Tribe. Found.
I've received a bunch of running medals in my day, but most of these are participation trophies and something to smile about when I stumble upon them while looking for something that's actually useful, like a corkscrew. A handful were truly earned; a triumph of man versus himself, an overcoming of conditions so adverse that they literally changed my definition of bad weather.
The first of these was Ragnar Appalachia in 2015. This event had 40 degree temps, two days of sideways rain, and the white shirt I was running in has a muddy waterline running diagonally across the chest from when I rounded a curve and ended up in a flash-flooded lake. The floor of the tent jiggled like a waterbed circa 1986 because the water table was, well, right under the tent. This event ran the full gamut of emotions- frustration, some practical survival, and downright elation when the sun came out at the very end of the event. People were ripping off soaked clothes, hats, and fleece and switching into shorts in a period of a couple of hours. After that, when my road crews at work complained about rain, I'd tell my Ragnar story and they'd basically grumble and get back to work. Outside of a typhoon, there's no way I would experience rain like this again.
Until December 15th, 2018.
All summer, my personal grand finale for the 2018 running season was going to be a Fountainhead Regional Park to Bull Run point-to-point run. As I talked about it through the late summer and fall, a few of my fellow runners became interested, and lo and behold, after a few shorter trial runs in the fall to confirm that this was an achievable goal, four great runner-friends and I were parked at Fountainhead with a light rain falling. We called the event the 'Half Kevin' in honor of a 34 mile run/hike that a great friend recently ran as we were leading up to this event.
The internet said the rain would stop around 8, so we had to suck it up for the first hour and should be pretty comfortable once that stopped and we hit our stride. Beers, food, and warm clothes were waiting at our finish, and running under the canopy of trees, even largely devoid of leaves, provided a decent rain and wind-break. Man, oh man, were we mistaken.
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| Strava Can't Hear You Scream |
Generally speaking, when trail running, one eventually submits to the whims of nature, bounding along like a Labrador Retriever, chasing puddles, leaping over fallen logs, and crashing through stream crossings instead of gingerly stepping from rock-to-rock. It brings a joy to me that I feel too many adults don't get to experience. That feeling came about pretty quickly in this run, and we all laughed (and took pictures) as we made our human bridge to get across this little feeder:
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| Typically a lazy trickle... |
This sucker knocked the warmth out of everyone, but we were eleven miles in at this point- just need to stay focused. Gloves and hats came back out, and I couldn't think of any other crossings where we might have problems. On we go. In hindsight, this was a warning I completely ignored! It was, after all, the wettest year in the D.C. area since modern records were kept.
From here, each stream was a torrent, the trail itself turning into the water's path of least resistance. As we approached mile thirteen, we hit another dead end as a swollen creek had made the trail impassible. We quickly found a log and Pitfall-Harry'd our way across. The look on my friends' faces told me that this had better get better, and how on earth can we be at the top of a hill and it's still flooding!?
At mile fifteen, we had to wade through thigh-deep, ice cold water, and while I loved it, and would have really loved it in the summer, this was the last straw. Another crossing like this and we're going to have some hypothermia concerns. At this point, we agreed to have a couple of people go ahead for the last two miles to get the car warmed up for the rest of the group. We took off at a full clip, and I was leading the way. While these last two miles are normally a pleasant, flat, floodplain leading to the Bull Run Campground, it was an absolute wasteland. Every. Single. Step...was ankle deep water. It looked and felt like hell on earth. Stay. Focused. The last thing we needed was to survive 97% of this run to roll an ankle in sight of the car.
And there it was. Damn it. The freaking path was completely blocked by an angry creek feeding into an angrier Bull Run. Exactly one mile to go and...this. I was beside myself at this point, with my friend Todd close behind me. Had he been in shouting distance, I may not have made my next move. I pulled out my Ragnar playbook, weighed my options, and went for it. How deep could it be? This is the blazed, o-fficial trail! A few feet? My anatomy violently told me otherwise, as I suddenly found myself past my waist with the water pushing, pushing against me. As I starting looking for branches to grab in case I was swept away, but confidently stepping toward the 'shore', Todd said something to the effect of, "That isn't smart." Thanks, man.
Smart or not (definitely not), I was safely on the other side, but with a massive problem. This run isn't finished until we're all at the car, and how the hell do we get across this thing? One by one, each of our runners showed up, looked at the creek, and started following the smart guy in search of a safer crossing. In the meantime, I took off to get to the car. About the time they found a slippery log and finally crossed the creek, I took my final spill of the day. Mile 16.8! Just before the raised walkway that takes you (thankfully) above the water and to the campsite, I slid, and slid, and slid, finally coming to a mud-soaked halt staring face-to-face with a big chunk of quartz. I couldn't help but laugh, because I knew once I was on that wooden planking, I was home-free.
Todd and I dried off and changed, and right as we finished, everyone else rolled in. Using the inside of the car as a changing room and the tailgate as an awning, everyone was finally in a more civilized state. We turned the heat up to the Dante's Inferno setting and headed home. A loooong shower and several hours later, it was like it never happened.
Because of the holidays, we didn't see much of each other after that run. Each time I would go outside, if there was so little as a light mist, I would start to despair and grab my raincoat, motorcycle rain boots, and an umbrella. I'm the kind of guy who optimistically brings sunglasses when it's raining, and like a house cat, I did not want a single drop of water on my body for any reason whatsover. I did a snow run that I really enjoyed in early January, but it was like my capstone run of 2018 was a hazy memory. Did it even happen?
At another friend's birthday recently, I was given the medal at the top of this page, made up by my friend Dan to commemorate the event. Here it is again because I'm that proud of it:
This medal finally brought the laughter back to that day, and instantly made me excited for the next rainy trail day with my friends. This baby is front and center on my plank of Finisher Medals, because:
- This was one of the most challenging runs I have ever undertaken,
- In weather conditions that would have kept most people in bed,
- With friends that demonstrated incredible grit and kept a smile through the whole thing, and finally,
- It reminds me to check the tides and river-heights before embarking on the next one.
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