- Martin Luther King, Jr.
Had I known what I was getting myself into when I signed up for Sunday's run, I might have backed out. I might have found some really good excuse for staying home, sleeping a little later, and enjoying a few cups of strong coffee over the Sunday paper. But then I wouldn't have known, I wouldn't have experienced, and I wouldn't have enjoyed the ass-kicking that was the Blue Hills Skyline Trail 7.2 Mile run. This rocky, unforgiving, relentless gauntlet of hills, boulders, and steep inclines kicked my ass, but it did not kick my spirit. Actually, it kind of renewed it.
It poured rain Saturday - torrential, Biblically-proportional rains that flooded streets and closed roads. My neighborhood was awash with puddles and small rivers, and the thought of a trail run (or, the thoughts of careening down hills of mud and rocks) wasn't really enticing. It didn't seem like the wisest idea and the notion of bailing out crossed my mind more than a few times. But I'd signed up weeks ago and done my best to train. Moreover, it would be my last run for a long while with my running buddy Sarah, who was scheduled to move two days later, and my first run in a long time with my friend Alex, who I hadn't seen in months. Sarah and I made a plan to check in with each other late Saturday night and re-evaluate the situation. Another check in Sunday morning. When my phone rang at 6 a.m. Sunday, I was awakened by Sarah saying, "it's not raining....", which could only mean one thing: the run was on.
Here is a quote from the guy with last year's course record: "You might think that anything a few miles from downtown Boston can’t be too difficult, but the Skyline has surprised many runners...this run was the most technically challenging run I’ve ever done. It is amazing how much climbing they fit into a nine mile trail in this part of the state that is so very flat. There are 6-7 stone staircases in both directions, and the footing is straight out treacherous over about 16 of the 18 miles. The feeling of crunching a foot between two rocks is all too common on the Skyline Trail, and there are few good places to fall. You will usually end up in a pile of very sharp rocks."
Terrified? Me? Yes. I thought about staying home, but knew if I did so I'd probably never forgive myself. And despite my anxiety about the insanity of embarking on such a treacherous run, I wanted to see my friends, spend time outdoors, and see if I could actually do this run. The doubting part of my ego questioned why I'd want to do the run, and what made me think I could even come close to competing in a field of lanky, speedy, agile runners. I imagined myself crossing the finish line - covered in mud, poison ivy, and various scrapes, bruises, and gashes - hours after everyone else had packed up and gone home. Not a pretty picture.
Fortunately, the somewhat kinder, gentler side of my ego stepped in, cheered me on, and told me to just do my best. If worse came to worse, I could just walk. It wasn't the most appealing option, but I could simply STOP RUNNING and shift into Sunday-hike-in-the-Blue-Hills mode. Not ideal, but not impossible. There was no reason for me not to finish - or for that matter, begin - this run.
By 8 a.m. 80 of us assembled at the "start line", a simple white line chalked across a path. The race director outlined the course, noting landmarks and land mines, and off we went. We hauled ass straight up hill and into the woods, still buzzing with excitement, nervous energy, and a recent breakfast. The pack of runners filtered out and I found myself in my usual place - not entirely at the back of the pack, but pretty darn close. The front of the pack? They were long gone.
People tend not to talk much on trail runs, which might be why I like them (the runs and the people) so much. If you talk, you risk losing the peace, serenity, and fragile silence that accompanies jogging through the pristine woods. You also risk slipping, falling, twisting an ankle, or doing a face plant into a mud puddle. I have seen it all happen, almost always to some loudmouth in an Ironman race jersey as he is yapping about his PR. As I allowed the silence of the woods on a Sunday morning embrace me, I let my thoughts wander. I began an inner monologue of positive thoughts and words, telling myself to keep going, keep breathing, and enjoy this beautiful opportunity, even when it felt like I couldn't take another step. Despite the rough terrain, though, there was never a moment when I thought I wouldn't finish or when I cursed signing up for this run. At times I even enjoyed it.
The course was beyond challenging - it was INSANE! Without a doubt it was the most grueling, exhausting, laborious, taxing, demanding run I HAVE EVER RUN. It was also the most exhilarating, rewarding, amazing, satisfying, beautiful ass-kicking to which I have ever subjected myself. 2200 feet of vertical incline. 12 + sets of rock "stairs". Boulders. Rocks. Pebbles. Gravel. Tree roots. Fallen trees. Stream crossing. Scrambling. Inclines so steep you couldn't run even if you wanted to. And quiet dirt roads, skyline views, crunchy pine cones and twigs underfoot. Nature at its most authentic.
I ran by myself for most of the time but for a few moments with a very special person - I didn't know who he was until I ran up right beside him and recognized his famous-in-running-circles face and sweet smile. Rich is a 78 year old man from Marlborough who has run in over 70 Marathons and 61 Ultra Marathons ("ultra" as in longer than 26.2 miles. MUCH longer.) He ran the Vermont 100, which is 100 miles nonstop, at age 72, becoming the oldest person to complete the race. Rich was 53 when he ran his first Marathon. It is not humanly possible to run next to this guy and not be inspired. We ran together for a couple of minutes, admiring the course and enjoying the morning, and eventually settled back into our own paces. For the record, Rich finished the race all of two minutes after me and barely broke a sweat.
Pretty soon The End was near. My clothes were drenched with sweat and my legs were caked with dirt. My sunscreen had by now trickled down my neck and a few little blisters had formed on strategically incapacitating locations on my feet. Several miles and hours were behind me and I was happy. As I trundled down the last 3/4 mile hill, dry grass and brush whipping against my legs, sun burning, and small pebbles pecking my ankles, I felt alive. The sky blazed with brightness and a slight breeze ruffled the trees around me. I could see the base of the slope. Alone, I took deep breaths and tried to fill myself with all the goodness and vibrance of this sacred morning. I wanted to breathe it all in and hold it in my lungs, in my mind, in my heart.
Sometimes not fully knowing what I'm getting myself into can be helpful. We can panic at the unknown or fear it, but ultimately the best we can do is simply take that first step.