BLLLRRRRRRR....BLLLLLRRRRRR....BLLLLLLLLRRRRRRR
I shut off my watch alarm. Too early. Set it for 5:20am, 10 extra minutes of sleep.
BLLLRRRRRRR...BLLLLLRRRRRR...BLLLLLLLLLLLRRRRR
I shut off my watch alarm. Blinking, I force myself to sit up. I blow my nose into the toilet paper I brought, and drank some water to clear out the drainage from my throat. My brain is a little hazy, but I gotta get moving.
A drop on my head.
I move around in my quiet, peaceful space- stretching out my stiff legs and breathing the cool air.
Another drop on my head.
I look up. The rainfly on my tent was resting firmly against the netting and sending wetness down onto my forehead. I unzip the tent and step outside. A dull light was in the sky (well before sunrise), and the heavy, thick air that can only come from the temperature dropping to the dewpoint settled low in the bottoms of the Little Missouri River Valley. My tent was covered in dew, along with the grass, bushes, and cottonwood trees surrounding me. A rabbit bounced away, and the local crickets and insects echoed the only noise for miles. The rowdy families at the camp from the night before couldn't be bothered this early, and no local ranchers were up and about yet. It was quiet.
I quickly pack my things into the pickup and eat a Clif bar and banana breakfast. I go through the daily rituals of brushing my teeth, putting on deodorant, taking a vitamin, and putting on running clothes. I throw everything recklessly into the pickup and beginning driving down the lonely scoria gravel road, my speed staying low to avoid popping a tire like last time I was on badlands gravel.
I go past the Bully Pulpit golf course, seeing the ambitious morning crowd already out and about on this well-watered, manicured waste of land. Up the steep hill takes me to the top of the badlands, and beyond to the east, a sun peaking out over the buttes. The road is empty.
I turn and head into Medora, seeing only a few vehicles, headed likely for the golf course. Another left turn takes me through Medora and to the entrance of the Medora campground, where many vehicles were parking the gravel lot. Fit-looking adults with trail shoes and small running packs lined up at a porta-potty, with three Medora Musical vans lined up by the road. I was in the right spot. Well, it might end up being the wrong spot!
"Vans for the marathon leave in four minutes. Vans for the marathon leave in four minutes."
People are locking their cars now, taking last-minute bathroom breaks. Filling up water bags, stashing food, putting jerseys on, pinning numbers on, removing warm clothes on a cool morning, locking car doors- everything being done very last minute. I got all my stuff ready and headed over to the vans. I took a seat in the empty back van, but as it didn't fill they moved me to another van towards the front. Then, we were off. Our destination was Wannagan Campground, about 26.2 trail miles north of where I parked.
As we drove, I looked at the rear-view mirror of the vehicle and watched the late-July morning temperature drop down to 46F. I talked with some of the passengers about life. Turns out that many of these runners are from outside of North Dakota, looking for tough trail running. They definitely found it.
We arrive about an hour and a half before the race starts, because the vans have to go back and pick up the other races and bring them to their start lines as well. This gave us time to talk, hang out, go to the bathroom, stress, read the paper, and generally chill out. One lady I talked to hiked up to the top of the switchbacks to check out the view.
I learned from this time that trail running is a very unique community. Many of the people I talked to have done lots of trail races, or long distances in general. Many of the people I talked to had decent jobs and sounded like a decent education. Many of the people I talked to were from out of state. The vibe was completely different from any other race I've ever been to in North Dakota; then again, the Badlands themselves are very different from anywhere else in North Dakota. The Badlands have always been a place to destroy even the hardiest of souls. Heck, some of the tribes of the Northern Plains used to pick off US Military members through guerrilla warfare in the badlands while the troops tried to find any way through the mess of buttes and gorges on their way to establishing military posts.
Before the start of the race, we were treated to the national anthem. It was powerful- here in a remote reach of the badlands, far from any sense of civilization, with the quiet peacefulness of morning stretching in all corners, a woman sang a beautiful anthem through a speaker, her voice disappearing into the openness. We all stood quiet and attentive until it was done, while a US flag was hanging from the fence line dividing the campground from the national grasslands. It was perfect.
The starter's stopwatch showed 8:00am, so it was time to go. My race plan was simple: the first few miles were going to be rugged, but after that there was a decent stretch without too much elevation gain, so I would push the first few miles to get a gap, and then coast through the flatter section, leaving as much energy as possible for the last 8 miles, which would likely prove to be difficult. I had a secondary goal that was also simple in design but hard in practice: spend as little time as possible walking.
During the first few miles I rolled the downhills and very gently jogged up the steep sections, having to stop and walk twice in order to not roast my body early on. I was hitting close to 8:00/mile on the uphill mile and 7:00/mile on the downhill miles. At one point, I noticed a spot where, just a few weeks earlier, my friend and I had sat down right there and rested for a little bit during the heat of the day, only a few miles remaining in our hike, but very dead at that moment. It felt like a completely different time.
I continued onto the less rugged Buffalo Gap trail, where I settled into a comfortable 7:30-8:00/mile pace. I was well aware the course record was 7:51/mile average, but that pace is literally what I do on slow easy days, and I couldn't really make myself go any slower- it felt so comfortable and easy. On occasion I would still walk uphill to conserve energy for later. I didn't want to dilly-dally too much, because I knew that there was a woman not too far behind; I could see her whenever I came to the top of a big valley and looked back behind me. This light-colored shirt slowly eating away the same miles I had just covered. I feared for a 'tortoise and hare' scenario.
I arrived at the first checkpoint, about halfway through mile 10. The sun was high in the sky, and a small tent canvas was set up right by the gravel back road. Some smiling faces milled about in the artificial shade, with their vehicles lined up along the road. There were coolers of water and some kind of non-gatorade electrolyte mix, along with coolers filled with stuff that I really can't remember. I ate some grapes- trying not to wolf them down- and filled up the water pouch in my pack. After some polite conversation where I was panting out where I was from and what I did for a job while deliriously eating grapes, I grabbed a half a banana and started walking down the trail. I've never had any experience eating food during a race before, and I was worried about stomach problems in the middle of the badlands; I walked for probably a quarter mile before I arrived at a gate, lifted it up, walked through it, set it down, and started jogging again. My body felt sluggish and fat, but fortunately I couldn't see my opponent behind me yet.
I could now see the cars driving across the interstate in the distance, even though their sound wasn't yet hovering in the air. I came up past the start line of the half marathon race, complete with new arrows, red signs, and for the first time- shoe prints in the dirt. It was such a weird feeling seeing evidence of other human beings covering this same remote trail that I was. I pictured the leaders flying through the countryside, joggers and walkers towards the back. It brought back memories of my half marathon on this trail two years previous, when the guy who won pulled me through 5:45/mile pace for the first 6 miles and then I died and slowed down massively.
I came up to a creek crossing and immediately noticed how deep it was. After taking a few moments to decipher no easy, shallower route, I bit the bullet and went through water past my knees, walked across, and started up the steep hill on the other side. I looked left and saw in the not-too-far distance the second-place runner barging down a hill. And there- and there alone- is where the wheels began to fall off of my bus.
Within the next couple miles, the uphills became harder, the flats became harder, and the downhills became harder. My surroundings began to disappear, and the only thing that mattered now was putting one leg in front of the other, however that would be possible. My hips were sore, my legs were tired, and I was drinking a lot of my water because I was ravenously thirsty all the time. Every signpost was searched for a mile marker, and each mile was counted off analytically. I had a rough idea where the next checkpoint was, and I was desperately looking over each butte pass to see if this was finally when I could see my oasis.
Then I passed underneath the interstate. A tall, medium-long tunnel stood before me, and the only thing in between us was a cattle gate that had a sign reminding me I needed to shut it after I opened it. So I did, and I entered this perfection. There was a beautiful shade and a temperature drop of probably 10 degrees. A gentle breeze blew through the tunnel right into my face and onto my sweat-soaked shirt, cooling me off until I shivered and my body was covered in goosebumps. As I slowly walked, I put my hands up in the air and savored every single second. It was beautiful.
Then, just as soon as it started, it was over. I stepped into the light and was immediately reminded that this was a race, I was still technically first place, I had at least 8 or 9 miles left, and I was quickly dying. My average mile pace was slowing to around 10:00/mile, which is slower than I've ever ran anything in my life, and it was starting to scare me. My second and last checkpoint couldn't come soon enough.
I sat down in a chair, my first sit in hours. The gracious people of this checkpoint were showering me with help, questions, and compliments on my race thus far. As I downed more grapes and drank lots and lots of water, we saw the next person coming down the switchbacks on the hillside. I lamented.
You know, by this point, I was no longer worried about the course record, and I was no longer worried about winning- I just wanted to finish this mfing race.
I finished my 4th cup of water and ate some more grapes as my competitor came into camp. As I expected, she was all business. Some refills, some coke, and get on the road. It turns out that we left camp right around the same time. I just couldn't keep up. My legs no longer worked, and every step was a monumental struggle. Every mile was a combination of walking and running for different periods, trying to maximize my pace without dying. Lisa, the new first-placer, slowly pulled ahead further and further, until I could only see her in the distance. Then, she was gone.
I was all alone again. This was actually the same place that, two years ago, I had been dropped by the eventual winner (and course-record holder) of the half marathon, essentially being left to die in the middle of nowhere badlands. Each passing mile became slower and slower, 12:00/mile, 13:00/mile, 15:00/mile until I started looking behind me to see if anybody else was coming. Nobody was.
Every fiber of my being wanted to get to the junction where the Buffalo Gap Trail meets the Maah Daah Hey Trail again. After a tough climb, from this junction the trail stays mostly downhill all the way to the finish. I walked and jogged and worked and worked and hurt and wanted to quit and kept going and wanted to quit and kept going and ran and walked and made it to the top. I rejoiced and laughed and immediately started jogging downhill.
Then the cramps.
As I would jog, every now and again my hamstring would tighten up and give a little cramp, throwing a quick hitch in my step. Combine that with my exhaustion and sore everywhere, and multiple times I thought I wasn't gonna finish. Three times I had to stop and sit on the trail for a bit, trying to muster up any energy I could find to keep going.
With about a mile left, I finally made it to the bike path into Medora. I walked as far as I could before I came into sight of the finish line (it was a pride thing), then I started shuffling. Every step was barely raised off the ground, and my eyes were locked on the sign at the finish. My wife and her friends were there cheering, and I loved seeing them, but the only thing that mattered was crawling across the finish somehow. I shuffled and shuffled and shuffled and shuffled and shuffled and shuffled and groaned and strained and pushed and cramped and hurt and shuffled and
finished.*
----------------------------------------------------
I took off my hat and looked at it. A few small, round dark spots appeared on the brim, evidence of little specks of water falling from the overcast sky. My dusty shoes sat on the trail, while my sweaty butt sat on the prickly grass right next to it. I was on the side of a butte looking down on the bridge that I would have to cross under before finally getting on the road. Vehicles zoomed past on the pavement, likely not glancing to the badlands scenery to see any runners stopped in agony. No wind blew, no people came past, no horses ran- all was quiet. My arms and elbows were rested on my knees and my head fell down. I wanted to sleep, to rest. I didn't want to stand back up. The Maah Daah Hey trail, as it had done many times in my life, chewed me up, swallowed me, and s*** me back out. There was hardly anything left of me. I couldn't believe I signed up for this, and I had no idea how I was going to finish. I just wanted to get there.
A week later, I want more.
*I finished second place in a time of 4 hours, 24 minutes. I realize now that I can't get by in a marathon with the kind of training I was doing during the summer (not a ton).
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