Promised Land
Back in early January a Charlottesville friend, Russ, emailed a group checking interest in David Horton’s Promised Land race, late April. I wasn’t really in the mood for running - the mind more focused on my first ski season in CO, but it was a Horton race in my old stomping ground… so I signed up.
I haven’t run much in 2015. In fact, I intentionally "quit running” after my 50 miler in Utah last October. I was burned out. I switched to midweek yoga and weekend skiing. It was different. It was fun.
I ran once in January. And once more in February.
Thinking back, I didn’t run trails in 2015 until six weeks ago (mid-March) when Doug coaxed me to VA so we could hang out during TJ100k. David and I alternated running with Doug, save a nice stretch with the three of us together. That was my longest run in nearly 6 months.
Beyond my training, this adventure was an extended logistic and physical challenge.
A month ago I was invited to an important Friday afternoon work function in Denver - the day before my central Virginia event. It can be difficult to decide between multiple good options. Sometimes I work to avoid the choice by choosing all. After careful searching, I determined that it might be possible to do both.
The plan involved me leaving the work event a touch early to catch an 8:00 pm flight out of Denver, landing at Dulles at 1:15 am, driving through the night, 3.5 hours southwest to the mountains outside Lynchburg, arriving just in time for 5:00 am final check-in before the 5:30 am start. What could possibly go wrong?
Things started well as I boarded the plane with two-scoops of ice cream - butter pecan and chocolate. I stretched out as best I could, thankful not to have a passenger in the middle seat, put on my headphones and started to drift off as we rolled down the runway. The thrusters engaged, then… BAM! The plane came to a screeching, very abrupt halt. The captain’s voice cut through the panic to tell us that the thrusters set off an alarm, triggering the brakes, and we’d now have to head back to the gate. The brakes would need to cool before crew could inspect their condition. The thrusters would be diagnosed in the meantime.
I left the jacket over my head, trying hard to not become more alert and awake. "Trying hard" becomes counter product in that situation. Around me, passengers scurried off the plane and straight to the bar. I tried harder - this time to not think about the impact to the Plan.
I was aware of time passing. It felt like a long time. I didn’t want to know the reality, or even think about it.
Then, we were pushing from the gate again, I glanced at my watch. 10 pm. That’s 12 am East Coast. The race starts in 5.5 hours, and I have 7 hours of flying and driving ahead of me.
The race to Promised Land.
We sailed east, carried by strong winds, and slowly cut into the deficit. We landed at 2:45 am. 2.75 hours until race start. I navigated the terminal, “mobile lounge,” and rental car bus - frustrated by each impediment. I jumped in the rental car and sped off into the night. 3:05 am.
I flew west on 66 before turning south on 29. I thought of how many times over the past decade I’d been down that road. A route I could probably make in my sleep. But let’s not try. About a year ago I last passed those familiar towns - Gainsville, Warrenton, Remington, Culpepper, Madison, Ruckersville, Charlottesville.
I scanned the FM dial, half looking for a decent song, half giving myself something to do. I debated if I had time to stop for a gallon of water. I determined it was worth the 45 seconds to show up hydrated. I pushed the pedal, hoping a county cop wasn’t lying in wait just over the next hill.
5:00 am, I’m south of Charlottesville, but have now missed registration. It’s 30 minutes from start, but I’m 70 minutes away. I push on.
5:30 am, the race starts. I approach Lynchburg.
I was shocked - baffled, really - not only did the plane not have under-the-seat power, but also the rental car lacked a usb port. Was it really 2015? I felt a bit like 2007. Either way, my iPhone was at less than 10% battery.
5:45 am, I’m deep on windy mountain roads and it’s dark. I'm hoping the iPhone doesn’t die.
6:00 am, I arrive at the campground. I dart from the car - still dressed in my Friday work clothes - to some pre-dawn figures. “Can I still run?!” I ask. Shadows turn to familiar faces. Clark and Jeremy look surprised. “Do you still want to?” I hear. I traveled this far - yes, I want to. I dash back to the car and change into my running clothes. They hand me my race number, 229, point me in the right direction, and I’m off. Promised Land.
I set off, up the mountain. I knew the long, early climb would have folks moving slowly through the early hours. Still, it was a pleasant surprise to spot the first runner up ahead. We were an hour into my race.
A fun thing about starting late is that you get to catch up to the field and - provided strong legs - roll through groups for the remainder of the day. In one of these groups I noticed a familiar looking figure. Sure enough, I came along Russ. He was running with his colleague, Andre. This was Andre’s first ultra - big ups. The three of us ran together for the remaining downhill stretch - sharing stories of work, family, the mountains, and life.
The race parallels a river through the middle section. It was high and powerful. It was nice to see so much rushing water - I experience less of that sensation Out West. The river made running easy and time pass quickly. Flowing, with a smoothness inspired by the river, wet rocks and roots passed underfoot. There was light precipitation. It was cool and comfortable. The footing and required muscle-memory returned without thought - I traveled naturally through the rolling terrain.
I arrived to the Apple Orchard Falls aid station and Helen greeted for the second time. Her encouragement provided the confidence much needed to start (and ultimately finish) the race - thank you, Helen! She told me there was no doubt I’d be leaving VA with a pair of the Patagonia finishers shorts. You gotta love having friends running the aid stations - it’s one of the special things about the LUS races. They truly are a community event, and the community is wonderfully supportive.
She warned me that the next section was the toughest - and also the best. You face a three mile uphill approach before climbing the impressive Apple Orchard waterfall. We went up. Rock steps impeded progress at increasing intervals. Then, the mist grew thick and the roar loud. We stood at the Falls. It invigorated, and I climbed. During this ascent, I probably passed 45 people, many clustered in groups, working together. One guy exclaimed “[explictive]! Are you in the race?!” as I moved past unfazed. I shrugged at my strength, also a bit in disbelieve.
The last five miles take you down from the ridge back into the camp. These downhill finishes generally really bother my legs. The impact; the turnover. It hurts. But still, I felt good. I let the wheels spin and then saw “1 mi.” marked in the dirt.
Final mile. I opened up my stride and ran inspired. From the outset, I wasn’t sure this bigger adventure was possible. Especially waiting at the gate in Denver - brakes cooling. A flight, drive, and run behind me. Less than 6 minutes later, I crossed the line.
Horton gave me hell for showing up late. I probably deserved it. He then gave me a firm handshake, a twinkle in his eye, and his congratulations. I traveled home to Denver with my finisher’s shorts.