(And what | learned from it.) BY DEAN SCHUSTER

rail Advisory

There is absolutely nothing special about the subpar Mount Mitchell Challenge, the Bud Light Chelada of ultramarathons. Aid stations stock only Brussels sprouts. The horrid monstrosity the organizers call a commemorative shirt is ugly and, frankly, smells funny. Finishers don’t even get a medal. Khloe Kardashian runs it every year.

You may have heard some slightly positive reports of gorgeous mountainous trails circulating online. All lies. Don’t waste your time signing up. You’ll just be bitterly disappointed with this nondescript horror of a race.

We, on the other hand, will return year in and year out.

Sincerely,

Harbison Trail Runners

Columbia, South Carolina

the Mount Mitchell Challenge is a 40-mile ultramarathon that runs from the bohemian town of Black Mountain, North Carolina (just east of Asheville), to the summit of Mount Mitchell, the tallest peak east of the Mississippi, and back.

Whenever the words “mountain” and “ultramarathon” are uttered in the same breath, sadistic runners rise up like prairie dogs from corporate cubicles across America and take notice. The eye rolling begins when they realize it takes place in the relatively flat east. Mount Mitchell tops out at a mere 6,684 feet, far from the dizzying heights achieved by the western Rockies. Some scoff that we call it a mountain at all. Hell’s bells, Colorado’s Pikes Peak Marathon begins roughly where Mitchell tops out before ascending more than 7,000 feet farther.

But let’s not bias ourselves against the smooth, rolling mountains. If we restrict our passions to the tallest peaks, we would fall prey to the Freudian measurement culture that worships only spectacle and statistics. Worse, we would miss a signature American running experience. The Appalachians have a charm and mystery all their own. One of the most ancient mountain chains in the world, its lush forests are fabulously beautiful and chock full of stunning trails. When 480 million years old you reach, look as good you will not.

The pilgrimage

Back in 2007, I was a trail-running neophyte, still preferring the knee-splitting asphalt to more natural surfaces. I’m not proud of this. My feet are still angry and haven’t spoken to me since. Nevertheless, the trails opened my eyes to new possibilities and new friends. During a long trail run, I marveled as my newfound buddies talked endlessly about an upcoming mountain-trail ultra in North Carolina. Hopped up on endorphins, they spoke excitedly of the race, its unique atmosphere, and the virtues of trail-running culture. They traveled to the race every year. This was their hajj and Mitchell their mecca.

I entered the race to see what all the fuss was about.

Ihave run a few signature megamarathons (New York, Boston, and Disney). These pulse-pounding, elbow-to-elbow carnivals are magnificently grand. Beyond mere races, they are all-out cultural events, sort of like Woodstock only with more public urination. I enjoyed each immensely. Despite this devotion to amazement, they have absolutely nothing, nothing, on the joys of the small trail ultra. And the Mount Mitchell Challenge is one of the best small trail ultras going.

Meteorological caprice

Running up a mountain may seem something less than sane. I grant this. But truly, the committed runner can prepare for difficult races of all sorts. Mitchell is no exception.

Elevation can be overcome with dedicated hill training. Simply find the toughest hills you can, and run on them. We’re not talking differential calculus here. If you live in a flat area, become acquainted with your new best friend, the Stair Master. In no time, you’ll harness your inner mountain goat. Distance presents another problem. Forty miles is certainly nothing to sneeze at. But if you have trained for the marathon, you can conquer an ultra. Run for a really long time. When you’re tired, keep going. You’! need to prepare for the joys of utter depletion. It’s fun. Trust me.

Beyond this, I suggest a healthy investment in common sense. If you start too aggressively in any long-distance race, you’ll pay dearly later. At Mitchell, judgment

will fall upon you with great vengeance and furious anger, never welcome on the face of a cliff. Relax early on and you’ll be fine.

Some things are beyond your control. At Mitchell, you’re a slave to the vagaries of climate. When runners recall Mitchell, their eyes glaze over as they invariably dwell on the mercurial, baffling weather. Each of the last six years has featured radically different conditions. The Mount Mitchell Challenge is simply never the same race twice.

Mitchell is held in February, in the depths of winter. Despite this, it can be hot enough that you pop salt tablets like candy, start with a singlet, and finish shirtless. At the top of Mitchell, you usually encounter a frigid, howling maelstrom. In 2011, the summit was clear and utterly windless with temperatures hovering at a delightfully pleasant 55 degrees. That year, the finish line in Black Mountain resembled a summer picnic, complete with Frisbees and sunbathing.

The prior year featured a near-deadly arctic freeze. The deep snow made most trails impassable. The approach to the summit was diverted to exposed, wind-swept roads. Runners trudged through snow canyons. Some people skipped Yaktrax entirely, opting for full-blown snowshoes. You know it is cold when bananas can be used as bludgeons, oranges break your teeth, and the liquid at the bottom of the port-a-john becomes a solid block of indigo ice.

E a = = &

A This is a shot of me finishing the race in 2011, proof that it was very warm that year.

A Asnowy summit (from the 2010 race).

According to urban myth, Eskimos employ multiple words to refer to snow. Well, then, the fine people of the Blue Ridge Mountains must have literally dozens of words for wind. We’ve run in subzero howling gales so fierce you can’t hear yourself think. In 2012, wind on the infamous Commissary Ridge literally propelled runners up the steep slope with dangerously reckless abandon. On the way back down, the wind seemed to overcome gravity itself. You could lean perilously far forward without the slightest fear of falling. Wind of this sort has a noticeable effect on any exposed part of the body. You just haven’t lived until you’ ve seen a bearded trail runner with icicles hanging horizontally and backward from his beard and eyebrows.

At least snow and wind are relatively dry. We’ ve experienced torrential rainfall producing a deluge that would make Noah blanch. Rainwater seeks the easiest possible path down the mountain, and trails fit this bill nicely. During heavy rain, runners must trudge through flash-flood conditions. In 2009, the rain wasn’t oppressive, just steady and maddeningly shy of sleet all day. Running for hours in freezing rain is quite possibly the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever done (and I’ve run in Antarctica). Imagine my distress when, at the Sourwood Gap aid station, I decided to pull my raincoat’s hood over my cap without pausing first to

© Scott Hodukavich

empty the pool of near-frozen water that had collected therein. Startled by icy daggers, I screamed at the top of my lungs. I never knew I could sound so much like an 8-year-old girl.

At least I didn’t go all the way to the summit that year. Nursing an injury, I opted for the Challenge’s sister race, the Black Mountain Marathon. It runs in parallel to the Challenge, without going all the way to the summit. It’s one of the few times in my running career that I’ve felt like a member of the junior varsity team after running a marathon up a mountain. Those who summited that year experienced a frozen nightmare. Freezing rain abruptly became horizontal sleet, which in turn morphed into apocalyptic blizzard. The course was temporarily closed due to the whiteout conditions. Miserable, huddled runners, completely ill-dressed for the unexpected storm, crowded into a small cabin for shelter. Many shed their clothing and wrapped themselves in dry blankets. Naked runners huddled in collective bewilderment: quite a scene.

Nudity was a theme that day. At the end of the race, a pal who ran the entire course in just a T-shirt and shorts crossed the finish line and immediately began stripping away his soaked, frozen clothes. This episode occurred in plain sight, much to the chagrin of his wife, who apparently had been waiting for a more dignified finish.

Another buddy of mine, Jeff, encountered a shivering, incoherent runner on the trail. He gave her his jacket. His only jacket. Let me reiterate that it was frightfully, dangerously, bone-chillingly cold that day. The race director, Jay Curwen, heard of his extraordinary act and later, at the postrace banquet, presented Jeff with a framed topological map of the Mount Mitchell area as token of gratitude for his kindness.

It was a remarkable day.

I wonder what is in store for runners next year—perhaps a swarm of locusts or other plague of biblical proportions. I would not bat a single eyelash should burning hailstones assail the summit. I may invest in a helmet, just in case.

How do you dress for this? Before you answer, I should add that the race is largely self-supported. Beyond aid-station food and drink, runners cannot receive assistance or supplies of any kind. No drop bags are allowed. Whatever you bring with you must stay with you at all times. Need a jacket? Carry it. Need snowshoes? Carry them. Want food and water between aid stations? You get the idea.

This problem is exacerbated by topography. Runners experience significant temperature fluctuations as they move up and down the mountain. At the starting line, predawn temperatures can be in the teens. Jackets, sweatshirts, and even hobo-runner garbage bags are common. Hours later, the weather can be quite warm. What to do with those bulky sweatshirts and jackets then? When runners emerge onto the Blue Ridge Parkway, the blast of ferocious wind makes them wish for antarctic gear. Conditions on the summit are a roll of the dice year to

Noteworthy Weather

Runners identify Mount Mitchell races by weather. For example, we don’t speak of the 2010 race—we refer to “the year of cataclysmic snow.”

2002 — Torrential downpour; flash-flood trail running

2007 — Bloody cold

2008 — Pea-soup fog

2009 — Horrific freezing rain; blizzard squall

2010 — The great snowpocalypse

2011 — Practically perfect in every way; sunny, warm, and freakishly calm

2012 — Howling, blow-you-off-your-feet wind

year, but subzero temperatures are not uncommon. Descend the mountain and things warm up again. At the finish line in Black Mountain, temperatures could reach the 50s. This isn’t a race. It’s a slow series of wardrobe changes.

I come back for more every year.

Inevitable injuries

No story of a mountainous trail race would be complete without a full accounting of injuries. My pals and I have experienced the routine bumps, bruises, scrapes, and black toenails common to ultramarathoners. Occasionally, injuries or impairments have been more unusual.

Naturally there has been a bit of frost nip. On particularly frigid days, runners’ fingers have been known to cease proper functioning. The makers of GU gel packets and Lance Toasty Crackers have not planned well for this eventuality. Aid-station volunteers have had to open containers, unzip jackets, and otherwise assist benumbed participants. Please do let your imagination run wild. One of my compatriots, unable to work a strategic zipper, would not be denied relief. At least he found a novel way to warm himself. He didn’t even break stride.

Certainly, the mountain has humbled many a fine athlete. In 2012 (an iiberwindy year), one stalwart fellow fractured his femur and still finished in just over seven hours. Years earlier, another speedy chap similarly blurred the line between heroism and bullheadedness. Near the top of the mountain, he felt a sharp pain on the outside of his hip, the horrid pangs of the IT band. Running became too painful, so he shuffle-stepped his way along, stubbornly refusing to allow race officials to take him off the mountain.

Determined to finish his first ultra, he continued this way for over 22 miles. He finally finished the full 40 miles in precisely 10 hours and one second. Later that evening, as he reclined on a couch, I gave him grief for this extra second. I mocked, “After all that time on your feet, you couldn’t just suck it up and finish one second faster?” He looked at me soberly and in a calm, emotionless voice, replied simply, “No.”

Of all the injuries I’ve personally seen at Mitchell, one stands out. It was so infamously lurid that to this day the race director refers to it as “the knee.” My friend Rick, owner of said knee, took a spill at the top of the mountain, landing on one of the ubiquitous rocks. At first, the injury didn’t seem overly troublesome, but as he descended, a bulbous dome formed at the point of impact. But the time he reached the finish line, the suppurating hematoma had reached the size of a cantaloupe. It was truly revolting and just a bit scary. I wondered whether his knee was about to explode. I’ve never quite felt the same combination of morbid curiosity and nausea.

Of course, Rick became an instant celebrity. Finishers literally queued up to get their picture taken, not with the man but with his knee. Many were—I’m not kidding here—honestly jealous. His injury, as it turned out, was not terribly serious. It was the perfect glamour injury. A cautionary trip to the ER solidified the legend. Ironically, doctors confined Rick to a wheelchair despite the fact that the injury didn’t stop him from running 20 miles down a mountain.

I should add that he ran quickly, astonishingly posting a personal-record time.

Forty-mile odyssey

Mount Mitchell has much to offer the intrepid runner. While certainly not as steep as western mountains, Mitchell’s rolling beauty provides a fast yet hardy course. You are tempted to adopt an attack mentality, if only in anticipation of downhill running in the second half of the race. Because of this, Mitchell attracts serious talent, as the array of sub-five-hour finishers attests. Strategic runners reap the most rewards. Varied terrain, abundant rocks, grinding ascent, and manic descent make for a simply amazing, but deceptively difficult, experience.

The race begins on the road from downtown Black Mountain to the trailhead at Montreat College. There it connects to positively gorgeous single-track trails (or riverbeds, depending on weather conditions). Bear-attack notices are most likely to be posted here, something to keep in mind.

The course widens at the old Toll Road, a rocky path suitable for rugged, small all-terrain vehicles. Here, runners wind ever upward, over innumerable rocks and past rather curious sights. When running up a rocky mountainside trail, you don’t expect to encounter a house of any sort. Yet there, on a remote side of the mountain, you’ll find one where an old gentleman lives sans electricity or running water (apart from a stream). Welcome to Appalachia.

Runners also pass a rough-hewn hunter’s camp complete with podlike dog kennels. I don’t know what they prey upon from this utilitarian base, but I’ve always hoped it had four legs rather than two. When I pass by, I always feel as though I am running through the habitat of a tobacco-chewing, carnivorous predator. Perhaps I should tone things down. Every year, hunters generously volunteer at aid stations, encourage runners, and help as best they can. They even laugh uproariously when a runner inadvertently pours a hood full of icy water down his back. Bless their hearts.

It goes without saying that these men are armed. This has always kept me decidedly polite. On the way back down the mountain, when I am nearly overwhelmed with fatigue, I can’t help but interact with them. They seem genuinely amused each year when I ask in an earnest voice that they put “one in my head and two in my chest.” If this ever happens to me, let the record show that I asked for it.

The Toll Road opens to the glorious Blue Ridge Parkway. There the first true vistas of the day await, as does the relentless wind. Shelter comes in the form of the Buncombe horse trail, a grassy path that leads to magnificent, exposed ridge lines and finally the dreaded hemlock forest. This last mile of forested ascent is a brutal slog, often requiring hand-over-foot climbing. It’s probably beautiful. I can remember only pain and exhaustion.

Runners emerge from the forest to the well-maintained summit. The 360-degree views from the top of Mitchell are some of the most stunning in eastern North America. Runners often pause to take in the inestimable beauty of their surroundings, provided that fog, rain, sleet, or snow doesn’t reduce visibility to zero. It took me three years to finally see anything at all at the summit. Without visual evidence, I could rely only on the word of others that I had actually reached the top of the mountain.

After the summit, things get bizarre. In a weakened mental condition, you can still work out that there is simply nowhere to go but down. This realization is singularly exhilarating, and a second wind hits like a metaphorical slap across the face. With great gusto, you immediately plunge down a steep, rocky (usually icy) path. This passage spills onto a gravel road. There you are confronted with the unconscionable: a seemingly endless climb up a lonely gravel road. Having just reached the tallest peak east of the Mississippi, you must ascend again. The first time I saw this incredible sight, I nearly blew a gasket trying to process the raw cognitive dissonance.

Finally, the downhill run begins in earnest. You cross back over the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway, missing the beautiful views while concentrating mightily on willing each foot forward. Theoretically, downhill running should be easy. Someone forgot to inform the rocks on the Toll Road. The descent here is more like six miles of breakneck hopscotch than a triumphant blitz down the mountain. Many swear jars have been filled to the brim as a result of these rocky encounters.

“BEAR WARNING

Tap incident Of aN WEpERI ‘rea ct Rainbow Road. Liiag

A The race begins on pavement from Black Mountain through Montreat, and then it enters the trails. This sign is the first thing you see as you enter the trails.

At about mile 35, the trails yields to Appalachian Way, a paved road so steep you wonder how asphalt was ever applied to the surface. Most runners experience their fastest mile of the race here. My first year, I attacked the slope. To my horror, my feet began to burn mercilessly. The friction created as the soles of my shoes slapped the steep pavement created such heat that I felt as if I were running on red-hot frying pans. I would not have been surprised if my feet had spontaneously combusted.

After that final alarming descent, you need only follow the footpaths and roads back to Black Mountain. After a spirited loop around Lake Tomahawk, the 40-mile odyssey has ended: time to haul that broken body to the postrace soup line and swag tent.

And that, as they say, is that.

Most memorable

Perhaps the most compelling experiences I’ve had at the Mount Mitchell Challenge have been with my pals, the Harbison Trail Runners. This race is special for us. Each year we bring a large group to Black Mountain, investing in camaraderie and friendship. Several in our clan have finished either the marathon or the challenge more than 10 times. We rent houses, cook elaborate meals, drink, converse, and commiserate. It’s collective therapy as much as vacation.

Taedd MT MITCHELL CHALLENGE

A This bunch is part of the Harbison Trail Runners group at the finish of the Mount Mitchell Challenge.

Many memories have little to do with the race itself. I’ll never forget how, when a pal missed the race because of deployment to Iraq, we found a way to bring him with us. Another buddy carried his miniature double, an Army action figure complete with race bib, up the mountain in his honor. Officials hilariously marked that bib at every checkpoint. Race director Jay allowed us to say a few words at the banquet.

Our own Matt won the marathon in 2004. (We devilishly remind him that he owns the slowest winning time on record.) Fathers have run with daughters. Scott was a last-minute sweep in 2012. Ah, if you could have seen Jeff nearly throw his accursed shoes into the lake after a particularly tough year…

These memories won’t mean much to you, but for us, they are inextricably linked to Mitchell, our communal ritual and rite of passage.

All hail Mitchell

A truly stellar race is greater than the sum of its parts. The parts here hum along nicely. The community embraces the race wholeheartedly. Proceeds support local and environmental nonprofits. Swag is mercifully utilitarian. The coveted finisher’s fleece is a solid trophy and worthy memento. While no race gets everything right, this one comes uncommonly close. What more can I ask? If I wanted to complain after a race, I would run a song-and-dance road marathon.

In short, I’ve always seen the Mount Mitchell Challenge as tailor-made for the trail-running subculture. Credit goes to the race director, Jay. Because of his commitment, this ultra feels like a labor of love from a genuine tribe mate.

Best of all, there really is no finisher’s medal. Thank heaven for that.

Tell no one

The Mount Mitchell Challenge is no longer a delightfully well-kept local secret. Its popularity has soared, and runners want in. Part of me finds this satisfying. But the pendulum has swung so far that participation is now governed by a lottery system. I pine for days gone by.

It’s no wonder that some runners would prefer that you not sign up. Despite myself, I agree with them. Might I suggest a pleasant, flat road marathon instead? The flashy Myrtle Beach Marathon, also held in February, should suit.

And what | learned from it The top 10 things I’ve learned from running the Mount Mitchell Challenge:

10. Every rock in western North Carolina has been transported to the trails that ascend toward Mount Mitchell. This is an undeniable scientific fact.

9. The human knee can swell to the size of a cantaloupe.

8. A trail runner’s first instinct, upon seeing trail-related injuries, is not sympathy but raw jealousy. (See #9.)

7. Human mucus freezes at 33 degrees Fahrenheit. 6. Frozen oranges can break the strongest teeth.

5. It is possible to ascend a full mile after reaching the tallest peak east of the Mississippi.

4. Garbage bags are more than functional. They are a fashion statement.

3. The fuel boost from a handful of M&Ms lasts for precisely four miles, one mile short of the average distance between aid stations.

2. At mile 36, the smallest cup of beer will give you a near-instant buzz.

1. You can run a full marathon up and down a mountain and still feel inadequate. M