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SRRC Race Reports

Bull Run 50 Miler , Clifton, VA —Sat., April 14, 2007
by Phil Holt

BRR 2007 Milage Chart
Point	Section	Cumulative
Start	0	0
Centreville Road	7.2	7.2
Turnaround	2.2	9.4
Centreville Road	2.2	11.6
Hemlock	5	16.6
Marina	4.5	21.1
Wolf Run Shoals	5	26.1
Fountainhead	2	28.1
Do Loop – In	4.4	32.5
Do Loop – Out	3	35.5
Fountainhead	2.4	37.9
Wolf Run Shoals	2	39.9
Marina	5	44.9
Finish	5.5	50.4
All points are aid stations with the exception of the turnaround.

I sat on the bumper of my car, tucking in the laces of my shoes by the feeble glow of the trunk light. I'd already checked in, pinned on my race number, and filled my water bottle. As cars turned off the main road, their headlights illuminated wide tentative arcs into the dark woods before bouncing crazily to abrupt stops where they parked. This was Hemlock Overlook, part of vast swath of wilderness hidden within the congested suburban sprawl of Fairfax County, VA and home to the annual Bull Run 50 Miler. I was only 11 miles from home.

I met Jack and Sean Andrish on my way up to the warmth of the lodge. Jack and I still had dust in our shoes from the Crown King Scramble a few weeks before. It felt like we were picking up where we left off. Inside the lodge, cameras flashed as old and new friends mugged and posed for pictures in the crowded din before we hurried out to the starting line, where we fought off the pre-dawn chill by huddling and fidgeting. We started at 6:15 a.m. by running about 3/4 of a mile around the park. The loop allowed us to spread out before we tried to crowd onto the trail.

The Bull Run course is seldom as rugged as the Appalachian Trail, but it feels every bit as remote. A few miles away, the Saturday morning traffic on Route 29 was starting to pick up, but all I could hear in the quiet woods were feet padding along the ground and voices echoing occasionally among the trees. This sense of isolation lasted until we climbed out of the ravine where Bull Run flows under Route 28. We came up the stairs into a parking area, cars roaring by on the bridge. Volunteers refilled our water bottles and reminded everyone to drink more water.

The Sea of Bluebells*

Within seconds of heading back down the steps to the trail below the bridge, the thumping of car tires over expansion joints faded into the rhythm of our footsteps along the packed earth. The trail narrowed, squeezing us back into single file, and the woods dampened the sound of our voices. Sunlight began to pour through the trees illuminating a sea of bluebells stretching as far as the eye could see in all directions. Amid the grays and browns of the early spring landscape, the expanse of lush greens and luminous blues stunned the senses. It was going to be a long day, and I savored these brief enchantments. The field turned around near Bull Run Park and headed right back the way we came. The front runners ran toward us and passed, silent and intent, gliding by with effortless efficiency compared to my cautiously casual trot among the cowslips. This was the easiest part of the course.

We ran back through Hemlock Overlook at mile 16 to enjoy a little refreshment at the aid station before picking up the second main section of the trail down to mile 28 at Fountainhead Park. Up to this point, the trail had been relatively flat, with a few notable hills. Here the terrain became much rougher, like a carelessly tossed blanket, vast and rumpled, puckered with furrows and ravines. The field was now spreading way out, leaving runners up to a quarter of a mile apart at times. I meandered over hummocks, plunged into gullies, and splashed across creeks where my feet got a couple of good soakings. Unlike most road races, which have fairly large packs of runners, ultramarathons are usually solitary affairs where footprints in a muddy bog are the mute reminder that you are probably not alone. (Since I’m never at the front of the pack, I get nervous if it’s been a while since I’ve seen any footprints.) The course was beginning to feel taxing and monotonous, but the aid stations at the marina and at Wolf Run Shoals provided some welcome relief including chicken soup and delicious ice cream sandwiches.

John Nelson looks happier than I was at mile 38--he wasn't running this time. Smiling faces really do help!*

I passed through mile 28 at Fountainhead Park feeling weary. The hills had worked on me for about 16 miles, and I had 22 miles to go. From the park the course follows the “Do Loop”—a 10 mile loop in the woods that offers more hills and mud. The forlorn hulks of an old Ford Fairlane and an equally pathetic Rambler Ambassador provided quietly rusting reminders of my gradual decline. It was mid-afternoon, and time had begun to warp meaninglessly around the sound of my feet plodding along the trail. By the time I got back to the Fountainhead aid station, I was feeling drained. With 12 miles to go, I was still comfortably ahead of the cutoffs, so I was able to relax, but I had very little energy left for enthusiastic running. A more thoughtful man than I once said that all things excellent are as difficult as they are rare. I just headed for the next aid station. Then the next. Then for the finish.

A couple of Bull Run casualties

The course revealed its final prank during the last couple of the miles. The terrain had flattened out and was comfortably runnable. It felt good to just cruise after trudging up and pounding down hills for hours. The trail turned and ran parallel with the river and was narrow but clear and flat. I reckoned it was about a mile and half to the finish, and I was feeling better by the minute—at least until the trail ended, and I had to clamor over and among huge rocks for about 100 yards along the river bank. The stretching and twisting it took to get through this little obstacle course reminded me of where every tired muscle was. From there, the course ran up and out of the gorge following steps for about a quarter mile to the final flat stretch.

It started to rain steadily as I crossed the finish line, my shoes sodden and thick with mud. Seeing friendly and familiar faces raised my spirits. A volunteer wrapped a finisher’s jacket around me as I started to shiver. Bull Run had tested my endurance and challenged my tenacity right up the end. It seems that you never really finish an ultramarathon; it just finishes with you. I sat and drank some water, slowly reassembling my scattered and disorganized thoughts into normal conversation. I was muddy, wet, depleted, and exhausted. But I was happy, too—I was only 11 miles from home.

April 2007

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