Running Through the Darkness

Did you know Karl ‘the speedgoat’ Meltzer, the multi winning pro trail runner, is coming to race at Hellbender? I’m going to die! was Jonathan’s text to me, three weeks before running the 100-mile trail race. Chuckling, No, you aren’t going to die, I responded. That had been my response for the past two months every time the race came up in conversation.

Hellbender 100 is billed as one of the toughest ultra races on the East Coast due to its 50,000 feet of elevation change along rugged mountain trails. The course traverses the Black Mountain Range of the Southern Appalachian Mountains. Starting at Camp Greer, a boys’ summer camp, the lollipop style course runs for twenty miles before starting a large climbing and descending loop around Mount Mitchell. For trail running masochists, who wouldn't want to do a race called the Hellbender 100? Every finisher receives a belt buckle with the race’s namesake salamander engraved on it.

All about the Belt Buckle

The actual 100-mile race is the final piece of the journey. Each runner has spent countless hours and months training. Taking time away from family and friends to build a base of mileage. For some, they may never get to the start line due to injury during training, life changes, or a multitude of other reasons. For others, they might not finish the race or ever attempt the distance again.The sacrifice and commitment of getting to the start line is too high of a price to try again.

This was Jonathan’s second 100-mile race. He was fortunate to finish the first one, although it took almost a year for his legs to recover fully. His desire to test that endurance and willpower(read stubbornness) again is what led us to Western North Carolina. 

The eve of a 100-mile trail race is similar to an army encampment. Most of the runners and their support crews are staying on site at the camp. This was race headquarters and the start of the race. After gathering around the race director, who barked out final instructions related to the course, weather and aid stations like a commanding officer, runners and their support crews dispersed. Some to their own corner to recheck supplies. Others gathered around the campfires where veteran runners proudly swapped past race experiences and displaying previous running wounds like tattoos while younger runners listened with childlike amazement, hoping to be able to add their stories to the next round. Everyone doing their best to mask the nervousness about how their personal race day would develop. Finally, the camp quieted for a few hours of restless napping.

Ultra running is a race primarily against yourself, testing your endurance and your determination across the miles and mountains. Hours of solitary running with only your thoughts forces a runner to dig deep to keep going. The expedition that a runner goes on both mentally as well as physically during an ultra can be a life altering event. One never knows the true limits of oneself until you are forced to continue moving while battling exhaustion, nausea, pain and the elements. 

Our night passed with both of us tossing and turning on our cots in the rental cabin. Awake before the first of several alarms we had set went off. “Don’t worry about packing up. I’ll do that after you start. I have time. Plus, I’m coming back to the cabin anyway. It might be the last time I have a real toilet for awhile.” Trying to shake myself awake through the yawning. Jonathan only nodded as he dressed and rechecked the supplies we had laid out the night before. We emerged from the cabin to an ant swarm of runners scurrying around the still smoldering campfires. Runners were groggily filing out of the other cabins or pop-up tents to begin the final race prep process. Headlamps illuminated each runner as they prepared for the start by reassembling their gear, eating breakfast and drinking coffee. The noise and excitement escalated into an early morning party when the reinforcements of race volunteers, additional runners and crew members converged on us like wagons circling. 

It takes a community of volunteers along with the friends and family of each runner to help them through an endurance event like this.  Runners who were not participating come to either help at a specific aid station or hop in along the later sections of the course where racers can have a pacer to get them through. Staff of aid station volunteers, medical and communication personnel easily swelled to almost five hundred people supporting the one hundred participants. 

“Love you! You got this! See you in twenty miles.” A quick kiss to Jonathan before he made his way into the running herd. Friends, family and many of the volunteers lined the side of the start line sharing in the nervous jitters. The runners stood under the START banner like a hundred artificial fireflies bobbing and weaving as they prepared to run. Stilling to a collective held breath right before the start. The starting gun, unique to this race, were notes of bluegrass emitting from a banjo played by the race director into the quiet morning. Emotions and exuberance were high when the runners took off in a synchronized lighted chase down the road and out of camp. Victory would be for those who would make it to the finish line. 

Start of Hellbender 100

Before the race, Jonathan had estimated the times of when he potentially would make it to the specified aid stations where I was allowed to meet him at. These estimations, along with driving directions to the different aid stations and the course map with elevation profile were my guides for the next day and half. All information printed out and neatly arranged in a binder I created knowing cell phone access would be spotty most of the time. Providing support, or crewing, for a trail runner is a hurry up and wait game. An anxiety game. Hoping everything is going smoothly between the time you saw your runner last and the next aid station. Twisted ankles, bee stings, falling, dehydration, fatigue, stomach issues and hitting the proverbial “wall” are among some of the issues that can go wrong in an instant while ultra running.

After seeing the runners off, I quickly made hot tea, packed up our belongings from the cabin and departed for the first aid station I was allowed access to, Curtis Creek. The aid station, located in the National Forest, was a fifteen-minute drive for me and twenty-three miles by foot for Jonathan. With hours to spare before the runners arrived and still dark, I tried to sleep. My nervousness combined with other runner vehicles entering the campground area kept me awake. Two whippoorwills arguing loudly under my car announced daybreak.

Volunteers started assembling the aid station. Pop up tents were deployed, tables unfolded, snacks arranged on the tables. Other volunteers started the camping stoves to make coffee, broth and assemble peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. They were still setting up the aid station when Karl Meltzer and another runner came through with the ease of a Sunday stroll. They obtained supplies from their personal crews and took off for an eight-mile loop that circled back to this same aid station. Thinking I still had some time, I decided to run the loop while I waited for Jonathan. The trail climbed from the forest floor to amazing overlooks of the Black Mountains, Mount Mitchell, and the Blue Ridge Parkway that the runners would be traversing for the next several hours. I finished the loop and checked with a volunteer to see if Jonathan had come through yet. I had only missed him by thirty minutes. After checking our calculation estimates he was running about an hour ahead of schedule. Bummed that I missed him the first time, I didn’t panic. Knowing I would see him again after eight miles. I spent that time boiling water for my tea and his coffee while laying out other snacks, shoes, socks and anything else he might need.  Catching him on his second pass through the aid station, he was all smiles and feeling good. We quickly refilled his food and water supplies before he left this aid station to begin a four-mile climb to the Blue Ridge Parkway. 

The loop early in the race.

Forty minutes by car, the crew route was up and down the other side of the parkway to the next aid station. The grassy field named Neal’s Creek gave all the runner support crews space to spread out. The cool morning that had greeted us at Curtis Creek quickly warmed to a sunny April day. Jonathan arrived hours later, hot and tired, but no worse for wear. At mile thirty-eight, the anticipated hot spots on his feet were beginning to be felt. We changed his shoes and socks and added a layer of Aquaphor to help ease the hot spots. After another quick refill of water and a restock of food stores, he was back out on the trail while staying slightly ahead of the pace he had set for himself. 

From here, Jonathan ran fourteen miles back up to, and around, the summit of Mount Mitchell while I drove twenty minutes to the aid station. The Colbert’s Creek aid station at mile fifty-two was a small parking area at the trailhead. I had to wait at a campground down the road, moving closer after other crews left and still had to settle for a parking spot on the side of the road. He had estimated getting into this aid station at 7:20 pm. As the sun was sinking, I realized he had left his headlamp with me at Neals Creek and would soon be running in the dark. In the gray twilight, standing on the trail, fifty feet from the trailhead, I chanted to myself “Beat the daylight, get here before dark.” 

Other crew members were around waiting for their runners when one yelled “runner.” Sighing in relief, I recognized Jonthan by his gait. The miles were starting to take their toll and wear him down. His once upright running cadence had slowed with his head starting to tilt from the hours of looking down at the rocky trails. He collapsed into our camp chair while I knelt in the dirt working to untie and remove the current socks and shoes. After an inspection of his feet by headlamp, I applied moleskin to the blisters and slathered them in vaseline. I got a fresh pair of socks and shoes on him.

“Bacon! Can’t beat bacon!” he said excitedly, while shoving pieces of the salty snack into his mouth and washing them down with large gulps of electrolyte drink. Runners carry food with them while running the hours between aid stations. Food selections at ultra running aid stations are a smorgasbord of snacking: sweets like fruit, candy, mini chocolate bars or gummy bears to salty like pickles, pretzels and chips. The ability to use camp stoves allow for hot food to warm up cold and exhausted runners. The hot bar is an oasis of calories in the late stages of ultra running. Coffee, ramen, broth, bacon, perogies, tater tots and even maybe quesadillas can keep runners going long after they want to quit. Anything a runner can stomach to keep them fueled and going.

Jonathan somewhat refueled and rehydrated, he slowly eased out of the camp chair and shuffled away from the aid station. The course turned up the road for a short section before entering another trail. While accompanying him on the road, we passed the car to grab his headlamp. With the sun setting and temperatures dropping, we decided he should change into warmer clothing. Twenty minutes spent at the aid station and he was on his way back out and up to the summit again with my Garmin since his was losing power. 

The race course was starting to turn the runners toward the finish line while connecting them back into some of the earlier trails they had traversed hours earlier. The aid station at mile seventy-four returned to Neals Creek. I retraced my driving route in the dark and found a parking spot in the dew-covered field. We had calculated he would be at this aid station around 3:30 am. I tried sleeping until 2 am. Jonathan’s childhood friend, Phillip, was meeting me there and running the eight miles that saddle-backed the Parkway into the Curtis Creek aid station with him. The sky was awash in sparkling stars over the grassy field when Phillip found me around 2:45 am at the car, boiling water for Jonathan’s coffee and more tea for me. We stood in the dark waiting on him while catching up with each other until the chilly, damp air forced us into the heated car. There were sporadic flutters of muted voices, lights and commotion occurred as runners drifted in and out of the camp. 

Phillip had kept to road running and short distance triathlons while Jonathan had ventured into trail running and ultras. He was slowly getting back into running after finishing chemotherapy and radiation treatments for a metastatic brain tumor. The tumor had only been discovered after he had a seizure during a track training run. The short eight miles with Jonathan’s tired legs was the perfect distance for him and at a time when I knew Jonathan needed a pacer. An hour past Jonathan’s projected time, I began to worry. I rechecked our estimations and quizzed the volunteer radio operators if they had any information. The worker told me that this location was a “dead zone,” information inconsistently coming in and this trail section into the aid station was a very rugged section of the course that was taking runners an average of eight hours to traverse the twenty miles.

Two hours past his projected time, Jonathan finally staggered into the aid station with a hollowed out face in the shell of a body. The mountains were starting to devour his will. Phillip and I guided him like parents of an unstable toddler to the car after checking in with the race official. “It was pretty cold up top,” Jonathan stuttered. “Let’s get him in the car to warm up,” I said to Phillip as I walked to the driver seat and started the engine while cranking the heat.  Phillip maneuvered him in the back seat and covered him with blankets to start warming up while I handed him the coffee. “Did you fall?” I asked when I noticed the scratches on the side of his knee. “At some point, I guess I fell asleep running and tumbled into the briars,” Jonathan mumbled as he sat there staring at nothing in particular.

The hard miles, heat from the day, cooling down in wet clothes, slogging through damp trails, combined with the cooler temperatures and snow melt around the summit had gone straight to the bone. He sat sipping his coffee and taking small single bites from the assortment of snacks I had shoved in his face as I worked to remove his wet shoes. The shoelaces were caked in frozen mud. Once I got the shoes and wet socks off, I began to triage his feet and dress him with dry socks, shoes, and shirt. Exhaustion hanging off his face and body like a warrior who had fought to the last man. He had finally stopped moving and now was settling into the warm car and becoming too cozy. I knew if he didn’t get moving again soon, he might decide to just stop for good.  Always quiet, Phillip hovered while I was busy stuffing energy bars into Jonathan’s pack and refilling the water reservoir. “Phillip drove all this way in the middle of the night, leaving his wife and kids at home to come run with you!” I said forcefully. “You can’t drop before he gets that chance. The sun is getting ready to come up, it's going to be an awesome view on top. Look, I put your comfy shoes on, it’s a forest road. You will warm up! It’s going to be great!” Saying anything I could to motivate him. “You quit now, only because you're tired and achy, you will regret it.” 

My last weapon in the arsenal of motivating speeches, I knew it could be the right button to push to get him moving again. Before he could think about becoming too comfortable and how easy it would be to just sit in the warm car for the rest of the race, I pulled and pushed him out and back toward the trail. Phillip scrambled behind, surprised at the sudden forward marching orders. The next eight miles were a relatively easy forest road that climbed two miles up to the Parkway and six miles down the other side back to the Curtis Creek aid station. 

“Have fun storming the castle boys!” I yelled as they slowly walked out of the aid station under the clear darkened sky.

I picked up around the car where it had exploded with the discarded clothes, coffee cup, blankets, food wrappers, and extra food we had grabbed at the aid station that Jonathan could not stomach. This late in the race, the stomach shrinks making it harder to keep eating. Driving the same road the guys were traversing, I passed them and then pulled over near the summit to watch the sunrise.

The sky turned from dark blue to a robin’s egg hue with streaks of purple. A crystal clear April day for the runners to finish this race. The boys came running by, both smiling and chatting. Still moving at sunrise after running all night is like surviving an overnight siege. There is a surge of energy that washes over you when those first rays of sunlight touch your face. Hoping you can ride that surge to the finish. Waving at them as I drove by, I continued down the mountain to start organizing items at the aid station for him.

Runners had been trickling in and out of this aid station all night, the volunteers were groggy but still cheering and helping everyone. Phillip delivered Jonathan into the aid station in good spirits. He had assisted him in punching through the mental wall. With the renewed spirit and a full day, he had the fortitude to keep going. Phillip and I worked to refuel and rehydrate him. He changed from his cushiony shoes to more technical shoes that would grip the rocks and roots for the last twenty trail miles. “See you at the finish” Phillip stated as he fist bumped Jonathan and I gave him a quick kiss. We waved goodbye as Jonathan, still exhausted but in better spirits as he shuffled down the trail. I returned Phillip back to his car. Now only a handful of vehicles remained in the field. The last of the runners making it into the aid station before it shut down. He followed me as we retraced our route back through the Curtis Creek aid station and then onto the finish area.

The finish line area was a grassy field a couple of miles from the start line. Other support crews were parked, claiming their spots in the sunny field while either waiting for their runner to come in or relaxing with the runners who had already finished. “I really want to see him finish,” Phillip stated. “Now that he’s running behind, I’m not sure how long I can stay.”

“I'm not sure what time he will finish.”

I was too tired to try to recalculate a new estimated finish time. “Maybe around 2 pm,” I responded as I started pulling items Jonathan might want after he crossed the finish line. Sandals for tired feet and clean, dry clothes, along with a big container of electrolyte drink. The supplies I had packed in neatly labeled bins were now a disheveled mess, haphazardly thrown anywhere in the back of the car. 

The finish line at an ultra trail race is different from road races. There are no masses of runners finishing at one time. Usually it is long stretches of inactivity until a single runner comes across the finish line. The field was a sociable relaxed scene, until “Runner” was shouted and everyone would stop mid-conversation to start clapping and cheering as the runner would be spotted maneuvering over the train tracks on a sunny ridge and then disappear into a copse of trees before emerging from the forest for the last time. This solitary finish gives every runner their moment where the crowd was cheering just for them. 

 Each runner was met with a handshake and their salamander engraved belt buckle from the race director. Karl Meltzer, who had won the race hours before, remained at the finish congratulating all the competitors as they crossed. After the handshakes, runners were engulfed in congratulatory hugs from family and friends. Every celebration resembling the embrace of an explorer arriving back home after an expedition. 

The mid-afternoon sun was in full force when I noticed another runner picking their way across the train tracks on the ridge above the field. “It’s Jonathan! Runner!” 

Jonathan coming into the finish

I shouted as Phillip and I made our way across the field to the finish line. We waited as he entered the trees and then emerged at the edge of the field where the finish line arch was positioned. Exhausted but smiling, Jonathan stumbled across the finish line and stopped running thirty-four hours after entering the forest. While starting and stopping at the same place, the runner who finished was not the same one that started - a one hundred mile journey pushing the soul and body.