Falling - The Grand Island Trail Marathon

Photos from the Grand Island Marathon can be found here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/22577818@N00/sets/72157594219452099/

Anyone whose goal is 'something higher' must expect someday to suffer vertigo. What is vertigo? Fear of falling? No, Vertigo is something other than fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

I wasn't prepared to fall so hard.

I'm not talking about the tumble I took down the trail in the Grand Island Marathon this past Saturday.

I'm talking about falling in love.

With Michigan.

With the trail.

With flying face first down through the air and rain and mud.

We arrived in Marquette, Michigan on Friday morning. I expected a northwoods retreat with burbling streams and the bulk of Lake Superior lording it ominously over a few fisherman. I did not expect the Caribbean. Or the Grand Canyon.

But that's what the north shore of the Upper Penninsula is. If you took all that makes you gasp about the American landscape and compressed it into a several hundred square mile area, you'd end up with the U.P.

The water of Lake Superior is as clear and aqua blue as the Caribbean, with the kind of crystalline quality that lures you cleanse yourself in its frigid embrace. You imagine you could walk right in and just just keep walking along the rock-strewn bottom in a beautiful blue purity.

The sandstone cliffs that line the shore have been wind and water sculpted to resemble the Grand Canyon in striations and formation. Graceful arches plunge into the water like fountains while grottoes at the water line invite exploration. The gold, greens, ochres, bricks, whites, and blues reflect the setting sun bouncing off the water and give the heavenly lake a golden halo.

Dark, brooding forests of hemlock, birch, and maple blanket the clifftops with cool and languid carpets straight off a Vermont mountaintop. The black-green cloak soothes the wind and waterbeaten landscape and provides refuge from the bright blue-gold of the exposed lake and cliffs.

Beaches that might be found in Maine are strewn with boulders and driftwood, but also offer a cushion of soft gold sand that swallows your feet in sunshine. Waves crash as if at the ocean, further breaking down the cliffs into more beaches. From the forest just above, falls cascade into the lake with a soft burble, completing this utopia of the senses with gentle audial meditations.

I have fallen hopelessly in love.

After picking up our race packets and checking into the hotel, DH and I venture to the lakefront park for a short lecture on the geology and biology of Grand Island. We learn a bit more about its history in the past century and a little less about its geology than I would like, but the park vistor's center has plenty of information on that. After wandering over to the "expo" (really just a tent in the park with a few pairs of shoes and some gels) we go down to the lakefront, where I dip my toes in. Standing on the sand is hurting my foot a bit, so I make my way over to some rocks and dangle my feet in the water. It's pretty chilly, but not icy, probably because we are in a protected bay. I expect it will be a different story on the north side of the island tomorrow which is exposed to the buffeting of Canadian winds.

With an hour to kill before the spaghetti dinner at a local restaurant, we take a drive up to a scenic overlook and snap a few pictures of the island. It looks like it's going to be a tough climb up to the center of the island, which rises about 900 feet above water level.

We sit down at the spaghetti dinner with a woman named Cathy who had been on our flight from Detroit this morning. She runs a marathon about every 2 to 3 weeks, around 20 per year, mostly on roads, but is planning on doing the Pikes Peak Marathon in a few weeks so she's getting in some trail training. She attempted the race last year and made the ascent but found herself too wiped out by the altitude to descend. I ask her how she's handling training for the altitude this year and she says she's just going to suck it up. Literally. She's a self-proclaimed slowpoke (differently-paced) so we make a wager on who will take last place. Then we head off to the hotel and call it an early night, with the sun just throwing up its last dying rays at 10 PM.

The alarm goes off at 4 AM and I down a bagel, then dress. DH, my faithful pit crew, is checking everything to be sure its runway ready - filling our fuel belts, packing up gels, pinning on race numbers. We head out to the shuttle to the ferry landing at 5 AM. We are pretty seamlessly transported there, and then ferried over to the start line where we await the 7 AM start. It's an amazingly well-organized effort. We watch the sunrise from the start and a few of us note with trepidation the officials with "Search and Rescue" plastered across the backs of their shirts (of course, it's an island - pretty hard to get lost if you just follow the perimeter back around to where you started). I see a woman with her left arm in a cast. I go up to her and say "Well my foot was hurting but I think I'm going to stop complaining!" Her name is Dorothy, and she tells me the break just happened two weeks ago, and she's planning on walking the marathon. I wish her luck.

Just before start, Cathy finds me and sticks a ladybug sticker on my race number for good luck. I'm feeling a little anxious about my foot, but so far with a mega dose of Advil, I'm not much noticing the pain. But I'm also anxious because I have no idea what to expect on this trail, and figure I'll just take it as it comes.

At 7 AM, the people in front of me start running. I follow. That's it. No booming cannon or loud music. It's the lowest key race I've ever been to. A perfect introduction into the quiet solitude of the brooding forest.

The day starts overcast, which makes the temperature just about perfect for running. It's in the 60s with a nice breeze in the exposed sections of the trail. We run about a mile through forest and right away I notice one problem with trail races - it's impossible to pass. I'll have to wait until the crowd thins out a bit, which luckily doesn't take too long. First mile split: 11:13. A nice warmup jog.

My foot does not hurt and the crowd has thinned out, so I decide I want to take the first 10 miles in about 10:30 average pace - right around my typical long run pace which is very easy. If I'm feeling good I'll pick it up later, but I really just want to finish feeling good and enjoy the experience. I have a disposable camera strapped into my fuel belt so I can stop and take some pictures. The first 5 miles are flat, followed by a 600 foot climb over 1 mile, then another flat 2 miles, and a 1 mile descent, then another climb, so I feel like 10:30 is doable.

The next few miles fly by, I stop to snap a few pictures. Waves crash off the west-facing shore of the island and I could swear I'm on Assateague Island. The breeze is picking up and thunder is starting to roll. But overall it's very pleasant to have the crunch of the dirt and soft spring of grass under my feet. I feel relaxed.

Mile 2: 10:33
Mile 3: 10:53 (stopped for pictures)
Mile 4: 10:31
Mile 5: 11:00 (includes an aid station stop)

Now we start to climb. And the rain starts along with it. We're headed up a dirt fireroad to the center of the island, past an inland lake. The climb isn't too steep but it is relentless. Most people around me are walking, and I take a few walk breaks as well. There is a man of about 75 years passing me who is power-walking the slope, using his arms to drive himself forward while barely moving his feet off the ground. He is making excellent time, so I decide to imitate him.

I reach the top of the slope and realize it wasn't as hard as I'd been fearing. I know the rest of the climbs on the island aren't as long as this one, so I start to feel pretty confident. I push on to the end of the road, cheering on those in front of me who are returning back down the same road, when suddenly I see Dorothy (with the broken arm) run by me. She's quite a ways ahead of me. I am momentarily flabbergasted.

I reach the turnaround and by now the road is truning into a stream bed, but the footing is still solid. For the past two miles I have been leapfrogging a guy about my age with a Camelback. He's slightly in front of me at the turnaround and I creep up on him. When the downhill starts, I decide to book it and make up some time and pass the guy. He, I, and the 75-year-old man follow each other down the slope back to the aid station, where I stop to refill my bottles and am overtaken by the other two again.

Mile 6: 12:38 (climb)
Mile 7: 10:42
Mile 8: 10:33
Mile 9: 9:46 (downhill)

Just before the 10 mile mark the trail starts to climb again. I am not afraid of this climb any more, after having just tackled the last one in good shape, but I'm in for a rude awakening for the rest of the race. This portion of the trail is on some mildly rocky single-track and the rain has started to wash out the trail. I am following the 75-year-old up the trail, trying to stay with him and follow his path through the mud. The climb is much steeper than the last one but I still feel great. I pass the man and expect him to stay with me, but he drops back. Soon he is out of sight. I reach the top and there's a short descent followed by a few rolling hills. I stop for a picture at an overlook, and step back onto the trail. A shirtless middle-aged man passes me just as I drop my camera. We say a few hellos and shadow each other for a little while. Then the trail begins to descend steeply. I have planned on making up time on the descents, but it quickly becomes clear that's not going to happen unless I'm willing to roll down the hills ass-over-teakettle due to the rain-slicked mud and rocks. With every foot-plant I slide a few inches and with my inexperience its impossible to make a quick and safe descent.

At 13 miles I finally pass Dorothy of the broken arm. She is running when I spot her, but she stops to walk just as I reach her. I shout out "I saw you running!" and she calls back "You caught me!" I ask how she is feeling and she says fine, the swelling in her arm is not as bad as she thought, but she is going to walk a while. She tells me I look great and to keep it up.

I look great and feel great, but my time indicates I'm not doing so great. At halfway I'm just below 5 hour pace. The hills and mud have slowed me down much more than I ever thought possible and I can't make up any time on the descents as I had planned. Even relatively flat miles are slow going because of all the mud. But I make up my mind just to put out a hard effort and see what happens.

Mile 10: 11:26
Mile 11: 12:25
Mile 12/13: 24:19
Mile 14: 11:27
Mile 15: 11:44

The trail rolls for a few miles before beginning another steep ascent around 15 miles. I'm leapfrogging the shirtless man all this time. I've reached the most scenic portion of the run, with gorgeous views of cliffs shrouded in fog protruding from the north side of the island. I stop for pictures often.

At 16 miles after an aid station refill, the trail descends steeply from the clifftops and we are abruptly thrust out onto a mile-long stretch of beach bracketed by towering cliffs. I stop for a picture and run down to the wave-packed portion of sand, which is still pretty slow going. The waves lap at my tired feet and bathe them in ice. This is the Lake Superior I was looking for - white capped swells blown in from Canada, bringing up 40 degree water from its 1300 foot depths just north of this shore. I pick up a couple of pretty striated red and white rocks and stick them in my pocket.

I love this.

I head back inland and am faced with another tough climb. I head up the hill ahead of the shirtless man, and just as I reach the top, I trip on a root. I regain my balance, but as I am chastising myself for not picking up my feet, I hit another root and go down. This causes my calf to cramp up and I sit clutching it for a few seconds while the shirtless man passes me. He asks if I'm ok but doesn't stop. In a minute I get up and stretch my calf. As I am doing so another middle-aged man passes me and says "Plantar or Achilles?" I don't think he wants to hear about my extra foot bone so I just say "Achilles" and start running with him. He tells me about his plantar fasciitis and how his heel lifts have helped him, but I'm trying to push through the last few miles of this 10 mile section, and am gradually leaving him behind. He tells me I'm having a great race and good luck, I wish the same to him. Shortly thereafter, I have to stop for several minutes for a bathroom break, and he passes me. I keep him in sight until just before 20 miles but then lose him. I am running out of steam.

Still I keep pushing. I want to own this 10 miles, and then I will coast in the last 10K. I'm still slogging on pretty slowly, but I am definitely putting out an effort that would garner me below a 10:00/mile pace on the road, so I feel good about myself, and think to myself over and over that Marine Corps is going to seem like a cakewalk after this.

Near the crest of the hill at 20 miles there is another aid station. I am totally ignored as I pass through here, but its fine, as I have plenty of water to get through the remaining 6 miles. I do feel like I could use some solid food, however. I am actually hungry, which hasn't ever happened to me during a run before. I'm having hallucinations of ham sandwiches. They do not appear to have any, however. At 20 miles, I am at about 4:15 - about the time it would have taken me to run a road marathon.

Mile 16/17: 28:47 (contained the beach-slog and the fall)
Mile 18: 13:19 (bathroom break)
Mile 19: 12:02
Mile 20/21: 32:16 (bathroom break #2 and climb)

Just after 22 miles the trail begins to descend. Since I have brought the course map along with me, I know I am on the last descent back down to the flat area nearing the beginning of the loop. I am extremely tired but still putting out a good effort. However, I am really beginning to get mentally fatigued from slogging through the mud. I'm starting to think I will have run a 50K by the time I'm done with all of the sliding. This section of the trail is also not very picturesque - running inland through the woods. I am getting passed by more experienced trail runners who are hopping through the mud like its a walk in the park. An older man passing me at mile 23 shouts with glee "MILE 23!" and I manage a halfhearted cheer.

But just after he passes, I am faced with an ankle-breaking descent punctuated with water bars which seem to have been placed across the trail specifically to trip me. I stop. I want to cry. I just cannot handle any more mud. I'm a wuss. It was fun for the first 20 miles, but now I just want to go home. Unfortunately the only way home is through the mud so I walk down the slope and start back up with a jog again near the bottom. At the bottom of the slope is an unexpected aid station with many smiling faces, who see me coming from several hundred yards away and begin cheering wildly. They run up to me with water and gels, but I'm pretty well stocked, so I just take their good cheer and soldier on. I feel a little bit refreshed, and look at my watch. I'm just under 5 hours, but if I can push the last 5K I'll feel respectable. Fortunately from here on out it appears the trail will return to gravel fire road, and the going will be much easier.

I do feel a little defeated. I've been on my feet far longer than ever before, and over much tougher terrain than ever before. My quads feel like jello and I understand why trail runners have told me strength training is really important. But I take a perverse kind of pride in having run for this long. I've toughed it out much more than ever before. I may have been totally unprepared, but for almost 20 miles, I was having the time of my life. It has been a great performance, all things considered.

I come up on a man walking. I've seen him walking for a very long time now. I'm not sure how long, as the seconds are passing like hours at this point, buts its been much longer than a typical walk-break, I'm sure. I pass him and ask if he's ok and he says sure. I stop to take a walk break, and he quickly overtakes me. He's moving at least. He may have simply decided that walking at this point will be faster than running. The same is probably true for me but I have the stupid pride of a road runner.

I jog on, and begin to see people trickling back up the trail, telling me I'm almost there. At about 25 miles, the walking man passes me at a run. "I see you've got your mojo back" I say, and he says "Well, I figure it can't possibly hurt much more at this point."

He runs on just ahead of me for the remainder of the race. At 26 miles, I decide I've had enough of shuffling and try to pick it up for the last quarter mile. Suddenly, to my left amidst the clapping spectators, I see a bear coming out of the woods!

Wait! The bear is waving at me! It's a man in a bear suit!

I break out laughing but am too addled to take a picture.

I sprint up to the finish line and pull out my camera to snap a picture on the move. A man calls to me and offers to take my picture running across. I toss it to him and he brings it back to me.

I look at my watch. 5:27:26. Not too bad I suppose. In spite of just wanting to relax and finish, I secretly had a goal of 5 hours in mind for this first trail race (and an even more secret goal of 4:30 if it turned out the trail was not much of barrier) but given the muck, 5:28 seems pretty respectable. I'm not last, but I'm not so far behind the pack either. I end up 69th out of 94, and at least half the times are over 5 hours.

Mile 22: 13:22 (last major ascent)
Mile 23: 13:06
Mile 24: 15:19 (stopped to whine about mud)
Mile 25: 13:58
Mile 26.2: 15:55

DH runs up to me and hugs me. "Guess what? I ran the 10K in an hour!" This is a PR for him and I'm quite impressed as they had a pretty major ascent and descended the muddy portion of the trail that caused me to stop and cry. I tell him I'm proud of him, then hobble over to the lake, discard my shoes, and, as he shouts "What are you doing? Do you want some water? Are you ok?" I walk in fully clothed.

I am falling through the chasm of air and water that is the stillness of my land of beyond. And I've lost that sense of vertigo, the will to fight the fall. I have bathed myself in mud and icy water, I am baptised in the trail. And I have scaled to new heights.