Last year we decided it’d be fun to participate in our first ultramarathon. We asked the company we work for, Gearhead Outfitters, to sponsor our relay team for this unique race across the northwest corner of our home state and were delighted when they agreed. Then we trained (sort of) for what would be some of the most challenging and most fun hours of our life.
Previously shared on Dirtbag Apparel’s blog, here is my re-count of the 27ish hours that reminded me why I’m so enamored with the sport of running and thankful for the clarity it gives to life.
At 8:30AM on Friday, October 26th runners stood around the Gearhead van stretching their legs and talking nervously about the coming event. Dew covered the grass and clouds blanketed the morning sky. The air was charged with a mix of excitement and dread.
We had committed to running 207 miles through the Ozarks as a relay team of six. This classified us as an “ultra” team because we’d each be covering more than the famous 26.2 marathon distance over the next twenty some odd hours. Two other teams had a start time of 9AM, both of which had 12 members on their team. All other teams had started at 8AM or even 7AM.
When I looked at the event sheet that morning for the first time and realized there were only three teams starting at 9AM I asked the men around me, “Wait, why do we start last?”
I swallowed hard when I realized that it was because we were expected to catch the other teams. My mind buzzed over the training I’d done in the past few months and my palms started to sweat as I wondered if I’d be as fast as this team needed me to be.
At 9 our first runner, Andy, kicked off the race for us and we piled back into the van to meet him at the first exchange. My stomach started doing that dance thing it hadn’t done in so long… pre-race jitters.
Our driver, Heath, carried us down the windy roads to the first exchange zone. For the next 24 plus hours this van would be our home. Around us lay our bags stuffed with extra clothes, coolers packed with food, and an assortment of rollers for sore muscles. I bounced my knees up and down. I took another swig of water.
Andy arrived at the exchange zone before the other two teams and passed the baton (a snap bracelet) to Dylan, who took off running at a pace I knew I couldn’t touch. We climbed into the van again.
At exchange three Dylan passed the bracelet to Tony and we again piled into the van to meet our runner at the next stop. I drank more water.
Tony averaged the fastest miles yet, and after passing off to Jackson at the next handoff my nerves swelled inside me. It was my turn next.
Slow, slow, slow. That was my mantra. I would have to suppress the adrenaline early on to keep from spending too much energy too fast. Miles for each team member would range between 30 and 37; mine would reach a grand total of 35 with my first leg holding the most elevation gain and a distance of 6.5 miles.
I did the math in my head to calculate when Jackson should be arriving to handoff. I likely had a little more than five minutes. I figured I might as well go ahead and take my sweatpants off, but Tony was in the van changing so I bounced on the balls of my feet instead.
Movement caught my eye. Jackson was hurtling down the road ready to give me the slap bracelet and I was still wearing pants, a jacket, and loose shoes. I yanked open the van door, threw my stuff inside, and synched down the laces on my trail shoes. I took the bracelet to a chorus of laughter. Naturally I’d be the one to screw up a handoff by not being ready.
Slow, slow, slow.
After my first long uphill climb the van caught up to me and my team paused on the side of the road ahead to jump out and cheer me on.
“How do you feel?” they asked.
“GREAT!” Slow, slow, slow, I reminded myself. I glanced at my watch; too fast.
At the end of my leg I passed the bracelet to Mack, our beginner runner. Mack clocked some quick miles on his first leg before passing off to Andy.
And so it went on. We ran, we rode, we ate, we cheered, we ran again. We ate some more.
As the miles rolled beneath us we chatted about all the teams that had started before us. We tallied the “road kill” on the walls of the van whenever we passed other runners and counted down how many teams were left to catch. We glanced at the check-in sheet at every exchange and grew giddy as the number of teams ahead dwindled. We calculated the time we had gained and made guesses of how long it would take to catch them all.
On my second leg (where I again messed up the handoff because I had to pee!) the sun began to set, and on my third night had completely settled in. By the time I got to my fourth I was hurtling down the dirt road with screaming quads.
Jackson had just climbed a monster hill and overcome the final team in his efforts. While speeding towards me to exchange, his head lamp bobbed in the night and our competitors wondered if it was their teammate approaching in the darkness. I’d smiled, proudly, because I’d known it was my own teammate ready to pass the race off to me. I slapped the bracelet on my wrist and repeated silently: slow, slow, slow.
The van slid through the night in front of me; the tail lights illuminating my path and keeping the spookiness at bay. When I settled back into my seat inside the van I wrapped myself in a sleeping bag and propped my feet on Jackson’s lap. I sipped water and nibbled at plantain chips.
Mack, Andy, Dylan, and Tony continued to put distance on the other teams while I tried to muster the energy for two more legs. At this point, food didn’t sound good and it was all I could do to drink water.
Jackson ran his fifth leg and when I climbed out of the van to get ready for mine, chills climbed up my arms and down my legs. My muscles groaned under the weight of a single step and I grimaced at the thought of running. I tried to warm up my legs by shuffling them through a few warm-ups that my college team would have found pitiful. I had more than 9 miles to go and I was totally fried.
I took the bracelet from Jackson and started a steady incline up into the night. My muscles protested. The adrenaline had worn off and caffeine did nothing. I decided to try something I had once heard another runner say helped them through long runs. I would dedicate each mile to someone and think about them during that mile to pass the time. I began talking to myself.
Mile one: for Daddy. You can hear him cheering for you, across a field like in Cross Country. Mile two: for your brother. He’s the reason you started running. Mile three: for Aunt Gale and Mama and Momma. They’ll be so proud of you. Mile four: for Jackson. He’s ran and rode so many miles with you. He knows you can do this. Mile five: for the girls you ran with in college. They would say, “Come on Linds! You got this!”
I swear I could hear those girls’ voices in my head as I climbed hill after hill and my legs pounded the pavement. The sun started to rise and turned the sky a pale pink.
Mile six: for the guys in that van.
I could see the Gearhead logo now in the early morning light. The taillights reminded me they were still near, each wanting me to put distance on the team behind.
For those guys. For Andy who brought this team together. For Dylan who keeps us all laughing. For Tony who is so, so fast! For Jackson, who has encouraged you to do things you never thought you could. For Mack, who has proved running is less about experience and more about heart. For Heath who has stayed up all night long to support us. For Sam who is capturing these moments so that we can treasure them forever.
Well, maybe I wouldn’t treasure that specific moment; that moment of pain and exhaustion.
Or maybe yes, THAT moment. That moment was laced with doubt of what I am capable of. That moment I was fighting with all I had to keep my legs moving. That moment I was depleted and hungry and sore and a little light headed. That moment was hard. But that moment was also full of triumph. I was still putting one foot in front of the other. I was still clinging to my pace. And, perhaps most importantly, that moment was full of people I love.
I’ve heard it said many, many times that running is an individual sport. I’ve always thought differently. In my final miles of Outback in the Ozarks I realized that I would not have, and could not have, done this alone. I needed the team of guys to cover the distance of 207 miles. I also needed the people that inspired me to run when I was 13 years old. I needed the coaches that molded me as an athlete. I needed the family that loves me. I needed the girls that I’d ran with over the years that had made me faster and stronger.
It took a lot of people to get me to that finish line, and most of them weren’t even there.
Around 11:30 on October 27th Team Gearhead was the first to cross the finish line of Outback in the Ozarks despite being amongst the last to start AND having a six man “ultra” team. We killed it. And we owe every ounce of that to the running community that has made this such an incredible, challenging, and rewarding sport.
To every single person (there or not) that helped get us through those miles: Thank you.
To all of the other Outback runners and teams: You’re freaking awesome.
To Gearhead Outfitters for sponsoring us for this race: You invested in more than us as runners, but in this sport and what it means to people everywhere.
To the guys on my team: Next year?
Photos courtesy of Sam Starr