My First (Accidental) Ultra-Marathon

On Friday, Jan. 6 I drove to SLC airport and hopped on a plane at 5:00 p.m. bound for Dallas, Texas. I rented a minivan in Dallas and started the drive to Big Fork, Arkansas (aka the middle of freakin’ nowhere) to run the Athens Big Fork Trail Marathon. The drive was late and long, with several wrong turns (a foreshadowing of the marathon?), long stretches through podunk towns, and white-tailed deer all along the road. Thanks to my GPS and the almost-dead-batteries, I finally found the little Community Center in Big Fork.

Big Fork Community Center

I parked on the grass, set up my pad and sleeping bag in the back of the van, and tried to catch some elusive pre-race Zs. It was 3:00 a.m. Luckily the race wouldn’t start until 8:00, so I thought I might be able to catch about four hours. I set three alarms (iPod, phone, and watch—I sleep better that way) and closed my eyes. Besides the one semi that passed, and the two lunatic runners who arrived a few hours early to run the course TWICE, I slept as well as I could’ve expected, and woke up before my alarms went off.

Big Fork Mall

Runners were arriving, energy was building, and the Community Center was filling with warmth and smoke from the wood-burning stove that heated it. We had a little pre-race meeting which consisted of a few warnings about losing the trail and getting lost. The race director asked: “How many of you have run this before?” About half the hands went up. “And how many of you have taken a wrong turn before?” The same hands all went up again. Yikes. He emphasized that we should watch for the white slashes on the trees. If we didn’t see white slashes for a while, we should turn around and find out where we went wrong.

As soon as we started and got into the woods, I could see why. There were several divergences from the trail. And even sections where the trail was clear, it was often covered with inches of fallen leaves. And beneath the leaves—rocks! It was by far the rockiest trail I’ve ever run. The Athens Big Fork Marathon website contains the following warning:

If you are not an experienced trail runner, we happily invite you to one of the other UTS runs, BUT NOT THIS ONE. This is a difficult event on a difficult trail that presents many opportunities for one to get lost, injured, exhausted, or incapacitated—with sparse access for rescue?

Sound fun? I thought so too. Then I read the “additional note” that followed:

Please do not be enticed into trying this run because of the difficulty warning—it is merely an honest attempt at preventing the run organizers from having to find and rescue someone ill-equipped for the event.

I was sold. How hard could it be, right? I mean there aren’t really any true mountains in Arkansas, are there? I was living in Idaho, in the shadow of the Tetons. I had run some trail races, a couple of them very difficult, so I thought this would be about the same.

I was wrong.

This was by far the most difficult marathon I have ever run. But the main cause of its difficulty is not specifically mentioned in the warnings or on the website: rocks. That’s right, the rocky trail. The uneven, unexpected, turn-your-ankles-to-rubber rocky surface of most of the trail. Even the sections that appeared smooth as I approached them usually had rocks hiding under the leaves.

Now, remember, this trail was hard to follow. It is not groomed, it is not maintained, it is not an ATV trail, it is an old hiking and/or horse trail through the woods, up and over Mountainette after Mountainette (not quite big enough to be called mountains). So you have to watch for the white slashes on the trees constantly or you will get lost. Yet you have to look down at the trail constantly or you will break an ankle (I turned each of my ankles during the race; my right ankle three times! Once, quite hard, and it really made me timid for the last third of the race.)

Hence, I took a wrong turn once, twice, three times a lady. Actually four times. The first wrong turn went like this: “Hey buddy,” I say to the guy just ahead of me “Have you run this before?” “Yeah, a couple times.” “Good, I’ll follow you.” Then we see runners coming back toward us: “Hey, you guys are going the wrong way.” There went my confidence in anyone who had run the race before.

My second wrong turn I was alone, and it went like this: “Ah, this is nice running along the river. Finally the trail is smooth and soft. Wait a minute. Where am I? Where are the white slashes on the trees? Are there any other running shoe treads on the trail? Should I keep going? Go back? Argh!” So I had to backtrack from the smooth river trail back to the rocky, hilly trail.

This was an out-and-back course, so it was a little easier to find the way back. But my third wrong turn was on the way back and it went like this: “It sure has been a lot easier not getting lost on the way back. But this rocky trail is going to be the death of me. Although, this part isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s kind of smooth and soft, and nice running along the river … wait a minute!” Sure enough, I had taken the SAME wrong turn I took on the way in! Good grief.

But worst of all was the last one. It went like this: “I’m SO glad we’re finally off that nasty, rocky trail and on the dirt road again. Only ONE MILE TO GO! There’s a ribbon that marks the turns. But that doesn’t look right. Am I REALLY supposed to turn here? I guess so if there’s a ribbon here.” I stuck with that road until my Garmin read 27 miles. I was SURE I was on the right road. Turns out, I was surely wrong. Double ugh. I had to backtrack more than a mile.

Now, I have to admit, I didn’t really care. In fact, I was kind of excited about it. When my watch hit 26.2 my time was 6:15. That’s right, SIX HOURS and fifteen minutes, so I wasn’t exactly trying to make a certain time. (Start of race: “Maybe I can finish in under five hours.” Halfway point: “It took me three hours to get here, maybe I can get a negative split and finish under six.” Mile 20: “If I finish without breaking an ankle or getting lost in the woods overnight, I’m good.”) So I was kind of excited to be running more than 26.2 miles because it was the first time I ever had, though I can’t honestly call it running. More like walking briskly up hills and jogging timidly down the other side.

Anyway, I ended up covering just about 30 miles in 6:50. Almost seven hours of running! Wow. I never thought I would do that. And I don’t think I’ll ever do it again. By the way, the course record is 4:20. The winning time in 2012 was just under five hours.

Now you might be thinking the Athens Big Fork Trail Marathon sounds like a lot of fun. If you decide to try it, here are a few tips:

1. If you aren’t on a terribly rocky trail, you took a wrong turn.

2. If you aren’t consistently turning your ankles, you took a wrong turn.

3. If you aren’t bleeding from running through bushes and briars, you took a wrong turn.

4. If your shoes aren’t wet from crossing stream after stream, you took a wrong turn.

5. And if you haven’t taken a wrong turn yet, then you took a wrong turn.

So that was my experience at the Athens Big Fork Trail Marathon. In short, I loved it. After crossing the finish “line” (there’s no line, just three guys clapping), you simply write your name, town, time, and distance(!) in a spiral notebook, and then recuperate  beside the warmth of the wood-burning stove.

And if you’re me, you get back in your minivan, stop for post-race snacks in Mena (never heard of it? Neither had I), get lost a few times on the drive back to Dallas, ask for directions, enjoy some friendly southern hospitality as folk outside Kuntry Store scrap for 30 minutes over the best way to Dallas (“It ain’t rite, it’s lift”), fight fatigue from only four hours of sleep and seven hours of running, avoid white-tail deer, and finally crash at the Hutchings Hotel. Same sweet spot where I stayed for the Cow Town Marathon (Thanks Clint and Liz! Great to see you again). Then get up at five and catch your flight back to SLC.

A Local Fan

The lady in the seat next to me on the plane announced that it was her first flight ever, and she was trembling with fear. I resisted the temptation to mess with her (“What’s that buzzing sound? Why is the plane vibrating so much; I’ve never felt it do THAT before”) and I slept the whole way to SLC. Yes, then I had to drive to Rexburg. Sheesh. Why do I do it? You’re not the first to ask me that. Four reasons: 1) Vanity, 2) Pride, 3) It motivates me to keep in shape (I’m coming up on five years of marathoning!) And 4) I enjoy it. Ten states down, baby! My next race is in Sedona, Arizona, the first weekend in February. I bought a 10 lb weight vest I’m going to experiment training with. I’ll let you know how it goes.