Uwharrie Mountain Run 40 Miler

I've been avoiding writing this blog post because the race felt like such a failure to me for many weeks after it had taken place.  Every time I stop to really think about it, though, I find success in all aspects of that day.

I drove to Asheboro the evening before and joined the Bull City Running folks for the pre-race pasta dinner.  I gathered my race packet and grabbed some food. 



My friends Robin and Sarah were volunteering at the registration table and planned to run the 8 mile race the next morning.  It was great to see some friendly faces that night.  I got a big hug from both Kim and Jason Page (Bull City Running) when I arrived and shared a table for dinner with some new running friends.  Just before I left to head to my hotel, Robin and I snapped a quick picture.


I slept about 5 hours before the alarm went off.  It was COLD that morning...the temperature was around 18 or 19 degrees.  It's a bit tricky to know what to wear when you start a race at 19 degrees but know that it will be sunny and warm up to temps in the 40s.  I layered well, which helped.  But any way you slice it, 19 degrees is cold.

The photo below shows the bag drop off at the race start/finish.  It was also fairly dark when we began, although at the last moment before the race I ditched my headlamp and decided to just wing it for the first 15 or 20 minutes until the sun really started to come up.  This was a great decision; as it turns out, it was light enough.  I'd brought two headlamps with me...one for my drop bag at the turn around point and the one I had on until moments before the race began.  In the end, I would need neither.


I wore my compression running tights, a thin long sleeve running top with a short sleeve running top layered on top, my very thin cycling jacket (with sleeves that can be unzipped to create a vest), my ear warmer headband, and gloves.  I also had my 2-liter camelbak on my back for the duration of the race.


The first (and subsequently the last) mile of the 40 mile race is brutal: very rocky, very steep, and very unrunnable.  I wouldn't know how the front runners traversed this part of the course, since I stayed at the back of the pack the entire race, but I can't imagine they run this part easily.  After we climbed up, up, up, I had a beautiful view of the sun coming up through the trees.  It was worth pausing to catch the moment.


All of the aid station volunteers at this race were fantastic.  The 5 mile station guys were particularly awesome.  I was one of the last runners to come through, and they couldn't have been nicer to me.  It was a frigid, freezing cold morning, and they had nothing but smiles and words of encouragement.  They'd also posted the signs below for runners to read as they left the aid station.







As the early miles ticked by, I was feeling terrible.  I was sluggish, moving even more slowly than I would have expected, and I felt really emotional.  I kept tripping and stubbing my toes on rocks and overall just felt like this was not where I wanted to be.  To make matters worse, the flow line on my camelbak kept freezing.  Three times in the first few hours or so of the race, I had to work the line to break up the ice enough for the water to flow through.  As the 20 mile racers, who started well after the 40 milers, started to pass me, I became angry and tearful.  For each statement of encouragement that I received from the front-of-the-pack 20 milers, I had a rude retort that I shouted to them in my mind.  To sum it up, I was not myself.  At all.







Around mile 10 I started to go over in my mind what might be going on with me; I am pretty tenacious and stubborn in races, but I just could not imagine going 40 miles feeling the way I was feeling.  I started by taking inventory: eating and drinking enough.  I realized immediately that I wasn't doing either.  It was so cold that morning, and I definitely wasn't drinking enough.  I hadn't stopped to pee at all since the race began (NOT my usual).  It hit me that if I were drinking on a regular basis, the camelbak flow line wouldn't be freezing.  I couldn't recall how long it had been since I last ate something.  I forced myself to start drinking a little every few minutes to help battle the effects of what was probably some degree of dehydration, and I got on my typical schedule of eating every half hour.  Very slowly, I started to come around.  The difference between the fog of the first 10 miles and how I felt by the turn around point at mile 20 was stark.  I was simultaneously happy and embarrassed: happy that I'd figured out what the problem was but embarrassed that I'd made such a rookie mistake.

As I stopped to eat (and pee, finally) at the aid station around mile 14 or 15, my friend, Todd Zarzecki (husband of the fabulous Alyson Zarzecki), caught up to me.  He was running the 20 miler and was looking strong.  We left the aid station together and walked, talked, and ate for the next mile or so.  Todd took off to finish his race, and I told him I would look for him at my turn around.  Before I knew it, Todd was completely out of sight.  Speed racer.


When I did make it to the 20 mile turn around, I was still a little spacey and out of it but was feeling better.  I was handled by 3 aid station volunteers.  They brought me hot soup, helped me sort through my drop bag to figure out what I needed from it, and then gently but firmly told me I needed to head back out to meet all of the time cutoffs.  I was definitely on the time bubble.  Todd found me as I ate my soup and gave me some words of encouragement.  He also gave me a power bar which I ate on the way back (thanks again, Todd!).  As I started back towards the finish, I was tired but felt okay.



As the miles wore on, though, true fatigue really set in.  The descents were as bad as the ascents.  My quads and hamstrings were screaming, and I wasn't even moving very fast.  I kept one eye on the clock and simultaneously tried to relax and zen myself through the race.  It very quickly became obvious, though, that there was no way I would avoid finishing the race in the dark.  The thought of the steep, rocky descent of the last mile in the dark was not a welcoming thought.  I approached mile 32 exactly at its time cutoff of 5pm.  The sun was starting to go down, and it was even darker in the woods.  I was wearing a headlamp I picked up at the turn around but did not relish the idea of having to use it on the rough Uwharrie terrain.  I had only 8 miles to go but knew that given my current state of fatigue and physical pain combined with the fast approaching dark, it would likely take me longer than the total time allowed for the race.  Furthermore, I had to reach the mile 35 time cutoff in an hour (20 minute miles for the next 3 miles) and didn't think I could do it.  As I came up out of the woods at the aid station, I was met by a volunteer.  He asked me how I was doing, and I told him I thought I was done.  I also told him it would be an easier bitter pill to swallow if he told me he wouldn't allow me to go on because of the time, rather than my deciding to quit.  He smiled and told me I needed to stop.  I smiled back and thanked him.

The pictures below show me at the aid station at mile 32, my last stop of the day.  I was relieved to be done and bitterly disappointed not to have gone all the way to the end of the 40 miler. 



And I was deeply tired.  I couldn't wait to get hot food, a hot shower, and go to bed.  I headed back to the hotel and did just that.


In the month or so since this race, I've come to realize I generally do not drink enough when it's very cold outside.  It's a very conscious effort to force myself to do it, but it's obviously worth the effort.  When it's hot out, I drink a ton - even more than most of my friends doing the same activity.  In general, I'm a drinker, so to speak, with physical activity.  The importance of staying hydrated, even in very cold temperatures, cannot be overstated.

I've also come to realize that I was under-prepared for the terrain of Uwharrie.  The most difficult single track trails out at Umstead, where I trained for this race, are nothing at all like this trail at Uwharrie.  I was good for the distance but not the steep and rough terrain.  I will train differently the next time I attempt this race.

In the first week after the race, I felt extremely, bitterly disappointed that I did not finish it.  It never occurred to me prior to the race that I might not.  It was just a matter of how slowly I would go.  Not finishing made me feel embarrassed and inadequate, like I attempted something I shouldn't have attempted and then naturally failed at it.  Time after time in those first days after the race, well-intentioned friends kept telling me to be proud of how far I did go instead of focusing on not finishing, as if my disappointment was unwarranted.  The vast majority of these friends don't run very long distances, so running 32 miles seems nearly impossible to them.  But I think of it like this: had I set out to run 5 miles but only finished 3, I think more people would be able to understand my disappointment.  I found myself dismissing these friends' sentiments and words of encouragement, chalking them up to the fact that non-distance runners just don't understand.

And then I finally got over myself.  I realized that my friends, whether they run distance or not, were right.  How self involved of me to think otherwise.  I'd run 32 very difficult miles and called it when I knew I needed to stop.  For someone who pushes herself and her limits, calling it is a big deal.  I had given it a go, and at the end of the day it ended up being a difficult but great training run for the Umstead 100.

Several weeks later, I am forward focused on the huge effort I will put forth in 4 weeks when I race the Umstead 100.  Uwharrie is but a memory...until next February.