirt road. The road continued to climb. I knew the river crossing was before Aid Station #6, so I was wondering when we’d return to a lower altitude to where a river would lie. The road made a few plunges and each time I hoped the river would be soon, but I was disappointed each time. The course was beginning to beat me down both physically and mentally. As hunger pangs grew in my stomach, my mind began to shift to negative thoughts. I started thinking that I could stop and never run again. I thought that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I didn’t make it to the next aid station before the cut off. Twenty-four miles of the course was tough enough. Of course I wasn’t thinking clearly because if I got cut off, I would be quite disappointed later. The road gave way to more single track through the woods and my pace slowed to what must have been a hybrid of running and walking. I was doing the motions of running, but I was probably moving as fast as walking. I was running alone and my mental state was rapidly declining rapidly when I finally heard some people yelling “whoo hoo!” I figured it HAD to be the river crossing. I picked up my pace, rounded a corner and saw the river.
My mental state improved dramatically knowing that AS #6 was on the other side of the river, I had made it prior to the cut-off, I could feed my growling stomach, and I could ditch my camelback. I grabbed a hold of the rope and hopped in the river. The water felt splendid as I used my upper body to move across the river allowing my legs some much needed rest. I climbed the ladder and came out of the water ready to get to the aid station that had to be near by. I headed up a hill with a group of other runners, but the trail just kept going. Where was the aid station? I was under the impression that the aid station was just after the river crossing, but apparently “just after” to the Race Director meant another half mile uphill through single-track trails.
I FINALLY reached Aid Station #6, gathered my drop bag, and sat down a little over 6 hours after starting the race. Twenty Four miles in six hours! I finished the 60K (37.2 miles) in six and a half hours without even training for it. This race is insane. I once again pulled off my shoes and socks, dried off my feet, and attempted to remove as many rocks as possible. I ate a PB&J, stuffed beef jerky into my jersey pock along with a PowerGel and some Shot Bloks, and drank Gatorade. I went to the table and grazed on the different foods available. I had made AS #6 and avoided the cut-off. I could take my time on the next nine miles and make the finish. I’d made twenty-four miles, how hard could the next nine be?
I left the aid station in a slow jog, but quickly slowed to a walk as I decided to go ahead and eat all my beef jerky on the move to replenish the salts and try to curtail my muscle cramps. A quarter of a mile or so after the aid station, I came to a rather steep hill and figured it must be what the race director had called the “hill from hell” during his pre-race speech. I could see why. At this point in the race, and hill was going to be bad. I decided to walk it and just finish off my beef jerky since most people were walking anyway. When I crested the hill and came to a flat section, I realized just how hard the next nine miles could be. The hill I had just walked suddenly became very small as I stared at the real “hill from hell” that stood in front of me. I couldn’t even see the top of the hill because it rose for what looked like miles. Every runner on the hill was walking and they looked like ants slowly moving up the landscape. I jogged the flat section and moved onto the hill. I joined my other runners in walking the hill. I had a few more short conversations on the brutal ascent which was over a mile and just as steep as sections of Jay Peak. Eventually, I made it up the hill, which seemed like more of a mountain, and the course moved on to some rough logging roads. I was once again running by myself. My mental state was in limbo. I knew I was going to finish, but the course was really taking its toll on me. I felt like I had plenty of energy, but my legs were very fatigued and it was getting harder and harder to keep lifting my feet and move them forward. I eventually heard clapping and saw a woman with her dog who gave words of encouragement. I knew I was near Aid Station #7! I moved off the dirt road and onto the paved road and picked up my pace. There was a line of people cheering and a couple of volunteers on four-wheelers. I was perplexed though, as I didn’t see the actual station. I passed the four-wheelers and realized that the aid station wasn’t there. I was absolutely crushed. I followed another dirt road, which began to rise and I just started walking. All the positive energy had been sucked out of me.
A race veteran passed me and said, “good idea to save your energy, there’s a big sand dune coming up.” What little energy I had drained from my body and I just hung my head as I trudged along. I rounded a few more corners and started down a curved sandy road when I spotted the sand dune. It was massive. The first level of the dune was about fifty steep feet. There was a short flat section and then the dune continued up for another at least one hundred feet. I started making my way up the dune. I had to use my hands to scramble up the incline due to the insane angle of the dune. Once I reached the top, the course ambled back into the woods and up a steep hill on more single track trails. After about a half mile, I found myself running along a narrow trail next to a cornfield. In the distance I could hear cheering, and I knew that the aid station was indeed nearby this time. I ran around the perimeter of the cornfield and spotted the aid station on the other side of the road. Once there, I relished the fact that I only had five short miles left before I would have completed the race.
I ate some more boiled potatoes and drank a small amount of Pepsi while I reflected on the twenty-eight miles that I felt in my legs. I was worried about the next section of the course. The next aid station was a mere two miles away, which lead me to believe that it was going to be a difficult two miles. I pushed some branches away and moved into the woods again at a slow pace. The landscape through the woods was rolling and eventually gave way to a dirt road, which, in turn, gave way to a paved road. I kept a slow pace on the pavement trying to minimize the impact on my joints. Before I knew it, I had crossed a field and was at the final aid station marking the thirty mile mark.
I sat down in the grass and removed as many rocks as I could from my shoes that had worked their way out from under the insole. After parting with the debris, I took a quick drink of water and started the final stretch of the course. My spirits were quite high. I was tired, hurting, hungry, and beaten down, but I was going to finish the race. I passed a few runners who had decided to walk the final three miles to the finish. The course followed a winding path that skirted the edge of the woods and farmers’ fields. Eventually, the course turned back into the woods and presented me with mud hole after mud hole. I caught up to a couple of other runners who were trying not to lose shoes in the thick, pungent sludge. Most places the mud was only about ankle deep, but there was no way of knowing how far you would sink when you took a step. Sometimes it was solid and sometimes I sank to my knee. The mud stunk and stuck to my shoes and legs to make every step heavier. We crossed a road and then re-entered the woods for another short stretch of mud and muck. Finally we started ascending a bit and the mud gave way to drier ground.
I joined two other runners in a discussion of the Tour de France and the issue of doping. As we talked, I forgot about the fatigue and even the running itself. We were moving at a slow pace, but we covered a couple miles without me even realizing it. Before crossing a short bridge, a girl passed us and said, “let’s get this over with, we’ve got less than ten minutes left.” Reality returned and I realized that I was almost finished with the daunting task that I had set out to tackle hours ago. A smile found its way onto my face and my pace quickened. After a short ascent, we came out of the woods near a pond and the grass was a manicured green. I heard someone ask if “this was it” and there was a reply of “yes.” My pace quickened as I ran toward the final hill which led to the finish line. Another runner came up on my right and we began to race each other to the hill. As we began the descent, I could slow myself down and quickly left the other runner behind. I had absolutely no control of my legs and I was worried about tumbling down the hill to the finish line, but somehow kept my balance. Just as I crossed the finish line, my calf cramped up reminding me what I’d just gone through.
As a volunteer placed the metal over my head, that familiar feeling of accomplishment that comes with finishing a difficult race came over me and all the pain melted away. I stretched out the cramp and walked under the tent as the skies opened up. Several runners I’d shared the course with came to congratulate me and make small talk after the race. We had all survived. Although I’d run sections of the race alone, I was never tackling this race alone. The culture of Jay Mountain wouldn’t allow it. We were all tackling the course with our own legs, but every runner was there in support of the entire field of competitors. It didn’t matter if someone’s finishing time was ten hours or six hours, congratulations were spread around. It was a culture I’ve never felt, or at least to that extreme, during any sort of road race. I was asked immediately after the race if I thought I’d do it again. I was unsure. There were definitely parts of the course I enjoyed, but I was remembering the difficulties, the pain. I said I needed more time to digest everything.
It’s been almost a week. Would I do it again? You bet. No one ever said I was sane.
You have to be crazy to attempt Jay Mountain and even crazier to finish. But every single person who finished that race is a certified badass, and I have no qualms about calling myself one after finishing that race.
33 miles. 8:32:20. 16:13 pace. 150th place overall, 79th in the male division. I definitely didn't set any speed records, but I finished, and that’s all that matters.
A quick look at race start quickly gave a little insight into how my day was going to go. There was a "corral" where the runners were to start. The course was flat for about ten yards beyond the starting line and then started up a steep hill. Prior to the start of the race, the race director gave a speech detailing the course and what to do if you needed to drop out, etc. As he was describing the ascent up Jay Peak, he said, "if you want to run up the peak, be my guest," and then he started laughing. As he continued to describe the course, I gave a few nervous chuckles.
At 8 am, the signal was given to begin and I started up the first hill. From the start, it looked like the hill flattened out at the top. However, once I reached the top, the course turned to the right and we entered the woods on a snowmobile trail still ascending. We continued to ascend as the snowmobile trail turned into a single-track trail in the woods. Patches of thick mud appeared at somewhat regular intervals, but they weren't too hard to avoid. After what I can only guess was a few miles, we reached a section where the terrain was so steep that there were two sections where we had to use an attached rope to help pull ourselves up the incline. The single-track trails continued as I made my way up more and more incline, with very little downhill or flat sections. Calves burning, sweating, and panting, I arrived at Aid Station #1 after 4.5 grueling miles of almost all uphill running. I downed some water and Gatorade, ate some pretzels, and snagged a few M&Ms before heading out.
Leaving Aid Station #1 found me running a short distance down a dirt road before heading back into the woods. I'd noticed the humidity prior, but it was starting to take its toll. When I reached the first brook section, I was momentarily relieved as the cool water chilled the air a few degrees. Relieved, that is, until I stepped into the water and my feet started to cramp up from the cold water temperature. I kept moving and my feet eventually gave up on trying to cramp, but the footing in the brook was quite unstable. The water ranged from ankle to waist deep and the entire brook bed consisted of slick rocks ranging in size from pebbles to large boulders. Slipping and falling was inevitable, but I tried to minimize the spills. Eventually I fell at one point and hit my knee on a large rock that was hidden below the surface of the water. A sharp pain shot up my leg and I was momentarily unable to put any weight on my leg. I limped forward as I began to wonder if I was going to have to drop out of the race. I slowly maneuvered through the brook as the flexibility returned to my knee and the pain slowly faded. People all around were falling into the frigid water. Eventually I saw an exit point and climbed the steep embankment onto the road only to find out that the course went right down the embankment on the opposite side of the road and back into the water.
I successfully navigated the remainder of the brook section without any more serious falls. As I exited the water and began to once again run uphill, the small rocks that had found their way into my shoes and socks positioned themselves into areas of extreme discomfort under my feet. As I rounded a corner after the crest of a hill, I heard clapping and cheering, which meant that Aid Station #2 was within reach. Soon I saw the welcome sight of tables of Gatorade and the knowledge that my first drop bag laid nearby. I grabbed some quick snacks and chugged some water and Gatorade before turning to the right to accept my drop bag from one of the volunteers. As I got my bag, I got my first glimpse of Jay Peak and my eyes widened in complete shock at the ascent which lay before me. "Holy Crap," I muttered as another racers just simply agreed with a "yeah." I'd seen the peak from a distance while driving to the start, but there was no way of grasping just how steep the ascent was going to be before arriving at AS #2.
Casting thoughts of my impending ascent aside, I took my drop bag and sat down in the grass. I immediately removed my shoes and socks. I wiped off my feet with a towel, put on fresh socks, and shook the rocks out of my shoes while ingesting a handful of beef jerky. I slipped my shoes back on and they had drained so well that my feet barely felt wet at all. I hopped up, put a power gel in the back pocket of my shirt, and strapped on my Camelbak. Before me stood the daunting task of a 2000 foot ascent over the course of the next 1.7 miles. I handed my drop bag back to one of the volunteers and started a slow jog uphill, but quickly realized that I would not be running to the peak. I joined the scores of other runners who had relented to the mountain and were making the hike to the summit. The trail became steeper and steeper as I wound my way toward the sky. Breathing heavily and sweating I kept putting one foot in front of the other as my calves burned intensely. As I passed other runners or other runners passed me, everyone inquired how I was doing, gave a quick vote of confidence, or joked about the insanity of the race. I was beginning to realize that this was not a race but a test of human endurance and will, and that we were all in it together.
The temperature dropped as the wind picked up and carried dark clouds with it. The promised thunderstorms appeared as if they were going to make a visit after all. About 3/4 of the way up the mountain I decided I needed a little boost of energy so I ingested the PowerGel to try and power me through to the summit. As I rounded a corner, I saw some runners coming down on another trail from the summit. I knew I had to be close, but a brutal climb still stretched out in front of me. I reached the summit with several other runners to the applause of a small crowd at Aid Station #3. I grabbed some food and drank some Gatorade before removing my shoes to
pick out a few straggling rocks that had made their presence known the entire assault on the summit. Ten miles down. Twenty-three to go and my legs already felt like jelly.
I started the descent thinking that I could easily cruise down the mountain and recover a bit before tackling the remainder of the course. What I found out was that although the descent was faster, it definitely wasn't any easier. The route down was just as steep as the ascent. If I were to
let gravity do all the work I'd pick up way too much speed and likely end up tumbling down about 2000 feet. Trying to slow my progress was painful on the knees and quite difficult. The process of slowing my rate of speed caused my foot to slide to the front of my shoe on each step. With the
quick rate of descent, the friction caused between my foot and the shoe quickly created an intense heat, which began to make my feet burn. I was actually worried that I would literally scorch my feet to the point of blisters, but I had no way to stop the action of my foot sliding in my
shoe. As the landscape continued to drop away in front of me, short, wooden bridges covered a series of small ravines that gave me relief, albeit very short, from the burning of my feet.
Eventually the angle of the descent eased to something a bit more manageable as we re-entered the woods and began the bushwhacking section. This stretch of "trail" was simply marked by flagging tape and arrow signs; there was no actual trail. The mud was thick and there was no way to avoid it as I kept an eye out for the next course marker. Legs heavy with caked mud, I continued to forge my way through the thick trees and undergrowth losing the course several times. The 4.5 miles from the summit of Jay to Aid Station #4 seemed more like 45 miles, but I eventually came upon the Aid Station where I grabbed liquids and food to recharge. My legs really felt beat down and I was wondering how I was going to summon the strength to complete another 19 miles of insanity.
Leaving AS #4 the course treated me to a couple miles of packed gravel roads. Initially, I was quite glad to have a surface a bit more familiar, but I quickly realized that the harder surface was causing some pain in my knees. I enjoyed the mostly flat and downhill terrain, but I was, somehow, almost wishing to be back in the woods fighting through shin-deep mud. The friendly banter among runners continued as veterans of the course laughed about wondering why they were doing the course again before revealing that they'd likely be back again next year. This seems to be common among runners. Days after a grueling race, we seem to forget all about the pain and suffering, only remembering the challenge and the fun parts of the race. Then about 15 miles into the next race we question why we are doing it again. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
The gravel road behind me, I re-entered the woods and found myself once again fighting through mud, dirt, and gallons of sweat. The sweat was making its way into my eyes and I had no way of preventing it. Hands caked in mud, I could relieve my stinging eyes, and so I squinted, grunted and kept putting one aching foot in front of the other. I navigated a short brook section, saying hello to the locals that were sitting on their back porches watching the runners stumble through the water.
I eventually arrived at Aid Station #5 and grabbed some salty boiled potatoes. A couple of the other runners were worriedly discussing making AS #6 before the 6 hour cut-off. We had an hour and twenty minutes to make the mere 4.5 miles from AS #5 to AS #6, but the average travel time between the two was 90 minutes with the fastest ever being 45 minutes. I quickly stuffed my face with food and drink before departing not wanting to be cut off. Shortly after leaving behind AS #5, I remembered that the cut off had been extended due to the longer course and the wet conditions of the course. I ran along a mowed path through a field as I talked with an older gentleman who had previously run the full and the half marathons, so he knew the course relatively well. I knew there was an impending ominous stretch of brook running before I made it to the next aid station, but it seemed to never arrive. We crossed a waist deep stream and then went back into the woods. I found myself running alone through the woods up and down hills and through the mud. Finally, after a very steep descent, I arrived at the next brook section. Relieved to cool off in the water, I quickly felt small rocks make their home under my feet as I navigated the frigid waters. In several places the course returned to the steep embankments through the thick dirt before spitting me back out into the water. Every time I took a weird step, my calves tried to cramp up. I had to clamor over large rock formations along the bank several times to avoid waterfalls and deep pools of water.
I exited the brook and moved up a steep section of trail that meandered through the woods. I was glad to be done with the brook section, until I turned the corner and realized that the trail had only detoured through the woods to take me around a very large waterfall that was obviously too dangerous for runners to attempt. There was an unmanned water station just before the makeshift stairs back down to the brook. I quickly filled my camelbak with water and re-entered the brook. Under my feet was an army of small rocks creating discomfort on every step. Now my hips joined my quads in their relentless effort to cramp. The course left and returned to the brook several times before finally leaving behind the gurgling stream. I felt as if I had to be closing in on the next aid station, but i really had no idea since my watch decided to quit working prior to the race. I fell in behind a trio of friends who were running the race together and we made our way through the woods. Another runner caught up to us as we found ourselves in the "swamp" on a single-track trail that was nearly impossible to run through. The ground consisted of trampled dried grasses, thick mud, and multitudes of puddles of water. The grass around us was eye level and was only broken up by areas where the water formed small lakes. Small tree stumps and fallen limbs slowed our progress as we passed a beaver dam on our right. Fighting to avoid mud, it eventually became inevitable what we had to run through it. I took a couple falls in the mud as did the other four runners I was with. The heat through the swamp area was sweltering. We finally left behind the swamp, but in accordance with the rest of the course, just as you are glad to be done with a section, the course presents another ridiculous obstacle.
The obstacle this time was yet another steep hill, which found most runners walking. The course went past a driveway and found its way onto a primitive dirt road. The road continued to climb. I knew the river crossing was before Aid Station #6, so I was wondering when we’d return to a lower altitude to where a river would lie. The road made a few plunges and each time I hoped the river would be soon, but I was disappointed each time. The course was beginning to beat me down both physically and mentally. As hunger pangs grew in my stomach, my mind began to shift to negative thoughts. I started thinking that I could stop and never run again. I thought that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I didn’t make it to the next aid station before the cut off. Twenty-four miles of the course was tough enough. Of course I wasn’t thinking clearly because if I got cut off, I would be quite disappointed later. The road gave way to more single track through the woods and my pace slowed to what must have been a hybrid of running and walking. I was doing the motions of running, but I was probably moving as fast as walking. I was running alone and my mental state was rapidly declining rapidly when I finally heard some people yelling “whoo hoo!” I figured it HAD to be the river crossing. I picked up my pace, rounded a corner and saw the river.
My mental state improved dramatically knowing that AS #6 was on the other side of the river, I had made it prior to the cut-off, I could feed my growling stomach, and I could ditch my camelback. I grabbed a hold of the rope and hopped in the river. The water felt splendid as I used my upper body to move across the river allowing my legs some much needed rest. I climbed the ladder and came out of the water ready to get to the aid station that had to be near by. I headed up a hill with a group of other runners, but the trail just kept going. Where was the aid station? I was under the impression that the aid station was just after the river crossing, but apparently “just after” to the Race Director meant another half mile uphill through single-track trails.
I FINALLY reached Aid Station #6, gathered my drop bag, and sat down a little over 6 hours after starting the race. Twenty Four miles in six hours! I finished the 60K (37.2 miles) in six and a half hours without even training for it. This race is insane. I once again pulled off my shoes and socks, dried off my feet, and attempted to remove as many rocks as possible. I ate a PB&J, stuffed beef jerky into my jersey pock along with a PowerGel and some Shot Bloks, and drank Gatorade. I went to the table and grazed on the different foods available. I had made AS #6 and avoided the cut-off. I could take my time on the next nine miles and make the finish. I’d made twenty-four miles, how hard could the next nine be?
I left the aid station in a slow jog, but quickly slowed to a walk as I decided to go ahead and eat all my beef jerky on the move to replenish the salts and try to curtail my muscle cramps. A quarter of a mile or so after the aid station, I came to a rather steep hill and figured it must be what the race director had called the “hill from hell” during his pre-race speech. I could see why. At this point in the race, and hill was going to be bad. I decided to walk it and just finish off my beef jerky since most people were walking anyway. When I crested the hill and came to a flat section, I realized just how hard the next nine miles could be. The hill I had just walked suddenly became very small as I stared at the real “hill from hell” that stood in front of me. I couldn’t even see the top of the hill because it rose for what looked like miles. Every runner on the hill was walking and they looked like ants slowly moving up the landscape. I jogged the flat section and moved onto the hill. I joined my other runners in walking the hill. I had a few more short conversations on the brutal ascent which was over a mile and just as steep as sections of Jay Peak. Eventually, I made it up the hill, which seemed like more of a mountain, and the course moved on to some rough logging roads. I was once again running by myself. My mental state was in limbo. I knew I was going to finish, but the course was really taking its toll on me. I felt like I had plenty of energy, but my legs were very fatigued and it was getting harder and harder to keep lifting my feet and move them forward. I eventually heard clapping and saw a woman with her dog who gave words of encouragement. I knew I was near Aid Station #7! I moved off the dirt road and onto the paved road and picked up my pace. There was a line of people cheering and a couple of volunteers on four-wheelers. I was perplexed though, as I didn’t see the actual station. I passed the four-wheelers and realized that the aid station wasn’t there. I was absolutely crushed. I followed another dirt road, which began to rise and I just started walking. All the positive energy had been sucked out of me.
A race veteran passed me and said, “good idea to save your energy, there’s a big sand dune coming up.” What little energy I had drained from my body and I just hung my head as I trudged along. I rounded a few more corners and started down a curved sandy road when I spotted the sand dune. It was massive. The first level of the dune was about fifty steep feet. There was a short flat section and then the dune continued up for another at least one hundred feet. I started making my way up the dune. I had to use my hands to scramble up the incline due to the insane angle of the dune. Once I reached the top, the course ambled back into the woods and up a steep hill on more single track trails. After about a half mile, I found myself running along a narrow trail next to a cornfield. In the distance I could hear cheering, and I knew that the aid station was indeed nearby this time. I ran around the perimeter of the cornfield and spotted the aid station on the other side of the road. Once there, I relished the fact that I only had five short miles left before I would have completed the race.
I ate some more boiled potatoes and drank a small amount of Pepsi while I reflected on the twenty-eight miles that I felt in my legs. I was worried about the next section of the course. The next aid station was a mere two miles away, which lead me to believe that it was going to be a difficult two miles. I pushed some branches away and moved into the woods again at a slow pace. The landscape through the woods was rolling and eventually gave way to a dirt road, which, in turn, gave way to a paved road. I kept a slow pace on the pavement trying to minimize the impact on my joints. Before I knew it, I had crossed a field and was at the final aid station marking the thirty mile mark.
I sat down in the grass and removed as many rocks as I could from my shoes that had worked their way out from under the insole. After parting with the debris, I took a quick drink of water and started the final stretch of the course. My spirits were quite high. I was tired, hurting, hungry, and beaten down, but I was going to finish the race. I passed a few runners who had decided to walk the final three miles to the finish. The course followed a winding path that skirted the edge of the woods and farmers’ fields. Eventually, the course turned back into the woods and presented me with mud hole after mud hole. I caught up to a couple of other runners who were trying not to lose shoes in the thick, pungent sludge. Most places the mud was only about ankle deep, but there was no way of knowing how far you would sink when you took a step. Sometimes it was solid and sometimes I sank to my knee. The mud stunk and stuck to my shoes and legs to make every step heavier. We crossed a road and then re-entered the woods for another short stretch of mud and muck. Finally we started ascending a bit and the mud gave way to drier ground.
I joined two other runners in a discussion of the Tour de France and the issue of doping. As we talked, I forgot about the fatigue and even the running itself. We were moving at a slow pace, but we covered a couple miles without me even realizing it. Before crossing a short bridge, a girl passed us and said, “let’s get this over with, we’ve got less than ten minutes left.” Reality returned and I realized that I was almost finished with the daunting task that I had set out to tackle hours ago. A smile found its way onto my face and my pace quickened. After a short ascent, we came out of the woods near a pond and the grass was a manicured green. I heard someone ask if “this was it” and there was a reply of “yes.” My pace quickened as I ran toward the final hill which led to the finish line. Another runner came up on my right and we began to race each other to the hill. As we began the descent, I could slow myself down and quickly left the other runner behind. I had absolutely no control of my legs and I was worried about tumbling down the hill to the finish line, but somehow kept my balance. Just as I crossed the finish line, my calf cramped up reminding me what I’d just gone through.
As a volunteer placed the metal over my head, that familiar feeling of accomplishment that comes with finishing a difficult race came over me and all the pain melted away. I stretched out the cramp and walked under the tent as the skies opened up. Several runners I’d shared the course with came to congratulate me and make small talk after the race. We had all survived. Although I’d run sections of the race alone, I was never tackling this race alone. The culture of Jay Mountain wouldn’t allow it. We were all tackling the course with our own legs, but every runner was there in support of the entire field of competitors. It didn’t matter if someone’s finishing time was ten hours or six hours, congratulations were spread around. It was a culture I’ve never felt, or at least to that extreme, during any sort of road race. I was asked immediately after the race if I thought I’d do it again. I was unsure. There were definitely parts of the course I enjoyed, but I was remembering the difficulties, the pain. I said I needed more time to digest everything.
It’s been almost a week. Would I do it again? You bet. No one ever said I was sane.
You have to be crazy to attempt Jay Mountain and even crazier to finish. But every single person who finished that race is a certified badass, and I have no qualms about calling myself one after finishing that race.
33 miles. 8:32:20. 16:13 pace. 150th place overall, 79th in the male division. I definitely didn't set any speed records, but I finished, and that’s all that matters.