(And what | learned from it) BY ALAN PIERCY

“Tt is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.” —tTheodore Roosevelt, “Citizenship in a Republic”

OONSBORO, MARYLAND, November 22, 2008—Running 50 miles seems

B a peculiar compulsion by any stretch of the imagination. And yet there I found myself, piloting my somewhat trusty Saab to Hagerstown, Maryland, along with my good friends and crew for the event, Melissa Sarchett and Jessica Swanson. It was Friday, November 21, 2008, the day before the 46th Annual JFK 50 Mile Memorial run from Boonsboro to Williamsport, Maryland. As we made our way north through the bustling, late-afternoon traffic of Washington, DC and into the bucolic, rolling hills of western Maryland, I felt an odd mix of excitement and creeping dread as I thought about what the next day would bring. The dashboard temperature indicator had plunged with Dow Jones-like rapidity as the day wore on and stood in the low 30s when we pulled into the parking lot of the Sheraton Hotel in Hagerstown, where the small expo and packet pickup for the JFK were being held. Snow loomed in the gathering dreariness of a thick cloud cover, and as we left the car and made our way into the hotel, a brisk wind blew

up through untucked shirts and down through loose collars, exposing previously warm torsos to the chill late-autumn temperatures. The next day—race day—was forecast to be even colder.

Following packet pickup, we drove across town to our hotel for the weekend and hastily unpacked in the room. I located a locally owned Italian restaurant named Rocco’s in the phone book and made reservations for later that evening. We headed to Rocco’s, where we ordered mounds of pasta and over-red wine for the girls and a German Pilsener for me, and we plotted our race day strategy for when and where along the route they would meet me to provide food, Gatorade, and clothes. Beyond that, we decided which segments each of them would run with me for purposes of pacing and morale. Following dinner, we made our way back to the hotel, where we unloaded groceries and made last-minute preparations for the big day. We were asleep by 11:00 with a 5:00 a.m. wake-up waiting for us the next morning.

It’s difficult to find another virgin

On the morning of the run, we dressed hastily and made the 20-minute drive to the Boonsboro High School gymnasium for the prerace briefing. There was an air of anticipation in the gym as nearly 1,800 participants and crew milled about, stretching and absorbing the last few precious moments of room-temperature warmth before the time came to venture outside for an exceedingly long day in the elements. During the briefing, the emcee asked for JFK veterans to stand. I was surprised and a little daunted at the percentage of people who stood—JFK “virgins” seemed to be few and far between. In fact, as the day progressed, almost everyone I spoke with was a veteran of at least one, but in most cases many ultramarathons.

There was a different feel to this event than to any marathon I had ever done. Marathon running has undergone a tremendous spike in popularity in recent years, and there is a festive, almost carnival-like atmosphere at most 26.2-mile events. They tend to be liberally sprinkled with first-timers, and typically there is an associated half-marathon or shorter race on the same day. Some runners dress in flamboyant costumes, bands and vendors are often present, local celebrities offer words of encouragement at the starting line, and massage therapists are available at the finish (not to mention beer trucks). Most marathon or shorter events are geared toward making sure everybody has fun. The JFK was decidedly different. Everything from the low-key expo to the bone-chilling cold to the grim, determined looks on the veterans’ faces told me that on this run there would be no coddling from the course or the officials. This would not be a feel-good run. This race was going to be Spartan and raw and—there is no other way to put it—freaking hard.

By the time we made it out of the cozy confines of the gymnasium and into the arctic air outside, it was 6:40 A.M.—only 20 minutes until the start! The three of us made the quarter-mile or so walk from the school grounds to downtown Boonsboro. As we walked along, I soaked it all in—the crowd, the brisk cold, the collective energy of 1,800 runners and their crews, and the last few moments of my preultra life. We made our way to Main Street, and I noticed that the crowd of runners seemed to be picking up speed already. I looked at my watch, and it read 7:01 a.m. I never heard a starting gun or even saw a starting line, but the race had begun nonetheless. I hugged Melissa and Jess and with a great sense of anticipation, not to mention a bit of nagging uncertainty, ran the first few steps of what would be a nearly 12-hour journey.

Within 15 minutes we had made it out of Boonsboro and to the trailhead of the celebrated and infamously craggy Appalachian Trail. The Maryland portion of this 2,178-mile footpath is a deceptively charming place in late fall, a pretty place not to be trusted, a place where running shoes go to die. A pleasant, even inviting blanket of fallen autumn leaves gave cover to menacing armies of angry, jagged rocks whose only purpose was to contort the ankles of unsuspecting runners into odd and painful geometric angles.

The most challenging part about running on the Appalachian Trail is that each step requires diligent focus and concentration. You must constantly scan the ground in front of you, looking out for sharp rocks and roots and sudden changes in landscape. Your field of vision seldom stretches beyond the next few steps. Taking your eyes off the trail, even for a few seconds, can result in a fall—or worse, a broken ankle. I did not want my day to end on the A.T.

The author navigates the challenging Appalachian Trail portion of the JFK 50-mile route.

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Despite the rugged terrain and a set of dodgy ankles, I began to make progress and had managed not to fall by around mile six or seven, which pleased me a great deal. I realized that I needed to make a more concerted effort to drink water, so I reached down for a bottle on my fuel belt. After three or four unsuccessful attempts to take a sip, I realized that ice had formed in the nozzle. I took some satisfaction in the fact that I was out running in these conditions, and I realized that though I was numb by then, it was cold!

As the line of runners descended in a serpentine fashion down the trail and into Gathland State Park for the first food stop at mile 10, I saw Melissa and Jess. I was infinitely relieved that they had found their way there and that I could take a few minutes to rest up, eat something, and chat with them about the first segment of the trail. Following this brief respite, I began my climb out of Gathland Gap and back onto the trail. At this point the “neat factor” of running on the country’s most venerable and

historic footpath was dissipating rapidly. It was becoming a grind, in fact, and my goal for the next six miles was simply to persevere with lower extremities intact. There were the same challenges on the other side of Gathland that we had experienced on the first nine miles: treacherous, unsteady footing, biting cold, and lots of walking. Toward the last couple of miles on the A.T., when the first welcome glimpses of the Potomac River came into sight through the leafless winter trees, we began a steep descent down winding switchbacks as the high ridges gave way to the river valley below. Progress slowed to a hurried shuffle, as everyone took great care to maintain their footing.

Finally, off the A.T.

At approximately 11:00 a.m. I made my way at long last down the final switchback and arrived at the Weverton aid station, where Melissa and Jess were waiting for me. I can’t adequately describe my elation at being done with the A.T. and by the fact that I would be accompanied by my crew for the next 31 miles. (As an

aside, I had by far the most attractive and capable crew of any in the entire event, and I was completely spoiled by them.) I munched on an egg salad sandwich and, feeling warm now, unzipped the arms of my running jacket (I would regret this later). Within minutes, Melissa and I were headed off for the C&O Canal towpath—the longest section of the JFK.

Melissa and I quickly settled into a run-walk routine where we would run for two or three miles, then walk a bit, and then repeat. The conversation was a huge boost to my morale. I don’t recall exactly what we talked about, and it really didn’t matter. Just having my good friend there to talk with—to distract my focus from the fact that I still had 30-plus miles to go on this cold and blustery day—made all the difference.

Throughout the towpath portion of the event, I would pass and be passed by the same groups of people in a leapfrog pattern as we all ran and walked at varying intervals. As a result, I began to recognize people, sometimes chatting, sometimes just offering a knowing and empathetic glance. There was strength to be taken from these interactions. We were all enduring the same challenges, the same discomforts of aches and doubt and weariness and cold. There was a communal spirit among the runners, a shared sense of purpose and a collective understanding and compassion that made the event much more tolerable— and at times, I daresay, even enjoyable.

After Jess replaced Melissa at mile 27, she and I plodded along for 11 miles, more or less following the same run-walk pattern Melissa and I had established. At mile 38 we came to another aid station where Melissa was waiting for us with a chair set up for me and sandwiches

Alan and Melissa take a walk break along the C&O Towpath portion of the JFK.

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ready to eat. I changed shoes, gobbled down another egg salad sandwich, reloaded my water bottles, and took off again, this time with Melissa back by my side. She and I would run the next eight miles together, which would take me to the 46-mile marker, at which point I would finish alone, giving Jess and her a chance to drive to the finish line to greet me in Williamsport. Melissa and I fell immediately back into that ease of pace and conversation that we always enjoyed on our runs and that had sustained me so much already that day.

As we made it over the final miles of the towpath, our run-walk pattern had turned into more of a walk-run pattern. I was feeling truly tired for the first time, and I began to take notice of the time of day. As we approached Dam #4 at the end of the towpath, I knew the official cutoff for that stage was 5:00 p.m. We arrived about 4:40 p.mM.—a little too close for comfort, in my estimation. Yet, as was the case after the Appalachian Trail, I felt relief at having finished another portion of the run and was energized to be starting the third and final portion—only 8.4 miles now separated me from the finish in Williamsport.

After a brief pit stop in the transition area, Melissa and I were both handed reflective vests, since we would be on two-lane county roads for the balance of the race and it would be completely dark within the next couple of miles. The asphalt road felt odd beneath my feet after so many miles of rocky trail and gravel path. It felt hard and unforgiving, and as we rounded the first curve we were faced with a

long, steep incline. I realized then that the last eight miles would be no cakewalk, and I began worrying in earnest about whether I would finish the run by the 7:00 p.M. cutoff. I tried to stay positive and Melissa did her best to reassure me, but as the light of day gave way to deepening cold and creeping darkness, my normally buoyant sense of optimism seemed as weak as the fading November sun.

Some time for a history lesson

Even as I worried over time concerns, I was captivated by the rural beauty of the farmland around us. As we ran along that western-Maryland blacktop with the sun rapidly descending and casting a faint orange glow on the stone farmhouses and cornfields and ancient silos, my mind wandered to the history of this part of the country. This place probably looked very similar in the 1860s, when haggard men in tattered uniforms of gray and blue made their way along these very roads, heeding destiny’s call in tiny hamlets like Sharpsburg, Gettysburg, and Manassas. The sense of that history was palpable, and I got the feeling that if I could just stop and listen for a while in this ghostly twilight, the muffled drum and bugle call of armies past might be faintly audible. Alas, I had no time to stop.

There was less talking now between Melissa and me as we made our way to mile 46. We both seemed to be lost in thought and caught up in the moment as the end of a very long day seemed to be almost within our grasp. When we came to the final stop at the 46-mile marker in the tiny town of Downsville, Jess was there waiting for us. As always, she had food at the ready, but my body was starting to shut down. I had completely lost my appetite, although I needed to eat now, probably more than at any other time during the entire race. I was beginning to feel slightly nauseous, so I stored a chocolate GU packet in the sleeve of my fuel belt in case I was able to eat it later on. It was completely dark now, and the temperature had dropped 10 to 15 degrees, it seemed, over the past 20 minutes. It was approximately 5:50 p.M., leaving me 70 minutes to complete the last four miles. I had been dreading this moment all day, having to run alone in the cold and dark, but the time had come, and the only way for me to finish this race was to press on. It took a minute or two for my run-weary legs to respond to my mind’s command to move, but I finally did start shuffling onward again. Melissa and Jess shouted encouragement to me as I staggered forward in the general direction of Williamsport.

There comes a point in every endurance athlete’s life when his defenses are stripped away and his soul is laid bare. It is a critical moment when doubt and hope do battle and emotion springs forth. Running is a sport of passion, after all. I had often heard of people breaking into tears as they ran the final mile of a marathon. I had even hoped that I would feel that during my previous marathons. I craved that cleansing flood of emotion. It had never come to me before, though,

and I always felt cheated by that. I worried that I was too stoic—too reserved in nature—to let myself be overcome. I need not have worried.

A time for reflection

About a half mile after leaving Melissa and Jess, I found myself running along at a pace I knew I could maintain and that I also felt would get me to the finish line in time. I began to feel just the slightest bit of confidence return. And so, as I ran alone in the dark, with 30 yards or more separating me from the runners in front and behind, I let my thoughts wander to the events of the past five months since my preparation for the JFK began. I thought of the hours of training, beginning in the oppressive heat and humidity of that Carolina summer, and of all the miles I had covered from then until now. I thought about the breakup of my engagement and the raw emotion I still felt over that. I thought about the sacrifices that Jessica and Melissa made to be there for me and the fact that they were already waiting at the finish line for my arrival. I thought about my family and friends back home who knew I was here and had offered so many positive thoughts and prayers for me throughout the day. I envisioned myself crossing the finish line. And suddenly, I found myself overcome with emotion. At last, I cried. It felt as therapeutic and cleansing as I had hoped it would, and I was a little worried that I might cross the finish line, wild haired and bawling like a madman, only to be quickly whisked away for evalution by serious people in white coats. But I composed myself and afterward I felt as though a colossal weight had been lifted off my chest. My legs suddenly felt almost springy again, and I picked up my pace.

I never walked again from that point on. What had been a pair of legs that seemed to be in the first stages of rigor mortis just moments before now seemed to be positively fresh. I ran as though my life depended on it. I knew I would finish now. I knew my body would carry me across that finish line, and I pushed myself harder and faster in that last mile and a half than I had in hours. I thought

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back to something I had heard during that morning’s orientation meeting about the last mile of the JFK and how you knew you were nearly done when you saw the big water tower in Williamsport come into view. And so, as I turned left onto Highway 68 just outside of town, I saw one of the most beautiful sights on which I have ever laid eyes: the Williamsport water tower! I was running fast now, and as I made the right turn onto Sunset Avenue—the aptly named final turn on the entire course—I saw the stadium lights set up at Springfield Middle School, where the finish line awaited me.

My pace continued to quicken, and by the time the finish line revealed itself, Thad broken into a full sprint. It all devolved into a blur at that point, as I made my way into the finishing corral where I heard my name and hometown over the loudspeaker and received my JFK medal. Thad come in at 11 hours, 48 minutes— just 12 minutes shy of the cutoff. I saw Melissa and Jess, who handed me a bottle of Guinness beer they had been carrying around all day in the car just for this moment. I cannot begin to describe the joy and relief I felt as | hugged my crew and took a long pull from that wonderful beer. Melissa found someone to take our picture—my crew and I—and then, as monumental moments in our lives tend to go sometimes, there was a feeling of anticlimax as we made our way to the car and back to the hotel.

A Alan picks up speed heading into the finishing chute.

The pleasure of stopping

As Melissa drove us through the inky darkness along those back roads and away from Williamsport, I found the simple act of sitting to be a sumptuous, almost indescribable pleasure. I tried to soak it all in—the events of this day—but I knew it would take a while to comprehend this experience. For that particular moment, I was simply relieved to have finished and was very much looking forward to a hot shower and a good night’s sleep.

As I write this now, I can only smile as I reflect on the things I discovered. I was reminded that day of the transformative power of running and of the importance

of seeking out adventure and great challenge. I was reminded of the life-altering beauty of friendships—of the vast and incalculable ways they enrich one’s journey. And I’m reminded now of the thought that occurred to me as I crossed the finish line that night: that as long as I have friends in this world and a pair of running shoes, I am a wealthy man indeed.

And What | Learned From It

I learned that the human body is capable of running far greater distances than the mind at first finds conceivable—that with each mile traveled, the mind’s understanding of what is possible expands and evolves.

I learned that people who run ultramarathons are all slightly crazy—yet they are the most unfailingly cheerful and fit collection of crazy people you could ever hope to be associated with.

Spandex tights do not keep you even remotely warm at seven o’clock on a late-November morning in western Maryland.

The volunteers who staff the aid and food stations during distance runs (especially on cold, blustery days) are the most kind-hearted and charitable people I have ever encountered. There should be museums to honor them, and they should be granted sainthood without delay.

I don’t know if Winston Churchill was a distance runner (from the pictures I have seen, I would guess not), but his wartime advice to the British people to “Never, never, never give up” is never more poignant than when you find yourself running alone in the dark and cold after having already covered 46 miles.

If you are uncomfortable—in running or in life—you are probably on the right track. Comfort is the enemy of achievement.

Sometimes, when I am nervous or intimidated about something, whether at work or in training, I think to myself, Hey, J ran 50 miles! and I feel better—more confident.

My finisher’s medal has been in a drawer since the day I got back home. The real rewards are the memories of my friends and crew by my side— laughing and telling stories and encouraging me, waiting for me at the finish line, celebrating with me and sharing in that day. That is what I will take with me for the rest of my life. M