Running in Place
Finding peace at the TARC Fells Trail Winter Ultra, Dec. 1, 2018
When I got home from the TARC winter ultra late Saturday afternoon, I felt like I’d just returned from a week-long trip. Maybe it was the layers of clammy clothes I had to strip off and the gear to unpack, or because it felt like I hadn’t eaten in days. But I felt different from the way I normally do after a big race. It wasn’t just a physical thing. Yes, it was a technical, quad-shredding course that featured plenty of ankle rolls, toe stubs, and arm-flailing stumbles, and one full-on spill. It wasn’t just a mental thing, either. Yes, when I finally closed my eyes that night all I saw were roots and rocks, the spindly branches and fallen leaves tattooed across my retinas. A few hours later, I woke drenched in sweat, starving, and hobbled to the kitchen for a random selection of snacks, a handful of vegan sausage rounds, some granola, a bunch of Oreos. It was as if my brain was still slogging it out on the course, replenishing at the buffet-style aid station. OK, that part was a little weird.
Now I’m not saying that I had magically transformed over the seven-and-a-half hour grind. And a 32-mile race isn’t particularly long by ultra standards (a friend of mine is running the entire 400-mile coast of North Carolina as I type this). But it may have been my most peaceful one. And that’s a word I don’t think I’ve ever employed for a marathon or ultra. Almost without fail, during the late stages, there is an extended, miles-long moment where I am stuck in a full-on hate cave, wishing I was anywhere but here, questioning every decision I’ve ever made, especially the one to take up running. But that agony was notably absent in the Middlesex Fells last Saturday.
The 2,200-acre forest outside of Boston is a special place for my wife and me. Walking the trails, the Fells had become a refuge from the anguish over our daughter’s descent into opioid addiction. A year earlier, we’d been hiking with her rambunctious three-year-old rescue Hank, whom we were now caring for. At one point, he bounded away, leaping logs, and cutting through bramble. I whistled and yelled. Nothing. “He’s over here,” someone shouted. I dashed down the path and found Hank sniffing near a photographer. Then I noticed a couple runners pick their way past, TARC bibs pinned to their shirts. My heart wilted. After years of running, my weekly mileage had shrunk to less than eight miles and I’d earned my first DNS for a 75-mile race I just couldn’t train for. Whenever I’d lace up, the despair bubbled up and sapped my energy, darkening my thoughts, and halting my run within a mile or two. One of the cruelties of addiction is that it not only robs you of your loved one, but often robs you of yourself. As more runners bounded by, I’d tried to picture myself among them, but the way things had been going that didn’t seem likely.
But then Hank.
The 25-pound mutt, born homeless on the streets of North Carolina, had energy galore, sprinting between rooms, leaping across couches and chairs, leaving chewed shoes and insoles in his wake. He had also become anxious and aggressive, lunging at dogs, at people. Little by little, weekend by weekend, Hank and I walked, then ran, the trails at the Fells. I didn’t pay attention to time or pace as he galloped ahead or mountain-goated a rocky hillside, just listened to each footfall, to each breath, to each moment. Hank’s mood began to even out, and so did mine. I’d begun learning to run again.
LOOP ONE
Middlesex Fells Reservation, Stoneham, Mass.
At 6:30 am, it was breezy, in the low 30s with a few steel-tinged clouds hovering. Forecast called for a sunny day in the upper 30s. I scanned the aid table. Race volunteers were sorting through the potluck offerings: bananas, pretzels, granola bars, potato chips, grilled cheese, Mountain Dew, mini donuts, Christmas Oreos. Others were dressed as farm animals and would man the start/finish and mid-course aid station, jotting down bib numbers and cracking jokes. There were no timing chips, no T-shirts, no medals. Instead of a starting gun, we were urged to launch ourselves onto the double-wide dirt track with a sasquatch-style group shriek. Echoing the feral vibe, a dude in a Yeti costume high-fived us as we scuffed along the .3-mile trailhead, or the “stick” portion of the lollipop-shaped course. Before we even reached the first turn, a guy tripped and fell, and started laughing, embarrassed. “Hey, at least you got it out of the way,” I said.
When we got to Skyline after a couple minutes, you could go left or right. The option to alternate loop directions was a comfort. I went clockwise with most of the pack, the way I often ran with Hank, and immediately regretted the decision. We were clogged for almost the first half-mile, with a decent amount of hiking along a narrow twisting path. As we continued to bunch up, I skirted to the edge to pass a few folks, feeling strong on the climb. Run conservative, you’re not trying to win this thing. I’d signed up late and had only two months to train, barely enough for a road marathon. It had been two years since I’d pinned on a bib and with 4,000 feet of vertical gain and an elevation profile that looked like a chainsaw, I wanted to make sure I beat the cut-off, which was 2 p.m., or 2 hour 20-minute loops. In my training runs, I’d hit 1:45s and 1:50s. So I’m not sure why I was nervous. Still a worst-case scenario-ist, I guess. I need to work on being more of a trust in your training-ist.
We passed behind the Sheepfold dog park, where I often ended my runs with Hank so he could get some bro time. I missed him. The was the first time in a year that I’d run the Fells without him. I missed how he scrambled up even the steepest sections, never failing to attack a hill, mouth agape as if smiling. I drew a lesson from his attitude: meet your challenges with gusto. I had his dog tag in my pocket and I swear I could hear it jangling.
I reached the first big landmark, Wright’s Tower, in under 40 minutes. Built in 1937, the 100-foot stone observation structure looks like a medieval guard tower with archer’s slits. From the lookout platform, you get panoramic views of the surrounding forestland and of the Boston skyline in the distance. I thought of the graffiti spray-painted on the upper ledge: “It’s not a crime to wear a smile.” Below was a small clearing and a spill of large rocks where you can sit and take in the scene below. On one run, I’d come upon a woman clutching a bible and chanting in tongues as the sun rose over the city.
After a long rocky descent from the tower, we were met with a gnarly climb, involving a narrow passage at the top, toe-holds and hand work. After that, the leaf-strewn path leveled out with only a few rocks studding the ground. So of course that’s where I took a tumble that felt like I’d been tossed from a slow-moving car, but I popped right back up. I mean, there were runners behind me. With eyes. “You OK, dude?” Sore ribs, sore forearm. Gotta keep going. “Yeah, thanks, first of many I’m sure.”
At the mid-course aid station, I grabbed a couple banana chunks. There was a used plastic cup by the Tailwind dispenser. “Could I get a cup, please,” I asked. “Right there,” said a woman dressed in a lamb onesie. I looked around, confused, seeing only the one cup. “It’s communal,” she explained. I appreciated the devotion to reducing waste, but I thought that was a little gross, all those sweaty, sticky, spitty lips. I’ll know to bring my own next time. Guess that was the point.
The last three miles, I averaged 11–12 minute miles, even saw some single digits. The pack had thinned and my foot placement felt sure as I skated between thick roots and over the gentler climbs without breaking stride. I rolled into the start/finish strong and surprised myself with a 1:36. Giving me a 40-plus-minute cushion.
@1 hr 36 mins
LOOP TWO
To mix things up, I went counter-clockwise. It was fine the first few miles, leaping fallen logs, skirting puddles, and thumping across wooden footbridges. But before long, a strong sun had found me, filtering through the spindly trees, creating a strobe light effect that was super distracting. I might as well have been on roller skates at a disco derby. For a while, I had to run with my hand raised against the shine and lost the trail several times.
I didn’t like the rhythm of climbs to downhills, especially after Wright’s Tower where the inclines felt bunched together. The trail wasn’t as well marked this direction, either, and easy to mistake lichen on a tree or rock for a white blaze. I decided I wouldn’t run this way again. But this also meant repeating loops three and four which gave me pause. I joined up with an older dude and we ran together for a spell. He was tackling all four circuits the same direction. “I figure that way I’ll get to know all the pitfalls and tricky turns.” That sounded worse than waterboarding, but everyone needs their own strategy. I wished him luck as we separated.
I came across a few people from November Project wearing tagged grassroots gear. I didn’t recognize them. I hadn’t been to the free, all-weather workouts much over the past year even though I had chugged the Kool Aid after writing a cover story for Runner’s World in 2013 and later co-wrote a book with the founders. In fact, the thing that first attracted me — the weird, playful, underground vibe — had come to feel alienating against the backdrop of chronic family turmoil. I craved normalcy. I craved unfettered space. I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth for crowds or hugs from strangers. “Looking good, Caleb,” one tribe member said as we passed each other. Not sure how he knew me, but it felt nice to be seen. I wished I knew his name. We high-fived. “You, too, NP.”
@1:43
LOOP THREE
Eighteen miles in, back on the clockwise loop. I’d been running four hours, a spot in a road marathon where I’d be begging for mercy. My Garmin was kicking out 15-minute miles. The winner of this race would break the course record in just a few minutes with a scorching 4:09.
As I danced down a stoney descent and across a stretch of trail softened by bike-tires, I looked for meaning in my bib number, an exercise I picked up from an ultra-friend. 624. That one was easy: My daughter is 26 and almost 4 months sober. As underscored by the place I was running, we weren’t necessarily out of the woods, and this disease is notorious for snatching away sobriety at any moment, so nothing was a sure thing, one day at a time. But I was beyond grateful to the universe and super proud of the work our daughter was doing, the new life she was building, the story she was sharing, the story she was owning. Even if everything collapsed tomorrow, a foundation had been laid to build upon.
There was a foundation in these woods, too. I’d grown so familiar with the place. I knew the rock formations, the gravel patches, the bends, the fallen logs, the streams. I could tell when I was near one of the reservoirs by the shift in air temperature. And there were stories everywhere. That was where I slipped on a patch of ice and screwed up my shoulder. That was where Hank covered himself in fresh animal shit or where we were when a freak rainstorm hit us, turning Hank as slick as seal, both of bounding through puddles like kids.
This is also the place where Hank taught me about faith. Sometimes, he’d bolt after a squirrel, zipping through the trees, churning over a ridge, his tiger-striped coat absorbed into the scenery, the sound of his tags fading. My heart would drop. Where the hell was he? Would I be spending the rest of the day combing these woods, then hanging flyers? To lose him would be devastation. And then like one of those optical illusion posters that eventually reveal the Statue of Liberty, he’d come into focus up ahead at a bend. Over time, I learned to calm down and keep going when I lost sight of him, telling myself he would catch up or be waiting ahead. I tried to tap into that faith when I’d think about my daughter. I knew the answer was in her hands and someday she’d find it. We just had to be ready when she did. Until then you kept going.
@2:01
LOOP FOUR
When I hit the Start/Finish, I wasn’t feeling as wrecked as I’d imagined during my training, and my spirits lifted when I spotted my friend Emily who had agreed to run the last loop with me. I changed my hat and gloves, replenished my water, and we set out. “Body check,” Emily said. “Not bad,” I answered. “Mind check.” “Still there.” Truth was I was feeling dead-headed and not like much of a conversationalist. I worried I was going to bore her with my grunts and one-word answers. But I was hardly the first person she had paced and she launched into some stories and updated me on some people we knew. I just listened as we climbed higher. A few minutes later, a root grabbed my foot and sent me hurtling forward. Emily spun around and caught me. Looked like she had her work cut out for her.
Emily is a co-leader of November Project Boston and one of the fiercest, most selfless people I know. I had confided in her early on. Even though I’d stopped going to the workouts, she always checked in, tried to help me make sense of the situation. I know I wasn’t the only friend she was tending to, either. I often wondered when she made time for herself.
The other thing Emily is known for is her longstanding 100 push-ups-a-day regimen. She often racks up as many as 40,000 a year. And it shows. She has guns. Magnums. And her form is perfect. Inspired, I took up the routine last summer and once I built up, I was amazed how easy it was to squeeze out four sets of 25 — while your oatmeal is spinning in the microwave or waiting in a parking lot. And it made a difference, especially with body control on the trails where you’re continually shifting balance. I don’t see Emily as much as I’d like, so it was also a way to stay in touch.
For stretches, we ran in silence. After I’d asked her to pace me, I immediately worried I’d be too ragged, wasn’t sure I wanted to open the doors of my struggle bus. But once we got going and settled into a comfortable rhythm, her presence reminded me of the importance of letting someone help you, finding the courage to be vulnerable, that no matter the burdens we often feel are ours alone to bear, we’re always stronger together.
After checking out the view from the tower, we came upon three deer in a clearing, just grazing, unbothered by our presence as we stopped to watch. A few miles later, a guy wearing a Fred Flintstone tunic caught us and we synched up for a while, talking about our training, the other races he had on tap. Fred was tackling the 40 miler (five loops) and had another pass after this one. I was impressed he could carry on a conversation. I was back to grunt mode. Then, with a “Yabba dabba doo!,” he split off from us on a downhill. I smiled. It wasn’t a crime after all.
Finally, Emily and I hit the lollipop stick and wheeled onto the final .3 mile stretch. I dropped the clutch and was able to dial up a speedy pace. It was probably a 9:30-minute mile at best, but I felt like Usain Bolt, clocking the final loop at just over two hours, and even beating the cut-off for the 40-miler runners.
Final: 7:40.35
As I threw on my jacket, I watched Fred Flintstone head out on his fifth loop, a headlamp around his neck, the clouds cottoning over the sun. We all cheered him on. And then Chris and Hank showed up. I was layered in warm clothes and still had on sunglasses, and he didn’t recognize me. I dropped down on my creaky knees, took off my glasses, and he leapt forward, tail wagging, trying to nibble-lick my face off. But someone dropped a crust of food at the aid table and Hank was like, later, bro. He was who he was, a good boy. As we walked to the car, my legs stiffening like they’d been dunked in carbonite, I thought I wouldn’t want to see the Fells for a long time, but by the time I got home, I couldn’t wait to leash Hank up and return. It had been a while for him. That night when the race results went up, I saw that I had placed 35th out of 75 finishers (there were 20 DNFs). Middle of the pack, not bad for a dude who just turned 49. But at the end of the day, for that race, and for these days, I was in the exact place and time I needed to be.
Peace.
