My foray into trail running didn't begin in earnest until only recently; say, within the past year or year and a half. The bulk of my running up until that point consisted of countless hours on the treadmill and running up and down the sidewalks and streets of whatever town I inhabited (Lafayette or Crawfordsville). Now don't get me wrong: I love running and the countless physical and emotional benefits that come with it. But it would be safe to say that more than once I was getting bored with my usual daily routine. Burnout followed boredom, the dreaded "B" word every runner wants to avoid.
In the fall of 2010, I started to mix things up and started changing my running scenery. I went off road, through parks and trails and paths not seen by cars or your average person. I traveled to Shades and Turkey run and various other places that were covered in rolling hills, dense forests and bubbling creeks. This training and my love of seeking peace and harmony with nature culminated in my 50 mile, 9 1/2 hour romp through the trails at Winona Lake, Indiana in April 2011. As I passed through the chutes mere minutes before midnight, exhausted and exhilarated, I was convinced that I could not feel more one with myself and the Earth.
Or so I thought.
Then came the Eagle Creek Trail Marathon/Half Marathon, on the evening of January 28th, 2012.
The week leading up to this event had been an unusual race week for me. I had ended up in the hospital about a month beforehand with severe dehydration, requiring 3 units of IV fluid. I had never felt that bad in my life, and it really put a scare into me. It had convincingly put a hamper on my training, as I was scared to push myself for fear of going into a hydration deficit. While I did the Bop to the Top triple step with no problems on 1/21, I made the decision to take an entire week off from anything running or cross training-related. It was a highly unusual move going into a half marathon, one to be run on the trails at night taboot. I told myself that since I had taken the entire week off before to be careful, do not get sucked into "race pace" and to just enjoy myself and the scenery.
As Saturday rolled around, I hastily gathered my gear (another unusual move for me, for most events I'm super prepared ahead of time) and hit the road around 4:00pm. I arrived around 4:45pm, leaving me plenty of time to soak in the sights and sounds of Eagle Creek in the dead of winter A biting wind skipped off the reservoir and dropped the temperature at least 10 degrees. Running events - particularly trail ones - inspire a sense of camaraderie among everyone involved, and as I stretched and headed to the start line I couldn't help but smile at my surroundings.
The sun was starting to go down by 6:00pm and as the cow bell went off signalling the start, hundreds of runners slowly began herding like cattle through the chute and into the woods.
"Ho hum," I thought, as I fell into line on the single-track trail early into the race. Tunes filled my ears as I could hear the whooping and hollering of other runners in front of and behind me. An easy pace had me feeling pretty good as I watched the trail flow under my feet with each stride.
And then it happened.
After curling and winding through the trees near the reservoir, we hit a clearing before crossing it on an earthen dam made of gravel. We were about 2 miles into the 6.54 mile loop (2 loops for the 1/2 marathoners, 4 for fulls). Water stretched for hundreds of yards on either side, and I looked west and saw the sun peeking out from over the horizon. It was a fireballish mixture of orange and red, blending in with the now dark sky as it made its escape into the night. We wound around to the right off of the dam and ran along on gravel and I looked back to my right and saw hundreds of headlamps lighting up the distance. They moved slowly but with a purpose, all lined up in a row as if they knew exactly where they were going. It looked as though there were dozens of fireflies bouncing in rhythm. It was at that exact moment where I realized that there was nowhere else I'd rather be than outside, enjoying what nature and the universe has to offer.
We peeled back into the woods and our next few miles consisted of snowy, mud-covered rolling trails that cut through trees and lined the reservoir. Small, steep inclines met us every so often, followed by sporadic descents on icy and slick stairs. Since I was not "racing," my breathing was not labored but rather very comfortable. I found a steady groove and kept it, as the ocassional runner passed me. Ordinarily this would drive me insane, but I found solace in my pace and surroundings. As the trail pressed on, I found myself more and more at one with the park. My vision and world was confined to the 8-10 feet of light in front of me, a both scary and exciting prospect.
Before long, around the 5 1/2 mile mark, we hit a long stretch 2-3" mud-filled trail. My HUFF50K experience had taught me one thing: if you're in a groove, keep going. Don't let anything stop you. I kept my pace through the mud, feeling the squishing of the mud beneath my shoes as I clinched my fists and kept going. My lamp shone brightly and reflected off of the puddles of standing water near and around the trenches of mud. When I thought it'd never end, we hit solid ground and came down a hill and you could hear the music over the loudspeakers. It was the start/finish line, and the chute was lined with spectators and lights. Set up in the middle of a park in the middle of the winter at night, I thought "Was I in the circus? Am I dreaming?" It was totally surreal. I was expecting clowns and monkeys and a ringmaster with a megaphone, but instead I got a large, bright time clock with red LED numbers and two disco balls on each side...
My second lap confirmed all of my thoughts and emotions from the first lap. With each passing step, I felt as though I was floating through the park. It was a clear night, and stars filled the sky. When passing over the reservoir the second time, the absence of trees created a canvas splattered with clouds and tiny sparkling stars that encapsulated my entire line of vision in front of me. I felt like I was running straight into a Van Gogh painting. Each step I took was more purposeful than the last, as if each one could do no wrong no matter what. I covered the trails, the hills, the stairs, and the mud as if I knew exactly what I was doing and where I was going. Like my mind and body were in sync and on autopilot, moving forward without even thinking. I came down into the final clearing with a final burst of speed came upon the chute lined with lights and spectators and music. I crossed the finish line and slowed to a walk, collected my medal (a medal made of wood from the park) and my thoughts. I was breathing a little heavier now, and my breath rose up into the chilly air and disappeared above the light of my headlamp. I looked around at all the activities, friendships, love, and humanity and realized that I had just run the most magical, serene run of my life. This is what trail running is all about. I felt like I could run another 13.1, and I was reminded of an old quote from Born to Run: "When you run on the Earth and with the Earth, you can run forever."
This event was more about finding myself than about running. Attempting to discover what I want, who I want, and what everything means. I felt like I accomplished a lot of things during my 2+ hours running at Eagle Creek, and I believe what I learned - patience, tolerance and perseverance - will help me as I move forward with the inevitable challenges I face in life.
