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SRRC Race Reports

JFK 50 Mile Race, Boonsboro, MD —Sat., November 18, 2006
by Phil Holt

A Hitchhiker's Guide to the JFK 50 Miler

perfect: excellent or complete beyond practical or theoretical; exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose.

What would you do with a perfect day? An easy answer might be "make the most of it." The week before Thanksgiving was cold and blustery, with plenty of driving rain. By Saturday, November 18, 2006, however, the temperature hovered in the 40s with the forecast calling for a few clouds and expected highs in the 50s. Along the ridges of the Appalachian Trail, the wind had blown leaves off into the woods and left the rocky paths rain-washed and ready for about 1,000 people to spend the day running the 44th annual JFK 50 Mile race, the oldest ultramarathon in the U.S.

ultramarathon: A cross-country footrace with distances of 30 miles (48 kilometers) or more.

Every year runners from all over the U.S. converge on Boonsboro, MD to face the challenge of a 50-mile endurance race. A large pack of runners from the LRR and SRRC entered this year, including many first-timers who would soon be able to answer the question, "What's it like to run an ultramarathon?" As distances increase, the nature of the challenge changes, and the mind you bring to the race makes all the difference in the world. So this is a hitchhiker's guide to how I made the most of a perfect day.

Getting Ready

training: activity, exercise, or a regimen that develops or improves a skill.

If you can run a marathon, you can run JFK. Training runs don't need to be fast, but they do need to be long enough to prepare the body and, more importantly, the mind. I included some running along the rough and hilly terrain of the Appalachian Trail to get ready for the first 15 miles or so of JFK. Scrambling around the rocks exercises all sorts of muscles you don't normally use on the road. Focusing attention on footing and the path ahead till your eyes water (I'm not kidding) will leave your brain drained of the ability to speak in sentences or understand instructions complicated by more than one step—might as well get used to it.

stumble: to strike the foot against something, as in walking or running, so as to stagger or fall; trip.

You can make it through the AT portion of JFK wearing road shoes, and I have done that a number of times, but wearing trail shoes really improves the experience. Road shoes are soft and flexible, allowing the rocks to give your feet a wicked pounding. Trail shoes have cushion, too, but offer more protection from the rocks and better traction. You don't get quite as fatigued, and your feet will feel better. You'll probably fall at some point. It's okay. Just get up and keep going. You can embellish the story over coffee afterward.

From the Start to the Towpath

On race morning, I had to be up and out early enough to eat some breakfast, pick up my race number, and attend the mandatory pre-race briefing in the gym of Boonsboro High School. Briefings are common for ultramarathons, where conditions often require guidance and explanation for everyone's safety and enjoyment. From there we walked (without any mileage credit) to the starting line in downtown Boonsboro. The weather was beautiful—the best I've seen for any JFK since I've been running the race—but we still needed gloves and long sleeves to keep the chill away. At the last minute, I stooped to tuck in the ends of my shoelaces, a trick Steve Core taught me to keep twigs and branches from attaching themselves.

conserve: to use carefully or sparingly, avoiding waste.

At the starting gun, we all began our relaxed jog toward the first hill, a long stretch up the main drag to where it meets the Appalachian Trail. With over 49 miles to go, almost everyone walks up the steep stretches of this road to conserve energy. This is the first mental challenge of the day. We all feel like we'll never run out of gas at the start of a race and risk going out too fast. There's "hitting the wall" during a marathon; then there's having the wall squash you like a bug during an ultra, so conservation is critical. It's worth using this stretch to meet new people. Some of the conversations that begin here will continue off and on for hours as runners encounter each other on the course.

Run, run, run. . . but don't fall!

The pace picked up when we arrived at the trail and began scampering down the path. The rain and wind had made conditions ideal, so the trail was pretty clear, and footing was very good. Several stretches along the AT offer opportunities to walk up hill and conserve energy. After just a few miles, the trail breaks out onto about a mile of paved fire road for a little relief. The first major aid station is around mile 10, where I was able to jettison my jacket and gloves. From this point, it takes up to 90 minutes to get through the most treacherous part of the AT to the C&O Canal towpath. Fatigue was starting to set in.

pain: physical suffering or distress, as due to injury, illness, etc.; a distressing sensation in a particular part of the body.

Scrambling down a rocky slope near the end of trail, I managed to jam my right foot and go airborne like a Mexican luchador, hitting the ground so hard that it knocked the wind out of me. (Sometimes you've got to feed the trail.) I was off and running again after another runner helped me up and pointed me in the right direction. It was only about a mile to the next aid station, where I gulped down several Advil to take the edge off my new aches and pains.

The Towpath

Bill, Phil, and a Canine-American friend. Warren took the picture, so he's in it sort of.

monotony: wearisome uniformity or lack of variety.

Saturday afternoon in the universe, in all directions you got runners . . . . By this point I wasn't tired enough to channel Jack Kerouac, but the flat, lazy monotony of the C&O Canal towpath stretches time, and the steady crunch of my feet on the gravel and leaves began to sound like white noise. At first, the pounding of the AT reverberated through every muscle, but after a couple of miles on the towpath, I settled into a rhythm for the rest of the day.

serendipity: phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for.

Not long after my beatnik reverie began, a towering figure blocked my view of the vanishing point ahead. Warren Frick, erstwhile Loudoun Road Runner, real rocket scientist, and 2006 Hawaii Ironman finisher had come out to pace me for a few miles. We hadn't seen each other in a long time, so this was the perfect opportunity to catch up. The miles rolled by as he regaled me with stories of Hawaii including his trying to run a 10K during an earthquake. We also ran into Bill Spach, another former LRR member I hadn't seen in several years. Part of the fun of long distance running is chance encounters that lift the spirits.

Michaela c rewing . . . keeping Ensure at the ready.

At Antietam Viaduct, about mile 27, I changed shoes and guzzled a bottle of Ensure. I find that Ensure is a good way to get lots of easy-to-digest calories without an upset stomach. Some people can wolf down peanut butter sandwiches and cookies, but this seems to work better for me. Without much dallying, I set off into what is the hardest part of the race for me—the trek to Mondell, the last major aid station on the towpath.

doldrums: a state or period of inactivity, stagnation, or slump.

All long-distance races seem to present at least one stretch that could be described as a low point, and the10 miles between Antietam Viaduct and Mondell are where the monotony of the trail gives way to the doldrums. After an hour of running, the towpath looks just the same as it did an hour before, feeling like you're right back where you started after all the effort. On the other hand, the Potomac River is just a glance to the left, and it doesn't take too much imagination to feel like you've fallen into a beautiful postcard. It's here in the solitude that I also appreciate how lucky I am to spend my day like this.

Traffic Jamming to the Finish

aid: to provide with what is useful or necessary in achieving an end.

The aid station at Mondell is called the "38 Special" because it's at mile 38 (of course), and it's the last major stop on the towpath (and by this point, that's special). You know you're getting close because the volunteers put up signs starting about a mile out. Soon you can hear the sound of music and the cheering of spectators and support teams. The aches and pains and weariness subsided as I motored into the aid station in search of a little chicken soup.

Next stop . . . the finish.

From here, it's only a few miles to the end of the towpath around mile 42, the magical place where a dam crosses the Potomac and the course turns onto county roads toward the finish. Volunteers helped me slide a reflective vest over my head. The last eight miles can take a good long while, and at this time of year, it's usually dark by around 5:00 p.m. Since I was ultimately sharing the road with cars a lot of the way, being visible to them was important.

Up until this point, there are few if any mile markers apart from the aid stations. Every one of the last eight miles, however, is marked with a sign bearing a single digit—the number of miles left to the finish. From here I have milestones that help me through the last miles—the aid station at the zig-zag in the road, the left turn near mile 46 in Downsville; the railroad tracks; crossing under the interstate in Williamsport; running alongside the traffic through town to the brightly lit finish line.

The Finish

elation: state of overwhelming, usually pleasurable emotion.

The finish. . . at last.

As the sun went down this November day and the first stars began to twinkle between and behind the scattered clouds, I ground out the last stretch in a tiny world, thinking no further ahead than a shower and something to eat. All the crews were at the finish cheering us in, and "relief" doesn't begin to describe the feeling of finally being able to stop and rest. When I peeled off my sock before entering the shower, my foot was not a pretty picture. The Technicolor shades of purple reminding me of when I'd fallen early in the day even surprised me.

From there, several of us went out and ate big, well-garnished hamburgers—much better than the Ensure. Then it was home and to bed for me. Had I made the most of my day? Questions about life, the universe, and everything were among the last things on my mind as I collapsed into bed after 50 miles. Maybe the answer was out on the course somewhere, and I'd run right past it. I don't usually sleep well the night after I've run this race, but this time, apart from some fitfulness during the first couple of hours, I faded into that unconscious land where every race is easy and nothing ever hurts. By the time I woke up the next morning, my aches were back, but I felt rested at last and happy. From the scrambling rock-ballet of the AT to River Dancing through a hot shower that seemed to sting something no matter which way I turned, it had been a day to remember.

December 2006

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