Double Tap 50K Race Report (DNF)
Something happens to you when you are out in the
forest alone, the nearest people 2 miles away in each direction, and having
spent every ounce of physical and mental energy available in your reserves. The complete
silence/the sound of the forest envelops you, your senses are heightened and
alert, and you lose your sense of time, of place. You are in a sort of
sylvan zone. At times you hallucinate, other times you are keenly aware of
your surroundings...Waldeinsamkeit. Only now, during my half-hearted
attempt at RD Perry Sebastian's Double Tap 50k at Fort Mountain State Park in
Chatsworth, GA, the einsam part was null and void.
The race began normally enough, even as a heavy
rain drenched the 20 or so runners assembled at the start line in the middle
of the road. We ran downhill a bit and turned right into the lush, wet
and cool forest whose colors were made sharper and more vibrant by
the insistent precipitation. I wore my trusty TNF Capris, a Mountain Goat
Adventures tech shirt, a Patagonia Houdini Rain Jacket, and my new favorite
trail shoes: Pearl Izumi Trail M2s.
The air was cool. The raindrops splashed
aggressively on my face. All was well even though I immediately fell into last
place. I wasn't concerned about finishing however, as I had already decided
that I would do only as much of the course as possible on my bum knee that had been
aching on and off for the previous two weeks. I promised myself to run only as
much as my knee would allow.
 |
| On the Big Rock Trail |
 |
| Early on, first 5 miles |
The course was comprised of a combination of the rolling
Gahuti Trail, the Lake Trail, the Big Rock Trail and several mountain biking
trails of various difficulties. There were beautifully runnable but fairly
technical downhills, coupled with a bit of rock-scrambling on the short Big Rock
Trail (that also had AWESOME views of surrounding peaks of the Cohutta Mountains).
Socks and
Sustenance
 |
Coming into the second aid station, where Jennifer
and Jim Dees were waiting |
At the first aid station, there was a cheery
woman named Kena (an accomplished ultra runner and multi-day racer herself) who was sweet and especially grateful that I had
wished her
“Christos Anasti” for the Greek Orthodox Easter Holiday. She then made me a turkey sandwich.
As I entered the second aid station, I was
heartened to be met by two friends, one who serenaded me with a song and the
other who opened the hatch of the Swiftwick mobile and offered me socks and sustenance
for the next few miles.
One of the highlights or (extremely low
points--depending on how much of a trail-freak and masochist you are) was the
power line climb. You know, those long lines of tall power lines that cut through
forest bringing energy to far away places. Had I had ANY clue of how
demoralizing this part of the course would be, I would have purchased trekking
poles proactively to ensure that I would be able to keep up a semblance of an
acceptable pace.
The Power-line climb seemed miles long, when in
actuality it was about a mile with a 1000% grade the entire way. Ok, that's a
bit of hyperbole... It was extremely taxing and tiring though, and I had no
idea how many miles I had already accomplished because my Strava had decided that it would not cooperate that day.
 |
| NOT a motivational sign |
As I ascended this climb, I listened to The
Golden Compass: His Dark Materials imagining a daemon resting on my
shoulder reacting to each of my expletives.
This-@$#%$&;; mountain! What the ;*$^$(???? Is Perry $^%;%(% crazy? When is this going to ^%&;;;%)ing end?
Fast forward to the top of the power line climb,
when you are thanking your maker that you GOT THROUGH THAT. The course turned left away from the power lines and was rolling. As I neared the next aid station, a chiseled,
tanned hunk by the name of Rick Hulsey in a yellow "Enabler" t-shirt
came running towards me. He ran with Black Diamond trekking poles and carried a
humungous back pack with water and supplies.
"There you are! We were worried about you! Are you ok?"
"Sorry, I'm just slow. REALLY slow. And WHAT
THE %&;;;%% was THAT?"
"Don't worry, you won't have to do it again.
The only really slightly bad part left is the double tap, but it's pretty
short."(Pretty short is a relative term in trail running. It could be
2 miles, 5, or 10 depending on what you're comparing it to.) Consoled by that, I
began running again trying not to be too slow, taking breaks on the uphills with Rick by my side. One of the reasons I love the trail racing community is that people look out for each
other, even if it's their job. They care, genuinely.
Rick told me about his long distance running in
honor of a family member, stopped to show me snags in tree trunks, and spoke
proudly of his children. I told him about my own running adventures and how I
ended up in the South. He then let me use his poles for the next mile or so,
until we reached the Pinhoti connector trail.
"How did you not bring poles?"
"Uh, I don't know. I wasn't thinking. I should know
better."
Double Tap That, Bruh
We arrived at the Double Tap aid station, I thanked
and bid adieu to Rick and began to descend the Pinohi Connector trail.
"It's only like three quarters of a mile,
yelled my friend Crystal who had decided to pull out at 14 miles. "You got
this!"
Yeah, three quarters of a mile downhill and then
three quarters of a mile uphill. Yep. I got this...
I was so slow on this 1.5 miles, Rick came looking
for me again, offering me his poles. An angel. The next 4 miles were doable. I had eaten my Christos Anasti turkey
sandwich , some jalapeño kettle chips, amazing
granola (furnished by my buddy Kelly--who had also provided BACON for afterwards. Now, that, is a friend, folks) and flat coke. I felt that I could at the very least finish 20 and be ok with
it.
The last two miles, were---er, memorable. Just as I thought the most horrible part must be over, the slightly inebriated aid station volunteers
shattered my hopes of an easy downhill free fall to where I would be
finishing.
"It's all uphill from here."
I didn't believe them. "You're kidding, right?
What's this trail? Where does it go?"
"Well, you could run down this trail and reach
a dirt road and then be chased by dogs. Yeah, sure. Go ahead."
"SHIT!"
"It's a long, slow, switchbacking two miles.
You got this."
"Jesus!", I muttered, almost jumping into and hiding in the
back of the volunteer's pickup. I veered left and started climbing. My friend
Amy, who had supplied many of us with an extra pair of dry Swiftwick Socks from her
Swiftwick-mobile, passed me about a tenth of a mile in and offered me her poles
since she had been on her way to finishing. I declined, informing her that I
would not be doing 50k that day. She finished the course about 45 minutes
before I came into the finish that I wouldn't finish.
The Fuzzy Wuzzies
As I rounded the millionth turn in the millionth
switch back, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I do wear glasses but
am not a contact lens wearer, so I squinted, still not able to see what had
caught my attention. Having experienced a few hallucinations during many a long
and arduous trail run, I took this dark movement as what is usually is, a tree
stump or a dark hollow, or simply nothing. I rounded the corner and moved
closer towards the "tree stump"--this time the tree stump had two
sets of eyes, ears, shiny, ebony fur.
The two adolescent cubs stared at me curiously as
if I were just another one of them, perhaps more smelly and a bit more bizarre.
One raised itself upon its hind legs and peered at me from behind a tree 50
yards away, above the next switchback. The other stared and began to make bear
cub noises that sounded much like a dog's frightened whimpering.
After the blood returned to my fingers, after my
hands stopped shaking and after I stopped hyperventilating (for nothing,
really), I blew the small whistle attached to the left shoulder strap of my
Nathan VaporCloud hydration pack.
tooooot t-t tooooo, toooot t-t tooooo
tooooot t-t tooooo, toooot t-t tooooo
Silence. A pure, forested silence only interrupted
by newly sprouted spring leaves rustling in the the hot and humid wind, the
snap and crack of small tree branches broken by small rodent-sized animals, the
somewhat menacing gurgling of a small culvert...
tooooot t-t tooooo, toooot t-t tooooo
tooooot t-t tooooo, toooot t-t tooooo
And then, birds. Several birds began to
answer my whistling in a reassuringly cacophonous but somewhat harmonious mish-mosh
of sounds that did the job of dissipating some of my fear.
tooooot t-t tooooo, toooot t-t tooooo
tooooot t-t tooooo, toooot t-t tooooo
I looked around. Was this the Hunger Games? Was I
the black Katniss? Where was my bow and arrow? Peeta? Cinna?
Alas, I was still fatgirldeathslogging stuck
on the side of some mountain in Northwest Georgia on never-ending ascending
switchbacks, the nearest people a mile away in each direction, with some bears
thrown in the mix: two cubs with mom peering out from the den that I had passed
earlier wondering if it was in fact a bear's den.
After I had finally come to my senses and calmed
down, now kind of excited that I had had the rare opportunity to experience
bears while on a trail run, and um, by myself, I picked up a large branch and a
heavy rock. I tried to make myself look bigger to the cubs, who simply did not
care.
I waved the branch and shouted "HEY BEARS.
PLEASE GO AWAY. I JUST WANNA GO HOME. I'M TIRED, CAN'T YOU TELL? I'VE BEEN ON
THIS MOUNTAIN FOR LIKE 10 HOURS. PLEASE? GO. AWAY.
They continued to stare with increasing curiosity
and not move so I tried singing/yelling my own version of Rihanna's
"Hard". HEY BEARS, IT'S SO HARD, YEAH-EH-THIS IS SO HARD while waving
my stick and rock and tooting on my baby whistle, no Luther Vandross or
Schubert this time.
The furry animals continued to stare at me and make
appropriate bear noises that sounded very much like whimpering puppies, only
louder and more insistent. After a minute or so of looking like the crazy black
woman waving a stick and a rock on the side of the mountain, I decided to
charge on and bite the bullet (or my tongue, literally.) I realized I would
have to pass by the ebony fuzzy wuzzies twice, as they were stationed about 20
feet above the switchback and and a similar distance below the upper
switchback.
I felt momma's presence in the air, but thank
goodness I had only sort of seen her eyes, because that would have been
really freaky for this Brooklyn-turned-kinda-mountain-girl. Soldiering on, and
simultaneously resigning myself to death by bears, I power-hiked past them like
a bear-passing pro. You wanna kill me? There'll be a fight.
Alas, there was no fight. They lost interest and
continued playing amongst the trees, as I inched my way to the last aid-station
I would encounter on my DNF. At the aid station, I commented on the
stupid switchbacks and the bears.
 |
| One of the many vistas on this course |
White people reaction: OMG. You saw bears???? THAT.
IS. SO. COOL. I've NEVER seen a bear on the trail. WOW. You're so lucky!
Black people reaction, later on when I posted about
my experience on the NBMA (National Black Marathoners Association) Facebook
group: Wait. Bears? Did you say there were BEARS on the course? That DNF
would've been a DOA.
As I departed the aid station, the volunteers told me
that I would probably not be able to do the last 10 miles.
'I wasn't planning on it. I'm done"
"Well, ok. You've got .2 straight uphill on
the road. Sorry"
"Oh that's totally fine. I can do .2 more
after that shit. I'm good. Thanks for being out here."
I trudged up the road to where we had started
earlier that morning in the torrential downpour. My friends Susan and Thomas
happened to manning the aid station to my delighted surprise, and boy, was I elated to
see them. I plopped into a camp chair, poured a stiff pink gatorade, closed
my eyes, and waited for my bacon providing turtle sister, Kelly.
Hope to tap this again next year, with poles!
