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SRRC Race Reports

Bel Monte Endurance Run, Waynesboro, VA —Sat, Mar. 22, 2008
by Phil Holt

All this energy calling me
Back where it comes from
It’s such a crude attitude
Its back where it belongs
All the little kids growing up on the skids are goin’
Waynesboro rocks, Waynesboro rocks . . . .

Ian Hunter was singing about Cleveland, but on March 22, the capital of rock was the Sherando Lake Recreation Area in the George Washington National Forest near Waynesboro, VA. The Bel Monte Endurance Run offered 25K, 50K, and 50-mile options over some the steepest and rockiest terrain that can still be called a “trail.” The course is made up of identifiable sections, each presenting its own challenges.

Dark and Wet

Rain lurked in the forecast, but the weather at the start was almost perfect. In the chilly pre-dawn darkness we climbed a long set of stairs to the top of an earthen dam where we lined up to start. To our left, a vast reservoir of darkness; to our right, the string of headlights made the runners climbing to the start look like miners emerging from a depth among the trees. I considered wearing my light but decided against it because I’d only need it for a little while. Then I’d have to wear or carry it for the rest of the run, which I expected to take about four hours assuming that I could keep up a four-mile/hour pace over the terrain.

Runners attempting to keep their feet out of rushing water . . .

With the moon setting beyond the woods on one side and a gentle glow of first light on the other, we ran from the start along the top of the dam and followed a trail into the woods. Footing along this stretch was good, and the number of headlights kept the path visible enough to permit a steady jog. Crowding at turns, uphill stretches, and the first couple of stream crossings slowed us down a lot. Even though I’m not a seasoned trail jock, I have enough experience to know that getting your feet wet doesn’t hurt. (In fact, it feels great to plunge your aching dogs in an icy stream after a couple of hours of running.) At the first stream crossing people fussed and tip-toed around trying to pick their way across on whatever rocks might be poking above the surface. I seized the moment and splashed with abandon through the creek to the other side where the open trail beckoned, and I was able to set a quick, squishy pace to shake the water out of my sodden shoes. Several more stream crossings presented similar challenges, but plowing right into the mud or romping though the water cured any hesitation.

Rocks and Uphill

Caveman trudge up an endless hill . . .

After a few miles the sun was shining and lighting the trail well enough to allow me to raise my eyes briefly for the occasional look around. The terrain through the George Washington National Forest is rugged and starkly beautiful in the early spring before the leaves obscure the views. The deep silence in the woods was a vivid reminder of the remote locale. The trail remained quite runnable, but I stumbled a few times along this stretch when my toe would catch a root or the occasional rock. I did manage to stay upright. As I ran along feeling pretty good about the surface and how things were going, I noticed runners snaking up an endless hill toward a distant ridge. Within minutes, I had made a turn and begun the trek for myself. The trail became more rocky and treacherous. The grade was so steep that I could run no more than about a dozen steps when an opportunity presented itself. The rest of the time my pace degenerated into the caveman trudge that anyone who’s run over hilly terrain would recognize.

I don’t mind hills. It’s work to climb them, but it never takes as long as it seems at the time. Until now. No sooner had I reached what looked like the crest than I was clamoring up another rock-fall and onto another steep stretch. I often had to grab trees and branches to keep my balance as I navigated over jumbles of huge rocks. It seemed to take about an hour to get to what looked like the top, where we found an aid station that I hoped was the 25K turnaround. “What mile is this?” I asked. “Five,” came the laconic answer. Five? Five miles? It was déjà vu all over again, my mind swirling with images of the two hours I took reaching the first aid station at the Swinging Bridge 50K last spring after getting lost in the woods. (That’s another campfire story.) Here I’d been on course the whole time, but creeping up that hill for so long had really slowed progress. After continuing on along a relatively flat ridge for a while, the trail turned upward again, winding through underbrush that obscured the path altogether in some places. We finally crested the mountain near Camp Marty and charged downhill for about 3/4 of mile to the 25K turnaround.

Uphill, More Rocks, Downhill, and Rocks

Rocks, rocks, rocks!

The turnaround aid station was well stocked and perched near an overlook presenting a panoramic view of the remote forest. Runners could linger next to a fire while snacking and replenishing their water bottles. Serious competitors would fly through here. The rest of us stopped, caught our breath, checked the views, warmed our hands at the fire, chatted for a few minutes, and then headed for the finish. The downhill into the aid station became an uphill out of it, but we were soon scampering down a long slope that took us to a turn that began the last part of the loop. This stretch followed a ridge that was part of the vista we could see from the turnaround. While not dead flat, the course undulated gently for a while without presenting many notable climbs.

The rocks, however, persisted. One of our group on this stretch marveled at the time that the organizers must have spent arranging the rocks with the pointy ends up. We laughed uncomfortably at the joke but kept eyes down on the trail, which seemed like a river of large, loose, and jagged rocks stretching into the distance. Even with trail shoes, the soles of my feet began to feel like they’d been beaten with hammers all morning. A little over three hours into the race, I finally felt the trail descending. This wasn’t a gradual burnished path or gentle switchbacks. It was a precipitous rocky plunge down the side of the mountain toward the road a little more than a mile below. I couldn’t go a lot faster downhill than I was able to go up. The last aid station sits along the road, and when I finally got there, I almost ran out and kissed the pavement. It was the first flat surface (other than water) that I’d seen since the start. Expecting a three-mile trip to the finish, I was delighted to hear that it was about half that. The road ran gradually uphill, but I didn’t care. The easy footing let me pick up the pace.

The Finish

A smooth spot . . .

I started to get excited as I came within sight of a dam, and I was sure that I was close to the finish. Suddenly, a sign loomed on the side of the road, and a large red arrow pointed me back onto a long uphill trail. I was a little crestfallen, thinking I was so close and now feeling like the rocks would never let me go. For about a 1/2 mile I was back to rehearsing the rock-ballet I’d been dancing all morning. When I finally found my way onto the road again, the finish area came into view, and I began to hurry. I was picturing myself lying on a picnic table, asleep, resting my aching legs and fatigued brain. Skipping the mac & cheese at the finish (bleeech!), I opted for a quick trip into Waynesboro where I wolfed down a plate of fried chicken like I was a human dispose-all. Then it was back to the finish to watch the 50K runners from our group come in.

All the little chicks with the crimson lips go
Watch those rocks, watch those rocks

Trail runners would call many stretches of the Bel Monte course “technical.” That’s a euphemism which means “so treacherously rocky that only mountain goats make it out without falling down or drawing blood.” The slow parade of runners crossing the finish line was punctuated with bloody knees and elbows and in one case a badly cut lip. Crimson lips indeed—a woman had fallen just a few miles into the 25K and finished with her face bloodied like a prizefighter. An EMT cleaned her up and isolated the spot on her lip that had split. With a few minutes and a little NuSkin to hold the cut together, her appearance was restored to the point that ice was the remaining therapy. When I last saw her, she was still working on getting her sense of humor back.

As frightening as all this may sound, the Bel Monte Endurance Run is a lot of rugged fun over a beautiful course with excellent support. I considered going back in the fall to run GEER, which follows much the same course, but it won’t fit in my schedule. I’ll just have to wait till next spring . . .

Oh lots of rocks, yeah more rocks
So find a place
Grab a space
And yell and scream for more. . .

April 2008

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