An Account of the 2006 Iron Mountain 50-Mile Trail Run October 7, 2006
By Sylvana Smith
When the race director is the 2004 Trail Runner Trophy Series ultra champion (won five ultras averaging over 50 miles apiece that year), holder of the GEER 100K and 50K records, and just smashed his own GEER 100K record by 10 minutes two weeks before, I might have had a clue he would set out a challenging course.
When the final entrants list showed only 37 people heading out to attempt the thing (and only a scant handful of women), that should have been my second clue. When the participants list included such folks as the world record-holder for traversing the Pacific Crest Trail, the reigning GEER 50K women’s champion, a
3:57 top-four finisher at the 2005 Derby 50K, the fourth female overall at the 2006 Promise Land 50K, and strong, repeat veterans of Hellgate, Masochist and other extreme mountain challenges… I had my next clue... Eric Grossman’s inaugural Iron Mountain Trail Run 50-miler would be big, certainly bigger than anything I’ve done in this, my first year, of running ultras.
I’m new to ultras, but I had done my homework, running five marathons and five trail ultras this year, plus assorted half-marathons and other trail races. I had experienced 8000 feet of elevation gain in 12 hours (Laurel Valley). I had experienced 50 miles in 12 hours (Hinson Lake). I had persevered through all-day mud and rain (Carrboro 50K and Holliday Lake 50K++).
I had tackled relentless, sustained climbs on technical singletrack (GEER 50K). All I had to do was put it all together in one event that had it all.
That’s all.
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Thirty-seven runners gathered at 7:00 am on the steps of the gazebo in Damascus Town Park for pre-race photos--a chatter of flash bulbs that had us feeling like celebrities. “I feel like Brad Pitt,” said one runner. Pops, flashes from six cameras, capturing a pre-dawn moment: 37 runners looking earnest and ready.
Then Eric sent us off, and 35 runners jack-rabbited off into the darkness and were quickly out of sight.
I set off at a comfortably sustainable pace, with no one in sight ahead except my fella. Dean customarily finishes ultras an hour ahead of me, but he agreed to run this one with me, for safety’s sake. Fifty-one miles of backcountry is a long trek under any circumstances, and the small field virtually guaranteed that I would be alone all day otherwise.
He fully expected I would be out there in the dark, and he didn’t want me to be alone.
The first five miles followed the well-groomed Virginia Creeper Trail beside a mountain stream and over wooden bridges and trestles. We covered that easy stretch at a leisurely 10-minute pace, and then the next five miles of single-track of climbing and roller-coaster hills at a steady pace. In no time at all, it seemed, we had the first 10 miles behind us with 10 hours left on the clock. Yet somehow, by the time we got to the Skull’s Gap aid station, Annette was urging us to move on along, because we were close to the cut-offs. It’s disheartening to be chased by the cutoffs only 16 miles into the game, but she was right. Our pace had dropped off a good bit on some stiff climbs. We had only passed one runner so far, and there was no one else in sight.
The next stretch took us onto the ridge of Iron Mountain, where the world fell sharply off to either side, as we ran miles along the spine in heavy fog and yellow leaves. The miles clicked off steadily here as we enjoyed the fall foliage, good trails and sense of adventure. At Hurricane Gap --the aid station that marks the start and finish of a 10-mile loop-- we saw the #2 runner coming through, looking cheerful and insisting that he loved all the climbing. We would later learn what he had just come through.
That 10-mile loop started out with two miles of fast downhill on a gravel road, then a short climb up singletrack, then nearly 5 miles of rollicking downhill on gravel forest road. Our pace was quick here, but I knew I had to make up time while I could.
Everything that goes down must go up.
After what seemed like 7 Horton Miles, we reached the Rowland’s Creek aid station, where we passed another runner and soon had put her out of sight behind us.
The next three miles are a steep, endless slog along and crisscrossing Rowland’s Creek up to Rowland’s Falls and back into Hurricane Gap.
While we were gulping down banana and Succeed at the aid station, and Dean was congratulating me for having completed 50K in rough territory in 7 ½ hours, the runner we thought we had ditched at Rowland’s Creek blew through the aid station at a steady trot and quickly left us out of sight.
The next few miles of uphill gravel road passed more slowly than either of us would have liked. Dean was patient with me -- encouraging, but allowing me an ultra-slog where he would have preferred to run, and a power walk where I couldn’t jog. I’d like to think I repaid his patience at the end of that road stretch, when he ran straight past the ribbons directing us into woods at the Iron Mountain Trail. I called him back from his oversight, before he had gone too far ahead. Missing a turn at Mile 35 could have hurt his time a lot more than compromising his pace to run with me.
The next few miles were indisputably our favorite part of the course: breezy downhill singletrack where the trees seem to fly past you, running seems easy, and gravity is whisking you into the Skull’s Gap aid station inbound. By the time we reached Skull’s Gap, we had caught another runner and built a 20-minute cushion over the 4pm cutoff. With 14 miles to go, we still had more than 3 hours and lots of confidence.
We were both feeling good, having a good time, and sure of a good finish.
But apparently I had a very flawed memory of the elevation chart on the Web site.
I knew I’d have to pick up the pace if we were anywhere near 4:00 pm at this point, but we had more downhill than uphill from here, by my recollection.
So why did the posterboard sign at the aid station say, “Next aid station, 6 miles, uphill singletrack?”
Alas, the sign was right. The next six miles dragged on for 90 minutes, with slippery, eroded, leg-burning climbs that sapped my energy and enthusiasm. Up on that foggy mountain ridge in a cold drizzle, running on a carpet of yellow leaves, it seemed like the world wasn’t real. Certainly this ridge was something out of a Tolkien land. Everything in my consciousness was reduced to a feathery gray illusion of trees and trail ahead, punctuated only by brief glimpses of Dean’s white shirt, and his look of stoic patience as he stopped to wait for me. Again. And again.
Finally, 20 minutes behind our hoped-for schedule, we dropped out of the woods into the FS 90 aid station, where riders on magnificent horses had stopped to chat with the aid station volunteers. I have five lovely riding horses, I thought to myself. Why don’t I make them carry me up these hills, like normal people do!
Gulp a few chips and a cup of Pepsi, get a few instructions about the trail ahead, and we were off again into singletrack that represented the last leg of the race. Only 8 miles to go, not much time to spare. But it’s within our grasp.
Lots of downhill here, thank goodness. For all that I am a pitiful uphill runner, I am a very strong downhill runner. I streamed along at a good clip, confident that I was building up more buffer and making good time. But the uphills, even short ones, were getting more ominous each time. I was losing ground on the climbs. There just wasn’t much climb left in me.
With four miles to go, we had 50 minutes. “No problem, it’s all downhill from here,” I told Dean, based on my still flawed recollection of the elevation chart. It wasn’t. The next mile climbed steadily on singletrack through ever darker woods, as 6:10 turned to 6:15 ticked to 6:20. What was so sure an hour ago now seemed so uncertain.
Mercifully, the trail did eventually turn downhill, in a big way. We set a quick pace here, dodging rocks and washouts, never taking eyes off the darkening doubletrack. I took a quick glance at a wooden trail sign that said, “Damascus, 2 miles,” and got a shot of encouragement that sparked me to keep up the good pace. By 6:35 though, the woods had become dark under a thick canopy of trees and rhododendron. We stopped to fish out headlamps and continue on our way.
Unfortunately, even with a light, I couldn’t safely pick my way across the rocks. I’d step on a sound spot only to have a rock roll out from under me and take a gangly scarecrow step to recover. Then again.
And again.
I’ve severely sprained my left ankle four times in my life. The warranty has expired on that ankle, and it can be quirky. Remembering a fateful scamper in Mahoosuc Notch in 1992, I thought about how quickly a triumphant trail race can turn into a six-month layup.
So, with precious minutes ticking away, I walked, as fast as I safely could, picking my way through the rocks by one flimsy headlight. I’d glance up occasionally to see Dean’s headlight way down the trail, turned my way, looking expectantly up the hill to spot me. I invited him to run on ahead and finish, but he refused to leave me in the woods in the dark.
That was a chivalrous gesture that I really did appreciate, even if I would have never faulted him for running on.
As soon as the trail smoothed out, I picked up a jog and caught up with him. Out on the side lanes of Damascus now, there was enough daylight to pull off headlamps, and according to Dean, there was still enough time on the clock. We could surely jog 1.2 miles in 12 minutes.
I didn’t want to be a downer, but I had known all day that his watch was slow. What I didn’t know was that my watch was fast. I was feeling deflated by the thought that the 12-hour finish was already blown (by my watch), and he was good-heartedly encouraging me believe it was possible (by his watch).
In any event, I resumed a steady but unimpressive pace down the Virginia Creeper Trail, over the last trestle, and then we turned the corner into the town park, past the caboose, and started running across the grass toward the gazebo.
The gazebo was a beautiful sight. Runners were gathered for the awards ceremony, set to start in a few minutes, and as we got a little closer, I heard clapping. “They clapping for us,” I said to Dean, somewhat in disbelief, for some reason. “Yea, they are,” he said. “We’ve got to bring it in,” I said.
“Yep, we do,” he said.
So I hit a strong stride across the damp grass and drove for the finish line, as hard as I could. It wasn’t my signature sprinting, whooping finish, but a strong, happy finish nonetheless. I had done it. 51 miles, 8000 feet of elevation gain, 8000 feet of descent. Rugged, beautiful mountain territory that most people will never see, and I got to experience it in an intense way, with my partner and best friend.
What a day, what an experience!
Eric was at the finish line to greet us, shake hands, congratulate. “Aw,” said Eric. “So close, you were SO close. Really close. Only missed it by a few minutes.” He was right. Our official finishing time was that, at 7:05 pm, we weren’t “official” finishers of this race with the 12-hour cutoff.
“So close. You guys were SO close.” What Dean later said he thought, with all good humor, was something like, “So close, my a__, we’re here! We’re not face-down on the last trestle. We’re not sprawled out on the grass by the caboose. We’re here!”
Five minutes over an allowance of 720 minutes. Six seconds per mile. It really is a trivial slip of time over the course of a Herculean event. Even though I felt like a bit of an outsider at the awards gathering, I was proud of myself --and very grateful to Dean for staying with me all day even though it cost him an “official finish.” Eric gave us both finisher’s shirts, which was an unexpected and very appreciated gesture.
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Postscript
When results were posted, it was gratifying to see that my effort wasn’t too bad, in hindsight. Five runners DNF’d somewhere along the line, and nearly one-third of the field finished in the last 30 minutes. Only six women finished, and I was the second oldest of them. Not bad, for a relative newcomer to the sport.
Five minutes though, gosh. Maybe if I hadn’t just run my first 50-miler the previous weekend (135 miles in sanctioned races in two weeks); we certainly weren’t fresh going into this one. Maybe if I had only run that last mile of rocks in the dark... maybe if I had gulped my aid-station goodies on the go... aw well, hindsight is such a great way to run a better race, isn’t it!
I predict that this race will join the ranks of epic mountain trail races, such as Mountain Masochist, Promise Land and Laurel Valley. It has it all:
absolutely beautiful trails, great volunteers, great pre-race and post-race meals, superb organization and lovely venue, with sufficient challenge to attract the elite and super-challenge the rest of us. I wore my Mangum Track Club shirt proudly, but next year I expect to be part of a big MTC contingent. This race is a winner.