2018 Table Rock Ultras 50K – Race Report

Last Updated on September 25, 2018 by Heather Hart, ACSM EP, CSCS

 

“Fatigue makes cowards of us all.”  – George S. Patton, Jr.

______________________

Between labored breaths and awkward stabs into the ground with my trekking poles,  I desperately glance down at my GPS watch.  It reads 17.1 miles, only 0.2 miles more than it read the last time I checked.  “You’ve got to be kidding me” I mumble under my breath, with a few other choice expletives.  I’m struggling to make my way up to the peak of Table Rock mountain, and according to my watch I’ve only covered about a quarter of the climb.   All at once, the demons begin to rear their ugly heads.

You aren’t strong enough. 

You didn’t train hard enough. 

This is what you get for living in Myrtle Beach, and thinking you can hang with these runners. 

You shouldn’t have taken the last few weeks so easy. 

Did you really think you were ready for the Barkley Fall Classic?

You’ll NEVER be good at this. 

The last thought stung the most.  I KNOW that I’ll never be an elite ultra runner.  My ultrasignup podium spots are mostly luck, as many of the awesome events I’ve raced in the past few years have yet to be discovered by the masses.  I KNOW that I live at sea level, and many of these runners ahead of me live and train on these very mountains.  But damnit, I trained too. I trained my ass off (technically for the BFC, but I digress) and I don’t understand why this is so damn hard. 

 

______________________

Friday night, September 21st.  I’m walking around the Steele Creek campground in Morganton, NC with my friend Felicia.  Just a handful of days prior, neither one of us had any idea we’d be running the Table Rock Ultras.   Hell, just 48 hours prior, neither one of us even realized there were TWO Table Rocks: one in South Carolina and one in North Carolina.  We almost booked a campsite at the wrong one.  But here we were.  A 50K for me, a 30K for her.

“Does it ever feel odd to you, showing up last minute, knowing that other people have been training for THIS RACE for months?” I ask her, feeling 100% uncertain of what we were about to face, and also semi out of place.  It was only fitting though, uncertainty and displacement had become our new normal.

Just one week prior we were watching Hurricane Florence bare down on our town, fearful of what was to come.  While both of our homes and families made it through unscathed, the aftermath of the storm has been devastating to our area.   The stress of evacuation, the uncertainty of whether we’d be able to get gas, or groceries, watching our friends lose all of their worldly belongings in floods, the kids have now been out of school loner than they have been IN school this year…it’s just been a hell of a month.   So when a last minute opportunity came up for us to escape to the mountains, we jumped on it.

Not to mention, I wanted to test out these legs that trained so hard for – but had to miss – the BFC.

So Friday night we packed up her little car, and headed on an 8 hour (normally 5) roundabout road trip to avoid flooding and closed roads, and eventually found ourselves just outside of Asheville, NC. After approximately 15 minutes of trying to figure out how to pronounce Catawba, we arrived at Catawba Brewing Company for packet pickup.  We grabbed our bibs, shirts, and a free pair of Fitsok socks, and headed to the campground to set up.   Race entry includes a free night at the campground right near the start line. We fumble with setting up the tent in the dark, and we’re in bed by 9:00 pm.

______________________

Saturday morning, September 22nd.  We wake up at 5:30 am and I begin going through the standard race day morning routine.  I can practically do this in my sleep, which is good, because it’s 5:30 am. I still have no idea what I’m up against, and so I slowly start observing other runners.  Are they wearing gators?  Are they carrying trekking poles? Should I bring mine.  I brought enough nutrition (Tailwind in the 50 serving big bag) but I didn’t bring a way to carry single servings.  There are fully loaded aid stations, so maybe I’ll wing it.  Oh god, am I at the point where I’m “winging” 50K’s like a casual neighborhood 5K?  This can’t be good.

I knew one thing, though: this race promised some climbs.

We’re told that we absolutely have to check in by 6:45 am for the start, even if we already checked in the night before.  I hug Felicia goodbye (her 30K starts at 7:30) and head over.  I check in, and then awkwardly stand in the starting area, alone.  It occurs to me that since I met Geoff six and a half years ago, I haven’t had to start a race alone.  If he wasn’t running with me, he was there crewing and cheering me on.  I don’t feel sorry for myself, but rather use this opportunity to really take in how much my life has changed – for the better – since a previous life where I was perpetually racing unsupported.

And then, just like that I was no longer alone.  Heather, a girl I raced back and forth with at Wambaw Swamp Stomp comes up to me and says “Hi, do you remember me?” I practically cut her off and say “OF COURSE I REMEMBER YOU.”  I want to add “I’m ol’ Greggg!” as we had an in depth conversation about this creepy BBC sketch when we first met, but I can’t seem to remember the words “Old” and “Greg” .  My caffeine clearly hasn’t kicked in yet.

 

 

We are quickly joined by her friend Tony, who is a long time veteran of this race, and we ask him to fill us in on the details as we nervously await the start.

The official pre-race speech from the race director begins, and for once in my life, I pay close attention.  I’m racing alone, I’ve never been here in my life, and I have a tendency to get lost or second guess important course directions.  We’re told to follow the blue arrows, blue tape, and that there would be a ton of water crossings.   Oh and those water crossings? Unavoidable. So get your feet wet.

PART 1: Start to 4.8 miles

The sun is just barely starting to rise, just to the point that I’m confident enough to put my headlamp away.  And then we’re off.

We run across a small field in the campground and across a bridge, then we take a sharp right into a massive field.   Ahhh, running through ankle high wet grass.  Now THIS I am well versed in (thank you Chad Haffa).   I’m careful to maintain an easy pace, while also remembering that there is a lot of elevation gain and loss, and so a solid running pace while I have a solid opportunity to run is probably not a bad idea.  Within minutes, my feet are completely soaked.  Instead of being frustrated, I think “well at least we go that over with” and remind myself that many years ago I used to climb up and down mountains with my entire body caked in mud.  Wet feet are not necessarily an enemy.

At about one mile in, we take a turn and head into the forest.  The course quickly narrows down into a double wide track, and I settle in to the pace that is set by the people ahead and behind me.  The forest doesn’t last long, before I know it we are back in another mowed field.  No problem, watch my super efficient Lowcountry swamp shuffle and be impressed, all of you mountain runners! I notice that there is a strong onion smell in the air, but think it’s just me…my allergies are out of control and I can’t breathe through my nose.  (Come to find out later, it WAS onion…wild onion to be exact. )

The course at this point is most definitely rolling hills. There is no flat. We’re either climbing or descending, though neither one is particularly steep. The field turns on to another single track, and I can instantly hear the relaxing yet strong rush of a current.  We can’t have a water crossing this soon into the race…can we?

Yes.  Yes we can.

Shortly after the first water crossing, we hit the first aid station at mile 4.8.

I give my number to the volunteers checking us in, grab an orange slice, and continue on the road.  I’m not feeling the need to linger at the aid station just yet, but make a mental note that I probably haven’t drank enough of the tailwind in my front flasks yet.

Part 2: 4.8-10.6 miles

We are now on a very well groomed gravel access road that parallels the stream (river?) we just crossed.  It passes a number of secluded campsites, and a make a mental note that I need to figure out a) how to reserve one of these sites and b) how to get here by car.  My kids (and husband) would LOVE it out here.  We’re climbing and descending, but mostly climbing at this point.  I run every chance I get, but power walk up the stepper grades.  Eventually the road ends and we enter the woods once again.  The trail is flooded, and at first people are picking their way around the water and across strategically placed rocks.  I, too, try to rock hop and tip toe until I realize how much effort I’m wasting, so I just start splashing through the water.  I’m not certain that my feet had even had a chance to dry, but I am certain they were wet once again.

And just in time, because there was another river crossing.

And not just another ankle/shin stream, but a chest high crossing.

I’m grateful that I’m still in enough of a crowd that I see the people in front of me hit chest high in the water, because it probably would have frightened me.  I’m a competent (though not necessarily confident) swimmer, but anything overhead would have definitely taken me by surprise.  I watch the line the previous runners take and follow behind.  I let out a yelp as my breath is taken away due to the cold, mountain water.

Once out of the water, we start the fun hands and knees type of climbing that I live for.  No sooner do I start thinking “well, it’s not Rat Jaw, but it will do…” then people in front of me start yelling about a wasps nest. I laugh out loud.  Thank you, universe.

We climb up single track for a while. Having barely read the course description, I wonder if the rest of the race will be just like this.  I had found out just prior to the race that there were various cutoffs. The first would be reaching the 10.2 mile aid station in 4 hours.  I wasn’t terribly worried about the cutoffs, but also still had no idea what was waiting ahead.

Turns out, the next portion of the race up until the 10.2 mile mark wasn’t terrible.  I lose track of stream crossings after 6, and we alternate between trail and gravel road.   It was mostly climbing, and I find myself infinitely grateful for all of those treadmill incline miles I put in while training for BFC.  I was able to keep a solid, steady pace climbing, especially up the roads.   Just before the aid station, we come out of the trail to see the leaders of the race descending out of the aid station and back down the road.  One of the things I absolutely adore about ultra running is how damn friendly everyone is.  Here I am, middle of the pack no-one, making my way up a climb, and the men and women at the very front of the pack, the podium crowd, are smiling and telling ME that I’m doing a great job.  Meanwhile, they’re nearly a solid two miles ahead of me.  It’s so cool.   I return the encouraging words and make my way to the aid station.

I reach cutoff #1 with just under two hours to spare.  I’m no longer stressed about time cutoffs, even though I knew the worst was yet to come.  I grab a handful of chips, refill my hydration pack, and note once again that I haven’t drank enough of my tailwind.

Ooops…

Part 3: 10.2 – 16.5 miles

The third section of this race was by far the easiest, as it was entirely on gravel road.  I climb solidly, and descended quickly.  About halfway through this section, I meet up with a guy from Charlotte named Cliff (I think…my race brain gets foggy).  We spend a few miles together talking about the course, Alabama, run coaching, and kids.   It was a wonderful distraction.  I had made it this far without uttering much of anything beyond “good job”.  Those of you who know me know how rare that is: I love to talk.  There was a nice long descent into the next aid station, and I come flying in with confidence for the climb up Table Rock.

Part 4: 16.5-19.3 miles

At the Junction aid station, I finally finish one of my tailwind bottles and refill it with another 200 calories.  A volunteer fills up my hydration bladder, and I bust out my trekking poles at the recommendation of a few veterans who told me this would be the section I would need them.   With a smile on my face, I set off on the single track trail while a volunteer yells behind me “Great job!  Only 2.2 miles to the summit!”

2.2 miles.  I can do that, I think.  It’s just like Monadnock.  It’ll be over in an hour, and we’re “only” summiting about another 1,000 feet (the peak of Table Rock is at about 4,000 feet above sea level).  This would be less than my hour long treadmill climbs, right?!

Almost immediately I’m slapped in the face with the fact that I’ve already covered over 16 miles, and my body is tired.  And maybe, just maybe, I had already failed on my nutrition.  It was a classic case of OVER confidence. I walk that fine line where I have plenty of experience, but maybe just not quite enough experience to remember to not mess this up AGAIN.

In other words: I knew better.

The beginning of the climb is very non-technical, and in retrospect, that might have been part of what made it so hard.  It was just a steep climb.  No rocks to break up the monotony, no awkward foot placements to distract you from the pain.  Just a steep, soul sucking climb.  I find myself irritated with my trekking poles. I find myself irritated that I couldn’t keep up with the people in front of me.  I looked down, hoping that this climb was at least partially over, when I realized I’d barely made a dent in the distance.

And that’s where the self doubt didn’t just leak in…it flooded in.

You aren’t strong enough. 

You didn’t train hard enough. 

This is what you get for living in Myrtle Beach, and thinking you can hang with these runners. 

You shouldn’t have taken the last few weeks so easy. 

Did you really think you were ready for the Barkley Fall Classic?

You’ll NEVER be good at this. 

The last thought stung the most.  I KNOW that I’ll never be an elite ultra runner.  My ultrasignup podium spots are mostly luck, as many of the awesome events I’ve raced in the past few years have yet to be discovered by the masses.  I KNOW that I live at sea level, and many of these runners ahead of me live and train on these very mountains.  But damnit, I trained too. I trained my ass off (technically for the BFC, but I digress) and I don’t understand why this is so damn hard.

I see a tiny patch of ground that almost resembles a flat spot next to a tree, and I pull over off of the trail.  I’ve got to let my heart rate come back down, I’ve got to get my head back in the game.  I look back down the trail and realize how many other people have also stopped, pulled over, or look like hell as they are making the ascent.  I’m not alone in my suffering.  This feels so damn hard because this race IS damn hard.  And that’s why I love it.   I suddenly remember the General George S. Patton quote that showed up in that silly Facebook “on this day” memory feature that I had shared nearly 8 years ago, in a very different time in my life.  “Fatigue makes cowards of us all.”   I’m not a coward, I’m just tired.  In fact, I remind myself, I actually really love this sort of torture.  Shift your attitude, Heather. 

A front runner comes barreling down the hill towards me. As he approaches he almost knowingly says to me “this really is the hardest part of the climb, where you are right now.” I know runners say encouraging things to each other and tend to embellish the truth (“you’re almost there!) in order to motivate others.  But for whatever reason, I believe this guy.  I start climbing again.

I catch up to a group ahead of me and fall into their pace.  At the same time, the trail terrain shifts and we suddenly are maneuvering around rocks, roots, and crazy technical stuff.  The distraction is welcomed, and I’m happy once again.  We climb and climb, and before I know it we reach a “T” intersection with a sign and a volunteer.  “50K runners!  Head that way to the summit, then come back down, and head this way to the aid station!” Almost immediately we start running into groups of hikers, and I know we are getting close.

Long story short, the view? 100% worth it.

I put my poles down, savor the view for a minute, then ask a stranger to take my picture.  As I start packing up my trekking poles, a woman approaches me.

“Are you someone…people know?”

I’m confused.  I’m also tired and haven’t eaten as much as I should have at this point, so it doesn’t take much to confuse me.

I stammer “uhhh…I don’t think so?”  I’m not an elite, that’s for damn sure. I’m just another face in the crowd, another runner chasing her demons.

“No, I think I know you. Are you sure you aren’t famous?”  I laugh internally, definitely not famous.  I contemplate whether or not I tell her I do have a blog, but then I feel foolish.  Everyone has a blog these days, I’m no one special.

“No, I’m not famous, haha” I reply

“Forward Commotion…Relentless Forward Commotion!” she shouts

“YES! THAT IS ME!” I shout back, totally shocked.   And then we hug, because I’m definitely a hugger.

I spend the next few minutes talking with Irene, a wonderful runner who shared some pretty amazing and humbling words with me.  I do this – all of this, the blog, social media, etc. – because I love it.  I hope that I help people in the process, but I never know. In fact, I often wonder if I even reach anyone. I’m just a small blogger overshadowed by influencers with hundreds of thousands of followers and millions of page views a year.

Thank you, Irene, for not only introducing yourself, but taking the time to tell me the things you did.  It truly was a humbling moment, and meant more to me than you’ll ever know.

I practically SKIP back down from the summit, passing hikers and other runners summiting.  I’m back at the aforementioned intersection before I know it.  The volunteer points me down the trail, and tells me “only 3/8th’s of a mile before the next aid station!”  I thank him and run down.

Then I spend the next quarter of a mile trying to figure out how far “3/8ths of a mile” is.  I realize that it is an actual number. I’ve just never heard anyone in the running world refer to a distance as 3/8ths of a mile.  I’d say “just under a half a mile!” or maybe even “just over a third of a mile!” but 3/8ths of a mile?  Garmin doesn’t calculate that.

I’m immediately distracted when I see a guy coming up the trail carrying a popsicle.  And not just any popsicle, but my absolute favorite summer treat: the popsicles in plastic that are essentially just sugar water and food coloring, and cut the sides of your mouth if you aren’t careful.  I yell, obnoxiously so, “POPSICLES? ARE THERE POPSICLES!?”  and continue to mention it for maybe the next 1/8th of a mile.

I get to the aid station and immediately run up to the volunteer holding popsicles. I choose red.  It’s at that point that my gaze drifts behind him and I see a giant pile of drop bags.  Huh.  Had I read the race details a little more closely, I would have been aware of the fact that I could have had a drop bag.  But I didn’t read it…so I didn’t have one.   I’m not phased in the slightest however, as I am pretty certain I have everything I need on me.  And now, I also have a popsicle.

Part 5: 19.3 – 21.3 miles

I am grateful for the climb back UP to the intersection, as it gives me a valid excuse to casually stroll while eating my popsicle.  When I finally reach the intersection, the downhill begins.   Now, in the grand scheme of things, everyone loves a downhill.  But true trail and ultra runners know that downhills, especially long steep ones, can be almost more brutal than climbing UP them.   And it’s not because of the obvious fear of tripping on a rock and careening down the side of a mountain (although there is always that risk).  No, it’s the perpetual isometric contraction on your quadricep muscles that never, ever ends.  It’s like holding a wall sit for twenty minutes, or staying at the bottom of a heavy squat for an indefinite amount of time.

I tiptoe- but run – down the trail with some caution.  In my mind, I push through the downhill pain by knowing that once I reach the aid station at the bottom of the mountain, the rest of the race will be more “gradual” downhill.

Or so I thought.

Part 6: Miles 21.3 – 26.7

I grab another handful of chips at the aid station, and once again note that my Tailwind is still NOT empty.  The logical choice would be to pull out one of those soft flasks and chug it, but I am anything but logical at this point.   I am, however, grateful to be back on the gravel road, even if only for a tenth of a mile.  But soon enough, we take a sharp left hand turn onto a double wide dirt trail.

The guy running behind me passes me, and then I realize I’m alone for the first time.  And I stay alone, for a long, long time.   I’m suddenly aware of how impeccably well the race course is marked, and I’m infinitely grateful for that.  Because I am alone for so long, I would have otherwise thought I was woefully lost if it wasn’t for those trail markers reassuring me I was, in fact,  on course.

Then I hit the proverbial wall.  It happens exactly how it sounds: with unexpected blunt force.  Except deep down I KNEW it was coming, and I KNEW I could have prevented it had I just slammed that Tailwind the half a dozen times earlier that I thought to myself “gee, Heather, you aren’t drinking this Tailwind according to schedule.” But I didn’t, and here I was.  Instead of cry or feel sorry for myself, two common results of the bonk, I instead chugged my Tailwind (finally) and kept moving forward.  This portion of trail was mostly downhill, with the occasional short climb, that switch-backed down the mountain towards Steel Creek.   I take to counting strides to distract myself.  100 on the right side, switch to the left.  100 on the left side, switch back to the right.  I make a game out of seeing how many steps I can take before I am interrupted by a climb that slows me down to a hike.

Despite the fact that I had already recognized the reason for my current low, I couldn’t help but occasionally be painfully aware of how truly bad that low felt.  I’m certain that being alone on the trail, with no one in sight either ahead of or behind me, didn’t help.  Further, I have no idea where I was on the trail, as we hadn’t been on this section before.  I also started to worry about the rumored last water crossing, that was supposedly even higher than the chest high crossing.  What if I approached it alone? The water was moving really fast and the current was strong on all of the crossings, thanks to the recent hurricane.  What if I pulled a Jim Walmsley and floated down the stream?  Would there be volunteers to rescue me?

Eventually another female catches up to me.  In my mind I called her Krista, because she looked EXACTLY like Krista from Eagle Endurance. I have to do a double take at first to make sure it wasn’t really her.   Krista passes me but I made a point to keep her in my sight.  Sure enough, we eventually stumble upon the water crossing.  Except this one looks familiar…it was the chest high crossing from earlier in the day.  I ask Krista-not Krista if this was the same crossing.  She makes a signal with her hands at her chest, confirming that yep, it was this one.  She gets in and crosses, though the current knocks her on her side before she regains her balance and climbs out.  I slide into the water and pause.  The current is strong and trying to knock me over.  I will myself to hold my balance, and even freeze in place for a few seconds so I don’t lose my footing and fall over.  Krista not Krista turns back, and I realized she might have thought I needed help.  In reality, I was just making sure I didn’t dunk my phone in the water.

Blogger problems.

We (my phone and I) make it out of the water unscathed.  I am back on the flooded portion of the trail that I previously tip toed around.  This time, completely soaked to the point that I’m still dripping wet, I don’t care as much about keeping my feet try.  I trudge right through.

Back on a gravel road, I run the flats and downhills, power hike the uphill, and bide my time.  I won’t lie, I’m ready to be done. I’m tired. My quads are trashed.  I’m happy, and glad I’m here, but I’m ready to call it a day. I make it to the last aid station and fill up my bladder one last time.  I’m offered food by the friendly volunteers, but decline. Nothing sounds appealing.  One of the volunteers says “not even a PB&J?  How about a grilled cheese?”

DID YOU JUST SAY GRILLED CHEESE?

America may run on Dunkin Donuts, but I run on grilled cheese.  I once dropped out of a race because of the lack of promised grilled cheese (it’s sort of true…)  Alas, it was hot, I wasn’t hungry, and I very reluctantly turn the grilled cheese down…but not before I seriously contemplated carrying it in my hydration pack for the next 5 miles for a post race snack.

Ready to be done, I don’t linger.

Part 7: Miles 26.7-31.5 

We cross the very first water crossing for the second time, and then spend the last 5+ miles on the same grassy roads / mowed trails.  Much of this portion is unshaded, and though we were warned it would be hot (and it was) I find it isn’t nearly as soul crushing and unbearable as summer running in Myrtle Beach.  In fact, there was a gentle breeze that kept me comfortable enough.

I slowly start picking off runners who are clearly just as done with this race as I am.  I even pass a handful of 30K runners.  I have no idea how I rank in the overall field of runners, nor do I care.  I’m happy enough with my performance, especially considering all that we have been through over the last few weeks. Eventually I catch up with and pass Tony, the new friend I met at the beginning of the race.  He tells me he’s happy with his performance as well, even 1 hour ahead of his goal time, and he’s going to walk it in from here. I congratulate him, and push forward.

I pass a few more people, before I notice someone slowly creeping up on me.  It’s Tony.  I joke with him “I thought you were walking it in!” to which he replies he changed his mind, and he’s using me as motivation to get to the finish line.  We talk and run together for a while.  He tells me about his home town in Fayetteville, I tell him about the time my husband and I ran a road marathon there together (our one and only) and mistakenly told all of Myrtle Beach that it was a “flat” course (we were living in Vermont at the time, it’s all relative).  I absolutely love how running brings complete strangers together, and for a moment in time you can connect on a personal level.  No preconceived notions, no keeping up appearances, none of that: just a bunch of runners sharing a beautiful day doing what they love together.

(Suffering.  It’s suffering that we love to do together).

We eventually wind up in the field that leads to the bridge, which leads to the finish line.  I’m noticing the heat more, so I turn the brim of my hat to cover my face, put my head down, and run.

The field felt like it would never end, but when it finally did, I turned the corner to see my friends who did the 30K sitting in the river icing their legs.  I’m immediately met with not only familiar cheers, but dozens of cheers from other racers and spectators as well.  I’m sure the smile on my face was as wide as my ears.

I cross the bridge, and run strong to the finish line.  One of the race directors runs out to meet me.  He immediately asks if I’m OK.  I’m not sure if I look like I’m dying (it happens sometime, chronic red running face) or if he was saying this to everyone.  I enthusiastically reply that I’m GREAT, and the race was FANTASTIC.  He high fives me, I cross the finish line.

I’m handed a finishers hoodie, and immediately take in all of the finisher’s area goodies.  In addition to the usual finish line foods, there’s a taco bar and a huge cooler full of Catawba Brewing Company beer. I’m not hungry (still) so I make a beeline to join my friends in the freezing cold creek water to help cheer other runners in.  It felt amazing on my very unhappy legs.

RESULTS:
Finishing time: 8:16:48
Elevation gain:  5,880 feet
18th out of 55 females
104th out of 215 finishers

At some point I had come up with arbitrary goals for myself during this race.  I can’t not be competitive, even in the tiniest capacity.  It’s a bad habit.  I knew there were some badass mountain runners at this race, so I decided I’d be thrilled with placing in the top 20 women, and top 50% of overall participants (161 of the 215 finishers were men).   I did both, so I was pleased.

And I was tired.

Sure it wasn’t Barkley, but it was something pretty incredible none the less.  As cheesy and cliché as it sounds, I’m going to refer to the Rolling Stones classic lyric:  “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, well you just might find…you get what you need.”

Thank you to Tanawha Adventures for putting on an impeccable race. I have zero complaints or even positive criticism. This was an awesome adventure, and I hope to drag more of the Myrtle Beach crew out to the race next year.

Thank you to Cliff and Tony for helping pass the miles.  Thank you to Irene for being so awesome.

Thank you so much to my  friend  Jeff (not to be confused with husband Geoff, haha) who not only reached out and encouraged me to do it, but did the ground work and behind the scenes conversations with the RD’s to make sure it happened, AND providing us with a kickass place to stay the next night.

And lastly, thank you to Felicia, my incredible and beautiful friend and adventure buddy who didn’t bat an eye when I suggested we drive eight hours to the mountains (even though we both spent way too much time in the car the week before) to do a race neither one of us knew much of anything about.  Here’s to many more trucker hats and Trader Joes trips.  You are my favorite kind of person.