Relentless Forward Progress_ A Guide to Running Ultramarathons - Bryon Powell [4]
I can still vividly recall, four years later, segments of my 37-mile run to Dennis Cove Road along the Appalachian Trail. The temperature and humidity were high, as you would expect for Tennessee in August. I carried water and snacks with a small hydration backpack. The tube for the water extended from the pack to a fastener on the strap near my chin. I started slowly. Around midday I crossed a road and began an uphill section through an overgrown field. I metered my steps, maintaining the rhythm I had established on easier sections, and clipping my strides to allow for the extra work of a hot climb. The uneven footing caused my knees to wobble slightly. I was soaked in sweat and body oil, though, so that my knees slid easily past each other. I felt like a machine, perfectly executing the task for which I had been designed.
Mike was already well behind me. He felt compelled by the invitation to run for six days through the mountains despite his chronic Achilles tendonitis. He determined to walk considerable portions of the distance each day. He knew his pace and calculated that he would finish day 2 37 miles after dark. He put “flashlight” on his packing list. His day went according to plan. He settled into position at the back of our small pack. As each of us started to establish our own pace, Mike kept to his plan, protecting his heels. It wasn’t until daylight started to fade that Mike’s plan unraveled. He reached into his pack for his flashlight, and it wasn’t there. At first he thought that perhaps it had fallen out when he stopped to refill his water. Gradually he realized he had just forgotten to pack it. He was high on a mountain ridge. He had last crossed a road well over an hour before, and he figured that he had at least an hour left to get to Dennis Cove Road. Although he hadn’t walked past any precipitous drops, he was-n’t familiar with the trail and the terrain was rocky and somewhat unpredictable. He didn’t want to risk continuing in the dark.
Back at camp we determined that waiting was the best option. It remained warm through the night, and we knew that the trail didn’t traverse cliffs or threatening terrain. At every moment we thought that Mike would arrive the next one. We pictured him with a bad blister or strained calf limping slowly through the dim light, feeling his way along the trail. Kevin Townsend and his wife, Ann, parked their truck at the trailhead and waited. They waited all night.
At the first sign of light the rest of us prepared food and drink for Mike and for ourselves. We packed for a full day of running, and then split up the trail sections from the previous day so that we would retrace them from opposite directions. We had just convened at the trailhead for final preparations when Mike popped out of the woods. He looked well, if a bit worn. I was glad we had a few minutes to hear his story before Melinda returned from a short drive to get cell phone coverage to check for any messages from Mike. When she returned and saw her husband had safely returned, I watched only long enough to see her face melt along with all the tension she had held so stoically throughout the night.
When night had fallen and Mike realized he didn’t have his flashlight, he stopped. He plopped down in the middle of the trail, drained from traversing 32 miles of rugged mountainous terrain in high heat and humidity. He finished off what bits of food he had left. Then he gave a nod to his long-gone—but not forgotten—ancestors. Long-gone because neither they nor the predators that threatened them continue to roam the woods. Not forgotten because Mike, alone and empty in the woods on top of the mountain, remained wary of the ghosts of those predators. What did he do? He gathered small pieces of wood, retrieved the matches that he