I RUN with Chaos and other old acquaintances through the trees. The dark start and too many distractions carry me out without my good sense, or my water bottle. Minus the extra water weight I’m feeling light for a 192-pound carcass, not that the leaves and roots underfoot don’t whine as I dance lightly across them.

Fortunately, I’m blessed with good company and cool weather. The cold sting on my face and legs feels good. As comfortable and easy as this feels, as slow as I think I’m moving, I know full well that I’m going faster than is good for me on this first loop.

This is my third time at the ‘Coon, a 100-mile race in Huntsville, Texas. I expect to hit 3:30 for each of the first three loops (each loop is 20 miles), same as I have in the past. Fast or slow, hot or cold, with plans or none, my body clock and timing chain follow a greater plan than mine. I’ve learned to accept it as it is.

The fourth loop is where things tend to change. Just as it gets dark, the clock unwinds and timing jumps track. The real grunt work begins then. Early on, my only goal is to finish loop three feeling good. I know many of the wild two-legged animals, but in the dark I can’t find many of them. Enjoying the day, I visit with Archie and try not to think.

Crossing a park road and tilting downhill, we pick up speed on a narrow tree-covered single track. In the dark it’s hard to guess what the best route is. Until we find the mud, all routes work, then none of them. Cool mud coats my legs, but I’m more concerned with the trees rubbing my elbows.

The path twists about and crosses a short wooden bridge. We turn left and roll onto a wide, well-maintained out-and-back jeep road. The first station is at the road’s end and turnaround, then back to this same spot in two miles. Quite a few shallow dips and rises but nothing larger exists in the park. Dawn’s early gray light provides just enough for me to see my buddies as they file past, in front and behind. Under the trees we have plenty of shade. The light and shadows play about in the dirt and on our faces.

It’s going to be a gorgeous day, in the 40s with little wind and no rain. At the station I drink a cup of water and think of the spare bottle waiting at the next station. The road rolls quite a bit but the general trend is downhill, going back. With my energy level peaked, attempting to walk these ever-so-gentle hills is difficult.

DEMOGRAPHICALLY SPEAKING

Connecting with a fellow from Colorado, I inform him, “These are the biggest hills on the course.” In lieu of waiting to walk the “big” uphills, he might consider these “the hills.” Mark processes my warning and pulls up next to me, walking. Many folks I know file past, yelling and making odd noises. Hard to believe most of them are well educated and socially acceptable, with the way they cuss, pass gas, and piss right here in front of each other. These are my friends, my family, my buddies.

A short steep downhill leads us right past where we climbed on this road and into a sand pit. Slowing to a crawl, I search for a way around. Finding none I spin right through the middle and exit the right side. Back on another narrow tree-covered single track as good as the last one, I feel much better.

I can’t help but pick up speed. Everything’s hummin’ pretty good, so Mark and I begin to scoot along. Pine needles and bright leaves cover the trail, hiding the roots worn smooth by thousands of feet. In the daylight they’re easier to see and avoid, but after dark this changes. Light from a flashlight just can’t illuminate the difference between shadow and reality. But that’s later. For now, feeling right and having fun, it’s hard to slow down. Mark plans on a four-hour first loop but I know we’re doing 3:30. It’s in the bones. Each time Mark’s girlfriend runs by he stops for a kiss and comes back stronger, filled with stolen energy and panache.

The dogleg jeep road that connects the dam to the park boundary is the start reference for the long six-mile out-and-back. The road intersects another, but being semicoherent and capable of understanding large arrow signs I turn right. A quarter mile later we turn right again. Wes and Gina’s 2/3 station is in view a hundred yards up the road, complete with burning campfire in the middle of the road. I stop for ice tea and Ensure, leave my second shirt, gloves, and flashlight, and remember to take my spare water bottle.

The road disappears into single track immediately out of the station and drops down to a sandy bottom. Crossing the park’s only wooden bridge with side rails, we walk slowly up the hill, waiting on the other side. We follow the park’s backside fence line from here to the turnaround, rolling single track there and back again. A mud bog or two are carefully negotiated; a large leaning tree forces us to duck; a few hurdles require some dexterity, but mostly this is fun, easy, and another great place to pinpoint my pals. The turnaround waits at the bottom of a short descent with a clear view of the trail we’re going to be on again in another couple of miles. Thirty yards separates us from the next five miles!

Thirty minutes from the station and the same going back. I reacquaint myself with my trail buddies while Mark collects a fresh kiss. If we’re scoring quantity versus quality here, Mark’s winning.

Through the station and back down the road, we pass the point where we began this section. Down toward the dam, Mike joins us as we skip off road to an afterthought of a trail. Hopping over a long and winding trail between trees, within feet of the road, we drop back onto the short end of the dogleg. At the dam we slip off road to the left, along a creek, crossing two short bridges and back up the other side of the same creek. Not a bad little detour on a deep bed of pine needles, through a private and very serene part of the woods. The loop ends with a short climb onto a levee, directly across from where we were just a short time ago. In another direction, directly across Lake Raven, is the finish area. A few hundred yards as the crocodile swims—but still six miles as the snail crawls.

THE SWAMPY BOARDWALK

Rolling hills lead to a short, steep, root-infested descent with a long boardwalk at the bottom. Crossing the swamp on this crooked but solid railless plank walkway is always mildly entertaining during the day and quite stimulating after dark.

Another longer boardwalk follows soon after, and another, and then a couple of short ones as we rotate from boardwalk to mud bog to rolling hills. This single-track trail stretches for miles as it hugs the shoreline on up to the next station. The final three miles to the end loop are much like the last five: a few quick tight switchbacks, descents through root mazes and mud bogs, and some very good trail on which we can haul butt. The last mile feels like a big old river. It’s a wide trail that winds, twists, rises, and dips in a very slow manner. We drift back into home for the conclusion of round one at exactly 3:30!

My water bottle is waiting right where I left it. So are a basket of fat, delicious blackberries on ice and Arizona Ice Tea. I switch to a short-sleeved shirt, grab another tin of Succeed Caps, and down another Ensure. Lastly, I load my pockets with a few of the can’t-eat-just-one Girl Scout cookies. Only eight minutes between entering and leaving the aid station. My organization and planning are excellent. Just can’t remember what I organized.

Mark joins me again for loop two while Mike and Archie are not far off. It’s really turning into a pleasant day. Not cold or hot, but just perfect.

Side by side we run the same mile we came in on. It’s wide enough for a truck, with plenty of room to pass. Crossing the road and squeezing down to single track, we rub elbows with the trees. I twist my torso to avoid contact while my feet seek safe harbor between ruts, roots, and mud. Sure do like this section. I always get a buzz on here and the electricity makes my bod go just a bit faster.

Soon as my feet find the jeep road, the buzz dies and it feels like work again. My insane stride style is to barely glide across the ground, rubbing the roots smooth and nudging the rocks off the trail. I rarely fall so it must be magic, and you don’t want to jack around with anything that’s magic. I typically continue like this until dark, with no tripping whatsoever. After dark this all changes and my mojo leaves. I begin to find the bottoms of roots, and rocks quit moving out of the way. It’s a shame, but such is life and I just have to deal with it.

Max and David catch us at the 2/3 station. About to leave, I see them coming and wait. Sipping ice tea, I watch them come in. Max and I team up and run well together, so I’m sure we’ll hang for what’s left of the day. The trail leading out is as straight as an arrow but rolls a bunch, and the trees squeeze in on us as soon as we leave.

The Gang of Four

Much cozier and nicer than the jeep road. It forces us in tight to everyone going the other way, so you can reach out and pinch them as they go by. This will be especially fun at night. Our gang of four really gets rolling. I’m bombing the downhills, David’s strong on the uphills, and Max picks it up whenever neither of us is pushing the pace.

Out and back, we pass through the station and back down the road. Back on trail, I leap into the lead and pull for a while. Single track, with enough entertainment and eye candy to keep me smiling all the way back home. Passing through another station, we slow down to make a sharp left turn and sprint the final three miles to the conclusion of loop two. I check my watch—3:30 again, and feeling good.

No gear changes, so all four of us escape quickly, laughing, tossing jokes back and forth. Mark eventually slips to the rear and appears to be struggling, while the rest of us find some sort of odd rhythm in this wild dance we do.

Comfortable with each other’s peculiarities, we each adjust to the other. We cruise the jeep road and walk the sand pit at the bottom. Back on trail, we pick it up and stick it through to the next jeep road. The out-and-back is a little slower this time, so we must be approaching that time in a run when things quit working so well. Feels like we’re moving faster but we’re slowing. We charge around the lake for the third time, with Mark surging and sinking before he falls off for good. The three of us roll in at 3:45.

Night’s coming on, so I change into long tights, two long-sleeved shirts, and gloves. Water and feeding includes Arizona Ice Tea, Ensure, blackberries, and a wedge of sandwich. Max and David change as well. We giddyup out of there, feeling good. But it’s not quite night yet and I’m generating a lot of heat. Sweating like a pig wearing all this extra clothing, I’m way overdressed and feeling a bit foolish. I peel one shirt off, roll the sleeves on the other, and remove my gloves. Max does the same but David already had it right. The sun sinks quickly but I’m still comfortable as is. We go without lights as long as we can, enjoying the look and feel of things painted by moonlight. Shadows overlap each other on the jeep road as we dance through them.

The fourth loop is the key. When night happens, everything changes. I wear more clothes and carry more gear, including flashlight and spare. Temperatures drop and my muscles begin to tighten. When all the colors turn to shades of gray, I lose depth perception and begin to trip over everything in my path. Each trip serves to further tighten my muscles, and the more I tighten the more I trip. It’s an ugly—and endless—downward spiral.

Max takes the lead and surges, pulls us with him. Dave and I put our heads down and try to hold on. Nobody’s talking; we’re saying nothing real loud.

What’s up with Max? I stop at the backside aid station for an Ensure recharge and drop off my extra shirt. In my current overheated state, one shirt is working fine. I wouldn’t be moving this fast if not for Max and haven’t decided yet if I’m grateful or not. The ride is anything but free, as I’m working my buns off. I’ll probably be thankful later, but right now I’m not so sure.

Getting Lapped

Max pulls us down and back, silently. My lights are on but nobody’s home. Somebody comes up on us just after the turn, moving faster on the uphills but falling off on the downs. We yo-yo back and forth a ways, and because I’m the caboose on this single track he gets right up on my butt. I’d move over but then we’re going to pass him on the next downhill. I suggest we pick it up just a little to avoid this. All four of us roll into aid station 2/3 together, where I realize the guy on our tails is Blake Wood, the race leader, who is a full lap ahead of us.

I keep thinking Max is going to slow, but he doesn’t. Max continues his charge. In awe of his energy, we steal as much as we can as he drags us in his wake. What is it? How can he keep going like this?

Darkness hides everything except the ground that our lights touch and the night sounds. An occasional grunt escapes when a foot meets an immovable object. The long swamp-crossing boardwalks are loud at night. The sounds of life drown out everything else. Through the last station, with less than two miles to go, it finally happens. Max runs dry and slows to a crawl. I think he’s just adjusting to the terrain but it’s not so. He’s on empty. I move to the front for the first time on this loop while Max tucks in and hangs on. Loop four ends in 4:25. Seemed faster, and would have been much slower if not for Max.

Wanting to get out on the last lap quickly, I stop for an Ensure and fresh batteries only. A friend puts in new batteries for me, accidentally breaking the light, but I don’t realize it until I leave. I have to go back for another light and take my friend’s.

I catch Dave quickly but Max hasn’t left yet. Walking, we wait for Max but the cold winter night is creeping in. We start to run slowly just to keep warm, knowing he will soon join us. We’re almost to the jeep road when he suddenly comes up on us out of the dark and blasts past us. Not slowing a bit, he keeps going up the first hill and over the top. We try to catch him, but there just ain’t no way!

We’re gonna trash ourselves trying so we back off some. I can see him way ahead and decide to go after him, so I pick it up and start sprinting. After 80 miles, I’m running way too hard and feeling every bit of it. Amazing what we’re doing right now—and insane, too! It’s all mental and Max is really working us over. Brings new meaning to the phrase “mad dash.”

As fast as he’s going, I catch him and run next to him into the station. Dave is right behind us. Must be 32 degrees but the sweat is pouring off my face and back. A chill ripples through my body, so I immediately start running out of there. Hypothermia is just a short trip away and I need to keep moving to ward it off. The others follow soon after.

Slowing Way Down

We leave much slower than we came in, back down the jeep road for the last time. Dave takes the lead at the trailhead and keeps it, pulling us along. I’m shot and I wonder if Max is going to go again. He’s on and off, with amazing extremes today, and wouldn’t surprise me if he did.

Dave’s in command for the time, holding pace and keeping us rolling. Thus we remain up to the 2/3 station. An enormous blaze fills the road and we avoid it as best we can, through to the last long out-and-back. We reach the final turnaround and start back, when Dave suddenly goes down in pain, twisting his ankle. He tries to run, finds he can’t, and struggles to walk. As much as I feel for him, there is nothing I can do, so I wish him luck and start running again. Max hangs back to walk with him into the next aid station.

Being completely alone feels strange at first, then I get the buzz on again and start to go faster. I don’t stop at the 2/3 station, skimming through for the last time. To the dam, round the short loop, onto the levee, and back to the final long section of woods, in a blur.

The wheels are spinning good, and then—my nose is buried in the leaves. What happened? My foot is screaming, so I wait for the throb to subside before I get up. Back on my horse, I start spinning again. Feels good to see the long boardwalks again. Actually, every little landmark feels good right now because I know I’m not going to see any of them again. This is my last round and I’m smellin’ the barn. I’m doing pretty good staying upright, skimming the swamps, bogs, and hazards all the way back to the last station before the end.

I start pushing even harder—uphills, downhills, underhills, through the hills, between the hills—until I get completely worn out and have to walk. I’m getting excited about being done, but I’m not done and getting way ahead of myself. I start running again, trying to manage my emotions a little better. I take it in easy, checking off each tree, each bush, and each bridge. Then I hit the final out-and-back trail and cut loose, flying low with lights off and brain dead. Coming in for the final landing I hit the road and sprint all out for the finish line.