the highlands lowlife.

In light of the goings on at the Laurel Highlands Ultra yesterday, I’ve been doing a little research.  I’ve unearthed hard evidence—the written word, people—to confirm that everyone, every living THING even, poops.

That’s certainly a relief, though it appears some ones, some THINGS, do it with a bit more frequency and at more inopportune times than others.

Perhaps I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself.

I’ve been taking part in the festivities at the Laurel Highlands Ultra for the last 3 years, first as the opening leg of the 50K relay, then as a full 50K participant and, finally, signing on for the full 70.5 miler this year.  My first 19.2 miles would also be considered the first leg of Backcountry Edge’s 70.5-mile relay.

The first year, I attacked the course like I thought I should, having only to cover a little more than 11 miles before handing off to the next runner.  I pounded the downhills, shot the quads I really could’ve used on the grind of a climb that lives at miles 6-7.5, puked a bit.  I actually ran a pretty good time, as I recall, only to discover that my fellow team members had been directed to checkpoint #1 instead of aid station #1, meaning that they were 9 miles away by trail and a lot more than that by the roads that eventually got them back to me.  In the meantime, I proceeded to cramp up in seemingly every muscle I possessed.

Last year, I had all kinds of digestive issues that very nearly ended my day and pushed my finish time out to the very brink of acceptable qualifying standards.

Despite all that calamity, it was impossible to not be smitten with the indescribable beauty of this little corner of the world with its sustained high perch above the rolling valleys below, endless acres of deciduous forest, numerous streams, sprawling fern meadows, laurel thickets, rocky outcroppings and mile after mile of siren song singletrack.

Couple that with the fact that I’d been granted privileged acceptance into a tribe of damn fine trail runners (and even better people), the Laurel Highlands Ultra, in spite of its seeming determination to break my body and spirit, had become my absolute favorite of favorite races.

Hence the decision to sign up for the full 70 and coaxed my friends and co-workers to join in the fun.

By early Friday evening, the tribe had reunited in the tiny, picturesque whitewater rafting mecca of Ohiopyle in a collection of small lodges a couple hundred yards from the race start, new introductions had been made and our potluck feast was served.  Food consumed and dishes done, we meandered down to the banks of the Youghiogheny River to snap a group photo before settling into our individual pre-race preparations and attempts at sleeping before the 5:30 AM start.

My feet and legs felt great and together with my mind, bolstered by wise and friendly (for the most part friendly) reminders to calm down and start slow, the whole body settled quickly and easily into a surprisingly good night of sleep.

Waking together, the Backcountry Edge crew talked through race details and got ready to head down  to race packet pickup.  I was just about to leave the lodge when I was pleased to find my body ready for a sit-down bathroom break while I toilet was still ready available.  

Always good to get that out of the way early.

We mingled with the rest of the tribe and a sea of other friendly, anxious (many familiar) faces, snapped a couple of photos and said our “see you laters” to those not about to immediately run.  In what felt like no time at all, the massed crowd pressed forward across the parking lot and made its first steps up into the Highlands.

Temperatures, I’m guessing, were in the mid-to-upper 60’s to start with the sun still slightly below the horizon and little humidity, certainly by prior year’s standards.  The only clouds in the sky were of the big, puffy, completely non-threatening variety.  In other words, conditions couldn’t have been much, if any, better.

Kelly and I ran side by side, chatting a bit, and keeping things well under control.  I’m guessing he was just doing what he does and I was doing my best to try and do what he does too.  He’s way out of my league at long distances and has accumulated experience enough in the last year-and-a-half to outweigh   what I’m likely to amass before my legs or mind finally stop working (let’s hope that’s not next year).  That said, I also knew he’d been under the weather the entire week, a week that his body would otherwise have been fully attending to its recovery from a super strong performance at the Old Dominion 100 the weekend before.

With those factors in play, I thought there was some chance that we’d separate a bit early in the race with me getting out ahead to await his stalking me down and blowing by me a couple of hours later.  This happened somewhere along the line in an early climb but as I was still half awake, I failed to make note of exactly when it happened.  If you’d have asked me then for a prediction, I would probably have placed my bet on Kelly catching up/passing me by somewhere around miles 15-20 and sooner than that if I got impatient and failed to control my pace.

Derek and Kema had gotten out early to hike up the trail and say "good mornings" to the passing runners.  I was locked in some kind of thought as I passed them by and almost missed them entirely.  I'd have kicked myself if I had and hearing Derek's voice was just another unspoken reminder to keep things in check.

By inadvertently getting tucked in behind 3 or 4 conservative runners on some of the early climbs, I held my pace in check, following their lead and power-hiking sections that I would likely have run if left to my own devices.  Eventually, as I found myself pausing for moments to keep from hiking right up and over the next runner, I made polite conversation as I passed them and picked things up just a hair.

At some point, I glanced over to my right and noticed the incredible view that peeked from time to time through keyholes in the heavy foliage.  Somewhere far down below, the Yough snaked through the valley and just above it huddled a blanket of fog that we were climbing higher and higher above.  It was the kind of view that more than justifies stopping to dig a camera out of your pack regardless of what time you're chasing.

Soon thereafter, the trail tumbled back downward into the descent that had cooked my quads a few years back.  A runner just behind me, apparently a member of the good-as-they-come Virginia Happy Trails Club, made reference to this being the "crime" portion of the crime-and-punishment that is the first 8 miles of the LH 70.

Punishment would come soon enough on the long, long, yep-still-going climb up from mile 6. Here's a photo I snapped after looking back over my shoulder during an early section of the climb.  This picture ranks highly on the doesn't-tell-the-story meter, you can appreciate the fact that this is the view, in either direction, for many, many minutes.  In 2010, I can remember thinking I'd sell what little kingdom I possess for just a single switchback.

But, in all honesty, I handled the hill.  I certainly didn't master it and it was plenty hard work, but I emerged at the top surprised that there wasn't more climbing to be done and pleased to not feel nearly as diminished at the top as I'd been in years past.

My stomach was holding up and I was getting down and holding down plenty of fluids.  The next few miles are runnable and beautiful.  I picked up the pace just a tick to offset all of slow climbing that came before.  By the time I reached the first aid station, a little bit beyond the 11-mile point, I was well aware of the work I'd done, but still feeling pretty good and anxious to knock out the next 9 miles and run together with Kalyn as she took over relay duties at the first checkpoint situated at 19.2 miles.

All systems were go and the next couple of miles passed relatively uneventfully.   My legs and stomach felt great and I was soaking up the view that I'd failed to take in during my dehydrated low points the year before.

The trail hooked to the right and traced the shoreline of the little lake that I only vaguely remembered from the year prior.  A blue heron was perched on a far snag and all was right with the world.

And then, no more than 10-20 minutes after snapping that photo, I crapped my pants.

Not really, but it sure felt like I was going to.  Most of this course in under the cover of trees, but the old growth leaves little room for new trees and is, for the most part, wide open beneath the canopy except for lower-to-the-ground growth like laurel, ferns and poison ivy. A quick inspection of the landscape ahead didn't suggest much privacy for the pit stop that was threatening to happen whether voluntarily or involuntarily.

Voluntarily sounded preferable so I clambered off the trail for 20-30 yards where a slight slope allowed me to crouch just barely out of view to any on-trail passerby.  Fourteen or fifteen miles into the day, most runners were likely to be staring at that familiar spot about 5-10 feet out ahead of the next footfall anyway.  Still, it was humbling.

Let's be clear.  Day to day, I'm regular.  Solid, but regular.

You wanted to know, right?

At that moment, I was anything but solid.  Anything butt.

The stop took longer (duh) that I wanted it to and except for pausing to offer silent praise to whomever invented wet wipes, I went ahead and cursed everything else.  I'd been alone on the trail for a mile or two and was greatly disliking the sound of several pairs of feet shuffling past me.  I couldn't care less about my position in the race, but the idea of dropping further off pace was a downer.

Anything butt falling behind.

Back on my feet, I was slightly relieved to find that I didn't have any immediate lingering discomfort from the stop and hoped that maybe, just maybe, that would be the last of it.  As I though of hours on end of gels, shots, sports drinks and copious amounts of sweat, I had my doubts.

No more than a mile later, I was off the trail again, crouching over another Ohiopyle of my own making.  The initial stop took longer than the first and the output was less solid than before.  Holy shit was I regular!

As I rose out of my crouch, determined to get back on the trail and off toward the aid station ASAP, my bowels commanded to get right back into the assumed position I'd just vacated.  That was the moment that I also realized that I was sweating profusely and hot, hot, someone-please-anyone-turn-the-hose-on-me hot.

I cleaned up yet again and kicked through the underbrush back to the trail.  I didn't take more than a step or two before I realized I'd left my pack and two handheld bottles back at the scene of the latest (forget the downhills) crime.  I cursed aloud and cringed at the fact that my mind had chosen to go with "SHIT!".

Pack and bottles retrieved, I set my mind on Checkpoint #1 and actually settled back into a pretty brisk pace.  I was so, so hot even though I could feel that the air around me was still pleasantly cool and, having lived through merciless Pennsylvania summers my entire life, there was no mistaking the absence of humidity.  The wheels, as they (bastards) say, we're coming off.

I began using my handhelds at every creek crossing (thankfully, there were several) to pour water over my head, the back of my neck and across my shoulders.  I'd refill before actually leaving the creek and would resoak myself as soon as I began to dry and again become aware of my temperature.

My strength had noticeably flagged after each of my first two pit stops and after one more scramble into the woods to drop my shorts, I was flatlining pretty hard.  A couple people passed by and offered aid, but I wasn't lucky enough to cross paths with anyone dealing Imodium.  Forget switchbacks, my kingdom for a swig of Pepto!

No such luck.

There's one last kicker of a hill to clamber up before reaching Checkpoint #1 and Bobby caught me from behind right about then.  I'd be curious to know what kind of diarrhea-addled nonsense I spewed at him but maybe it's best I don't remember.  I do know I was having one hell of a time convincing my legs to get me up that hill and it's one I would've gobbled up on a  normal day.  A regular day.

I do think I managed to mumble something about keeping an eye out for Kalyn as I knew full well I was going to have to hope she could run her leg without the company I'd promised.  I was holding out hope that I could get myself put back together at the aid station, but I didn't expect that it was going to happen quickly.

Jefferson suddenly appeared in front of me on the trail and, while I can't imagine I did a good job of expressing it, I was happy to see him.  I couldn't be far now.

As Jefferson reports it, my first words to him were "I need to be somewhere".  As idiotic as that must have sounded, it wasn't far from the truth.

He walked me in (I'm assuming we were walking, I don't actually remember) and Kalyn was off-and-running.  The guilt washed over me as she disappeared up the trail and I tried to embrace the mystical restorative powers that dwell in aid stations.  In my peripheral vision, I could see held looks that confirmed that I must have looked at least as awful as I felt, if not worse.  Drinks were fetched and two packets of Imodium appeared in my hand.  Unfortunately, the shivering kicked in right about then and it seemed to take an eternity for Jefferson to realize that, despite my best efforts, I was failing miserably at prying those godforsaken pills from their foil-encased resting places.  Had he not noticed, I think I might still be sitting there bending and twisting the packets back-and-forth.

I have no idea how long I sat there listening to ludicrous but incredibly entertaining discourses on flavors of Gatorade from one of the young aid station volunteers while Jo and Jefferson brought me cups of the generic soda I kept pointing at and tracking down additional layers of clothing to try and get my shaking to stop.

By then, we'd gotten word that Kelly wasn't progressing very quickly and likely suffering the full impact of a week without much in the way of food or recovery.  I had reached the aid station way ahead of its cutoff time and, at least in theory, still had plenty of day to traverse the full course if I could just get things back under control.  I made up my mind that if Kelly made the cutoff and had any intention of going on, I'd give it a shot too.

I won't deny the selfish relief I felt as he finally walked into the aid station and removed the pack from his back.  There was no mistaking body language that said "I will run some other day."  It spoke for both of us.

So, that was that.  Another day, another DNF.

I prepped myself to deal with the shame and put on a supportive face for my teammates, my friends and all the other runners still on the course.

But, a funny thing happened.  I didn't need to put on any face at all.  In fact, I just needed to get out of the way of the smile that soon crept out and stayed put for the rest of what turned out to be another incredibly joyful day in the Highlands.

It was impossible to not remain completely psyched and engaged by the progress of our relay team.

Kalyn plowed soldiered through miles 19.2-32 like she'd been doing it for years, despite the fact that this was her first real trail run and, being that her leg was a bit over 13 miles, her first half-marathon too!  Concern and guilt sent me backtracking from Checkpoint #2 to be the first to see Kalyn as she approached the handoff, but it was washed away by the pride and elation I felt as she appeared with her beaming trademark smile so I could give her a bearhug before urging her on the aid station.  It's a moment I will truly cherish. 

After being keyed up to run from the moment runners left the start line at 5:30 AM (see evidence below), Jefferson devoured the third leg.

 Tim was chomping at the bit too by the time Jefferson raced up the hill and into Checkpoint #3.  Though he's unlikely to give himself the credit he deserves (as is his way), Tim further padded our time cushion before passing the final baton to Taylor.

Taylor left the last checkpoint with a question mark of a knee and a 3-mile technical and, by the time he'd get there, in-the-dark descent before reaching the end of the trail.  He ran like an animal, blazed into the finish and radiated with the joy of exceeding his own expectations. I got to deliver yet another well deserved hug that I'll remember always.

As a team, we had no idea what to expect in terms of a finishing time and I would surely have been proud of us for just making the 3:30 AM cutoff time.

Taylor crossed the line just minutes ahead of 10:00 PM.

Photo courtesy of Kelly and Jo Agnew

Enos, whom I'd met the night before, had breezed into and blown through the aid station while I was regrouping on his way to an impressive 2nd place finish in the 50K.  Ron and Bobby were clearly locked in and knocked out their first 70-milers in 20 hours.  Ron's wife Jo completed the 50K and made her way to a later checkpoint and caught up with the crew at a later aid station.  Randy missed a cutoff on the 50K and was swept from the course but had himself another great day in the woods and retained the indomitable spirit that makes him so beloved.  He's already made it clear he'll be back next year.

My only regret for those members of the tribe who saw the course through the whole way to the end is that they missed out on hours and hours of laughter with the rest of us.  If I think on it too long, I might just start attending races instead of bothering to race them.  I'd share a story or two or ten, but this post has already reached epic (or, if you prefer, too damn long for anyone to possibly bother reading the whole thing) length.

I will say this, to suggest that one hasn't lived until a next door neighbor has knocked on the door with a plate of shit asking if it belongs to your dog is clearly a ridiculous statement.  I would, however, argue that to say  you haven't lived until you've heard that full story is hardly a stretch.

I am strangely happy that my loose and unhappy bowels were the reason that story got told.

Long, long (how-much-longer?) story short, I had a wonderful day and a wonderful weekend with as wonderful a group of friends as one could ever hope to have.  It's how we do it in the Highlands.  It's how we've done it and it's how we're going to keep on doing it.

Only next time, I'm bring the Imodium and unwrapping them ahead of time.

one bad hat.

I turned the key, opened the driver's side door and eased into the seat.

In my peripheral vision I could see other runners approaching the finishing chute of the 24th annual The HAT Run 50K in Havre de Grace, Maryland.  The torrential rain of earlier in the day had tapered to a fine drizzle but everything remained gray, gray, gray.  Instinctively, I grabbed the Nathan vest that I'd just plopped down in the passenger seat and stepped back out of the car.  As soon as my weight shifted onto my left foot, I felt the stabbing pain that had brought me there in the first place.

I collapsed back into the seat, pulled the door shut behind me, lowered my head to the steering wheel and sobbed.

The HAT consists of three laps, one short  3.6 starting loop, followed by two consecutive 13.7 mile loops.  At the end of each loop, you pass through the finishing area and directly beneath a pavilion just beyond the actual finishing line.  It's a neat feature and guarantees contact with friends and family should they choose to hang around and wait for your return trips.

Anyone at the pavilion at that moment had just completed the first of the two final loops and had another 13.7 miles to go before collecting a finisher's medal and the satisfaction of having completed one of the oldest, most esteemed 50K events.

I'd been in that very spot about 15 minutes earlier.  The preceding 7 miles had been, to be blunt, miserable.  As my four loyal readers are well aware, I struggle in the mud.  My flat feet hold up for a bit but end up failing to give me any lift and the more tired they get and/or the muddier the course becomes, my shoes begin slipping out from beneath me and "tired" begins to give way to pain.

Such was certainly the case today and though I moved along comfortably for the first 7-8 miles, by that point I could feel things starting to break down.  I vaguely remember mentioning something to Todd, in one of the moments that I caught him from behind as (and only because) he slowed to fuel, about recognizing that this was going to become a matter of "course management" which is my idiot code for picking my spots as my body (and perhaps my mind) begins to go.

The next mile to a mile-and-a-half was mostly downhill which is not my strong suit to begin with but especially on singletrack that has gone to mush.  I'd begun daydreaming of Ibuprofen as we hit a sustained stretch of paved road.

Ouch.

I prayed for dirt as that road seemed to go on forever.   It didn't.  We probably weren't on that surface for much more than a mile, but I got beat up.

By the time we were back on the trail, even after downing a couple of those dreams-answered pills, I was having trouble maintaining my footing even when power hiking and staying on my feet meant waves of pain in the instep of my left foot and across the top of my right foot that were making me run with my eyes closed on the road and on non-technical trail sections that I thought I could manage without breaking an ankle.

Cardio was never an issue and I actually enjoyed all of the climbs when the ground didn't give way beneath my feet.  There are a ton of ascents, supposedly 9,800 feet (if you finish the whole thing) of climb, but they aren't long, few of them are very steep and, compared to back home, they aren't technical.  Of course, feeling pretty fresh otherwise only made the arch troubles more irritating.

And, if you can't stay upright, you've got problems.

And I certainly had problems.

There were two more road sections before we hit the end of the loop, including one long (to me) downhill section that was just torture.  The long climb on muddy singletrack that waited at the bottom of that road was a welcome transition in my book.

Except it meant more mud.

When we reached the pavilion, I was pretty done in, but spent a good 5-10 minutes regrouping.  Fueling hadn't been an issue.  I'd eaten and downed fluids at every aid station and my stomach gave me no complaints.  I consumed more of both and thought about more Ibuprofen but knew I was pushing my luck, having taken some just a few miles back.

As much as I was hurting, I stuck there long enough to convince myself that I was going to grit my teeth and finish the race.  I gave my usual thanks to anyone within earshot for being there to help us runners out and started on my way.

About 30-40 yards out from the pavilion, there is a short jumble of rough-hewn rock steps.  This spot had served as a bottleneck earlier in the day and I was relieved to see that it was unclogged at the moment.  I stepped from the grass onto the first rock and got a shockwave of pain in my left arch that made me purposely drop onto my rear end.  I didn't stay there long but in climbing back up onto my feet and feeling that same sensation with the next step, I was pretty sure my day was over and I'd just rung up another DNF.

So, I sobbed. 

Like I haven't in a long, long time.

Like an I-can't-even-begin-to-imagine-when-I-last kinda long time.

I sobbed because I'd failed.  Again.  Because I was weak and wanted to be strong.  As strong as I thought I should be.  As strong as I know other people are and maybe, just maybe, think that I am.

I sobbed because I'd become an athlete who can't be counted on to finish what he's started.  A quitter.  There's already enough doubt to deal with in long-distance running.  I didn't need a growing list of drops to shake my confidence any further in low moments on long races.

And then I really sobbed because I was sobbing in the first place about a race.  About a run in the woods.  A voluntary, arguably meaningless bit of semi-reality in an otherwise all too real world.

I sobbed because I have a lovely, precious wife who possesses shoulders that can't help but hoist the whole world upon them even though they aren't built (as if any shoulders are) to carry such a weight.  I sobbed because she suffers inescapable physical pain on a daily basis, not because she choose an activity that unnecessarily subjects her to it, but because her eye is threatening to quit, to stop delivering visual signals to her brain and, as if that alone isn't bad enough, does bother to deliver ample amounts of pain and discomfort.

I sobbed because my children were going to have to watch me hobble around the house and refrain from our usual rough-housing because I choose to spend my free time beating the living shit out of myself.

What a selfish son-of-a-bitch (just an expression, Mother).

And somewhere right about then, as though I'd been deaf up until that moment, my ears picked up the actual sound of my sobbing (last time I use the word, I promise).  And somewhere right about then, I began laughing hysterically.

The sound issuing from my throat was absolutely, undeniably ridiculous.

The idea of someone passing by my car, seeing me crying and hearing THAT sound that was coming out of me was even more undeniably ridiculous.

And the sound of my laughter reminded me of the laughs I'd shared earlier in the  day with old, dear friends.  Dear friends who I would not even know without my little hobby.  I'd had warm, felt-like-old-times conversations with new folks too, strangers up until that very second, and each and every one of those conversations included laughter.

Finishers medal or not, I'd just experienced another day of, yes, failures, but also shared moments.  Trail runs, even those with several hundred participants, serve up quiet, open corridors of openness and sharing that continue to amaze me and, obviously, keep me coming back.

Frankly, the sound of my laughter was a bit ridiculous too and I suppose I wouldn't have looked any less crazy sitting in my car laughing than I would have crying.  But, laughing sure felt better, at least after the purge of crying.

My wife would be waiting at home.  In our way, a way that I expect all happy couples do, we would relieve each other of at least a bit of the weight of existence.  I knew, at least, that she would me.

Lily and Piper would be there too and, regardless of whether my feet were wrapped in ice (and they would be), they would be thrilled to see me and full of stories from the night at Memma and Pop-Pops and the bouncy-house birthday party that had filled their day.  My finishing or not finishing wasn't going to mean much to them one way or the other, so, on that front, I'd done no damage.

How much can one bad HAT hurt?  Bad enough to try again next year, I bet...

...IF it doesn't rain.

the higher the bounce (week 15).

The day before heading to Clinton County for the Hyner View Trail Challenge , I sprung for Chinese and was greeted with the following fortune:

Considering the questionable state of my Achilles, the demands of the Hyner course under the best of conditions and the horrendous weather report for the weekend ahead, I didn't like the sound of falling or bouncing.

My legs actually felt quite good and the right Achilles seemed to have quieted down during a low mileage week and with the aid of diligent icing and heating.  I'd managed a fairly demanding (though not long) run in the rain on Tuesday, clambering up and down Mole Hill in the closest mimic of Hyner I could find within easy striking distance.  Steering clear of my most stripped down footwear, I stuck with my relatively burly Montrail Mountain Masochists.

I sometimes forget how much I genuinely like these shoes and I definitely appreciated the extra support during this forced taper.  Eking out sub-10 minute miles on Mole Hill with recovering legs left me hopeful for Hyner.

Chris and I pulled up in front of the start/finish around 9:00 PM on Friday night and found few inhabitants.  The National Weather Service had issued a wind advisory for much of Pennsylvania and heavy rains were projected for Saturday morning and afternoon.  Temperatures hovered just above 50 degrees Fahrenheit but threatened to plummet.  We spent little time considering putting up a tent and agreed that Chris's minivan had ample room for both of us to sleep comfortably.  Listening throughout the night to the van bracing against the increasing gusts, I felt thankful to be "indoors" and wondered what sunrise would bring.

We awoke an hour-and-a-half before the 8:30 AM start to find participants starting to assemble.  Twelve-hundred runners and hikers had signed up for the 16-mile event but we wondered how many would show with the forecasted conditions.  The start was pushed back nearly a half hour due to overnight winds that had toppled one of the support tents.  It was apparent that many who had signed up stayed away when we saw volunteers with fistfuls of unclaimed race bibs.

Knowing that we had little more than a mile before the course settled into climbing single track, Chris and I inched up in the pack.  The maneuver paid off as we left the road behind with no more than 40 or 50 runners ahead of us, all of whom were holding a steady pace.

The first climb up Humble Hill came upon us almost immediately and I was thrilled to find that I felt strong.  I wasn't strong enough to run much of the climb (few were), but strong enough to maintain forward progress on the ridiculously steep pitch.

Just over 3 miles into the race, we'd climbed 1200 feet and reached the first top out at Hyner View, a popular launching point for hang gliders.  The wind was whipping and I was shocked to see my mother, stepfather, aunt and uncle waiting with Lily and Piper.  I knew they'd planned to attend the event but thought the weather would keep them away.  My initial excitement was immediately tempered by the realization that Lily was visibly shaking in the cold.  I spent several minutes with the kids before continuing on my way.  Chris had trucked right through the top out and was long gone.  I wouldn't see him again until we were both done racing for the day.

I was feeling some stiffness in the Achilles but nothing too concerning. Overall I felt solid.  The next 3 miles consisted mostly of downhill running which saved my lungs but had me second guessing my footing.  An extended section of side hill running found the trail basically disintegrating underfoot,  putting undue strain on my outside leg (which just so happened to be my already strained right leg).

 "Nothing too concerning" suddenly seemed a premature determination.

The upside was that this section included frequent creek crossings that allowed me to continuously dunk my right foot and enjoy the on-the-fly icing.  I hoped that this might keep any swelling at bay.

The climb out of Reickert Hollow seemed gradual in comparison to Humble Hill and I hit the 9 mile aid station surprised to learn that the first two major climbs were now behind me.  Though I now knew I was going to be hurting at the end of the day, I was pleased to know I was past halfway both in terms of mileage and required climbing.  I couldn't remember the description of the next section but was initially relieved to see that it was downhill.

That relief vanished quickly as I found myself tiptoeing between the rocks that littered the next mile of trail.  I was getting caught from behind with regularity and kept an eye out for places to step out of the way to let fresher runners pass by.  Despite the raw weather, I could feel heat emanating from my right shoe and wondered if my Achilles was going to hold up.

At Cleveland Hollow, just ahead of the final climb, we passed by two volunteers in pick-up trucks and I considered hitching a ride back to the start.  I was already past 10 miles, however, and expected I could claw my way up the S.O.B. and hobble through the last 4 miles if it came to that.

A mile later my day was done.  My toes stopped responding and I'd progressed to actually feeling pain with every step.  Jesse had sent me an e-mail on Friday with a warning about attempting the race if things weren't in working order.  The words "you'll be out the entire summer" were rattling around in my head and I worried that I'd already accomplished that setback.

Disappointed, I began creeping back the way I'd came, struggling at this point to put weight on my non-responding right leg.  I eventually got back down to the Hollow and commandeered the ride I'd skipped over in the first place.  I was on the way back to the start with my first DNF.      

Chris ran incredibly well and was still looking fresh at the finish.  He was good company and I was in relatively good spirits considering my wounded pride and my swollen leg.  I'd get to see Chris the next day too as he was the attending physician in the emergency room on Sunday morning.

X-rays were negative and I was further relieved to find that I didn't appear to have any tears.  Chris did confirm, however, that my tendinitis was very much for real.  At least in the short term, per my new physical therapist, here's what my workouts will look like:

So there's my "hard fall".

Nearing a full four months into the year, I'm heading in the wrong direction.  The first two of my "goal" races resulted in one missed event due to scheduling conflicts and a did not finish.  I can't even think about the races I'd planned to run later in the year when I'm not even able to log short runs without repercussions.

Here's hoping for one hell of a bounce.