Setting: the Ragnar trail relay. I await my turn to run. My teammate Jesse Besset finishes the mud packed, rainy trail loop. He hands the baton to our friend Pete. Jesse limps over to me. His face is sober. Serious. His body splattered head to toe with mud. ‘You’re gonna need trail shoes.’
The Ragnar trail relay was delayed 2 hours for lightning. The accompanying rain turned the Mountain trails into mud and slush pits. We’re running through slick grass, slippery rocks, and mud that will suck your shoes and socks off. All I had to run in presently were a pair of Nike frees. Good shoes for roads or dry trails, but a liability in these conditions.
New Shoes
Jesse’s warning scared me to the Salomon trail shoe tent straightaway. ‘What size are you?’ the guy asked.
’13.’
You know what they say about guys with big feet?
‘Let me see what I have.’
They don’t carry much in our size.
‘All I got is this one pair.’
I try them on. The bottoms grip, the soles are stiff; they are tougher than my Nikes. Beggars can’t be choosers.
‘Let’s do this.’
I’m nervously waiting in the transition area; my feet freshly shod in Salomons. As has been noted it’s pitch dark, hence I’m wearing a headlamp. The course cuts right, climbing into a particularly steep path ascending Ascutney’s mountain bike ridge.
New shoes, pitch black, 10 pm, mud, wind, rain, hills and trails!
This was gonna be special.
Why, at this point before every race, do I suddenly feel like I’ve never run a race before in my life?
Or, correspondingly, like I’ve completely forgotten how to run?
Pete shuffles up the finishing chute looking like a soldier returning from the front. He’s covered in mud. I can’t recall what color his shirt was when he left, but now it’s mud. He looks defeated.
‘Hope you’re wearing skates,’ he says and hands me our team bib. ‘I slipped at least a dozen times.’
He waits a moment, mutters ‘Fuck,’ and then walks off to clean up.
Yep. This was gonna be special.
The run
I’ve never seen conditions quite like this, not even in my years of New England Cross Country racing. Only 7.5 miles to go through the mountain woods. In the dark.
I leave the transition area, following the red trail. Dozens of glowing red arrows light my way. I’m in no rush. Someone passes me in the first 100 yards; I’ve never been passed in a Ragnar event. I give chase until someone ahead of us loses their feet and smashes down violently into the mud, then rolls down the slope.
‘Fuck it. Let him go.’
He peels off and runs down the green trail. I charge up the red one, then through a series of switchbacks. I see no fewer than 4 people lose their feet and fall into the mud. There will be blood.
No more giving chase. Just stay on your feet.
Surprisingly I’m charging; buzzed.; I’m learning the rules. I spot the good footholds, the ditches, the mud pits, and the ankle breaking roots. My new Salomon shoes are a God send; undoubtedly a great decision (Thanks Jesse). They grip the mud and dirt like fly paper, but are nimble enough to step over obstacles. Everyone else is walking while, as has been noted, your boy is flying.
I know I’m running too fast but it feels effortless. I trot around switchbacks, gallop up hills and around slush filled corners. I have never felt more alive than right now. At this point I run straight down a steep slope into a roaring stream that washes up over my shins. My socks don’t even get wet.
Salomon trail shoes– they are the shit.
I let out a war whoop!
‘I live for this shit.’
And then an up hill. Straight up. Forever. This hill will not stop. Finally I reach the top and see three or four people gathered around a wounded runner. He’s holding his ankle. Likely a casualty of some rock, root or ditch. Maybe all three.
A reminder- This is fun, but, all things considered, it’s dangerous. One wrong step can break an ankle.
Do I slow down? Nope.
Fog comes with the rain. I’m at the halfway point. I’ve climbed to the top of the mountain ridge. I can hardly see three feet in front of me through the haze. Meanwhile there’s no solid ground. My quads are barking at me; My back reminds me that despite how well I’m running I’m not 19 anymore. I shorten my stride. I choose between bad and worse footing. Occasionally I slip, maintain my balance, and slip again. Somehow I keep my feet. The trail disappears, washes away off a steep incline into a roaring stream below. I make my own trail.
All I’ve done is climb. Presently I’m dreading the downhill. What’s worse than running up a slippery slope? Running back down it. When you run downhill you naturally sit back, lead with your heels, slow yourself down so you don’t lose control.
Lean too far back on slick ground and you’re gonna fall flat on your ass. On a steep hill you’ll slide for a bit. There will be blood.
‘Hope you brought your skates.’
I feel unprepared despite Pete’s warning.
There are perfect downhills though. They taper downward at just the right slope. You can lean into the hill, stay on your toes, pick up speed and let gravity take you. A controlled fall is what Ed Eyestone called it once upon a time. Those hills are rare. Whatever is coming will be steep and merciless on my quads; that’s until I lean back too far and crash onto my ass.
I turn a corner; my headlamp illuminates a sign. ‘Look right, look left. Enjoy the view.’ I’ve left the fog but it is still pitch black. I’m in a meadow with a grass trail shooting down the center. The flattened grass trail glows white under my headlamp. I’m fairly certain that there is tall grass on either side of the trail. Beyond that I can’t see a thing.
Just flat grass extending down… into infinity
It’s probably 11 pm. I’m alone in the middle of the mountains. My descent begins.
The slope of the hill is perfect. I lean in, cautiously, knowing I can’t build up too much steam given that the trail could end abruptly. I know what a 6 minute mile feels like. I’m running faster. I could pore it on but I just know there’s a mud patch or a ditch waiting for me. A quarter mile passes; Nothing but smooth grass and downhill running. I lean forward and shorten my stride. I know what a 5 minute mile feels like. This is faster. I trust the hill and lean in.
The moment leaves me in awe. I think about my High school Cross Country Coach. He’s been gone for 4 years. He would have LOVED this. I miss him terribly in that moment despite feeling he’s with me in spirit; racing ahead of me down the path. I wish I could document it. Film it, photograph it, share it on insta. But that would mean I have to stop and this is a moment. Just be present and drink it in.
And then the bottom
Finally the grass gives way to a gravel driveway. I see a headlamp, then pass the runner attached. I’ve just run, all in all, the most amazing mile of my life and I need to share it with this guy.
‘Great job,’he says.
‘When I die, I want to come back as me so I can experience that last mile again,’ I answer.
I seriously think about turning around, running back up the hill and doing it again. But this is a moment; Try as I might I’ll never recreate it. All I can do is be thankful I was there in the first place.
The best mile of my life happened at Ragnar Trail Vt. 8/3/18