What I learned at Cross Timbers

What I Learned at Cross Timbers:

I thought I knew what to expect. I figured I would meet some nice runners with great legs and ranging sizes of bellies, probably majority middle age with slightly more men than women. I imagined these rugged trail folk would have weathered faces and calm minds. I was thoroughly surprised.

For reference all I knew of the sport at this point in time was Scott Jureck’s tales from the trails from the perspective of a professional elite, my roommate’s experience doing a trial half a couple years ago, and the stories I had weaned from the Texas Yeti creator, Dale Cougat.

Jureck’s tales were one part grandeur, one part skill, and one part hardship. My roommate’s story was a tragic comedy involving herself and her mother squatting in snow, getting lost among trees, and desperately seeking the end of their turmoil. Cougat was talking me through the adventure as a coach and through the eyes of one that views the sport with passion, love and respect.

I expected a hard and militant race director and found a young and adorable woman with a kind voice and a love of spandex. I expected lean bodies and found every shape and form of man and woman available. I expected safety meetings and liability monitors and found myself stumbling up a 9 % grade of rock and root at 6:30 am in the pitch black, hoping civil twilight found me before a badly placed boulder did. 

The trail running community is a small one. Many people do sports in high school and continue into adulthood with an occasional 5k or 10k to raise money for whatever ails them. Running classes and groups to build friendships and community are rather common and this is how so many stumble their way into marathons and half marathons, perhaps a few triathlons here and there. The transfer of those skills to the trail is a whole new ball game. 

There are no longer meet ups at the local shoe store for a guided run. It becomes a lonelier sport. It becomes hazardous and motivation wains as trails are harder to find than traditional routes, sharing them with hikers and bikers, being in the shade, not getting that nice runner tan, and also dealing with the fact that you will fall. You will be cut by thorns. You will trip and stumble and roll ankles and jump trees and this may happen close to the trail head, or many miles out. Trail runners are not fearless, but take the love of the trail over the safety of the road.

Camping the night before was the first time I realized this world would be nothing of what I expected. I met some of the personalities I thought I might. There was warmth and kindness and beer and bacon cooked over the fire. Marathoners would have been in bed counting calories like sheep about the same time we were inhaling campfire smoke and eating sausage. Waking the morning of was full of headlamps and calm conversation. No stretching, warm-ups, or race planning. The pre-race meeting was a brief two minute explanation of trail marks and a reminder to not litter. The start line had no fire works and no flag, but a couple road cones and our kind race director’s smile cheering us off to a great day in the woods. 

For two miles I ran by the light of the guys flashlight behind me. It would flash around my shadow and I would memorize as much of the trail as I could, then run blind for a few seconds before the light would flash around me again. This lasted over three steep climbs, rocky descents, and as the sun peaked over the edge of the world, I saw the river I would be following for the next 6 hours. It was beautiful and a smile found my cheeks that stayed for near the whole race. 

As I met water crosses I jumped, when I slipped in mud I feel, fallen logs were steps and steep ascents were opportunities to hike. I felt like the 8 year old little girl who chased frogs and squirrels through the South Carolina woods. The 12 year old that would climb the rock face above my parent’s West Virginia home. I fell and got up. I rolled my ankle and ran on. I was scratched and scraped by thorns and limbs but each mark was a new badge of honor.

I met a runner, Peter, along the trail who had shared our campsite the night before. We paced and chatted for a while. I told him about the boy scout troop we passed by earlier. The young adolescent boys moved to the side of the trail so we could pass. As we did, many put their hands out for high-fives. The last one with hand outstretched recalled his at the last second, mouthing the words, “too slow”. 

Peter and I laughed about the encounter, and he being an experienced and talented runner, moved ahead of me. I watched his movements in amazement. He has one of those bodies that you can tell are dense with muscle, but genetics also covered him with a thick layer of visceral fat. Sweat poured off his big frame. But he ran with the grace of tiny forest creatures. He had large feet, slightly bowed out in thick soled trail shoes, yet barely made a sound as his feet met the earth. It was impressive. 

I had energy and drive throughout my race, though hit the “wall” with hurricane force. My inspiration over that wall came not from myself, but from the other runners I came across. I saw Tammy. Middle -aged mental champion whom from the look of her gait and pace would be on the trail hours after I was done. Her cry of “Hey! Looking good! Way to go!” was a tailwind driving me forward. As I was passed by a thin, frail looking older woman, but with the same strong and long step as the men who I saw leading the race toward the turnaround, I took mental notes to be that badass one day. 

At the second to last aide station, the reality that the rocky embankment I skidded down and landed hard from had turned my ankle set in. I could feel it swelling and it ached with pressure at each step. I could still power hike and the lighter my step the less I felt it, so after loosening my laces, enjoying some pickles and water, I set off again. I had 7.6 miles yet to go. 

Each aide station was like a party in the woods. I had been smiling as I ran from one shindig to the next, and I had one more party to hit before my run was done. The next aide station was four miles away. I power hiked on a turned ankle and tired legs. I ran as the terrain would let me and when I met other runners, I was now overtaking them. I was in my mental meltdown but I was powering forward.

I practically fell into the last aide station and immediately sat to loosen my shoe even more. A volunteer was nice enough to bring me water and refill my bottle. 

“We have chairs, come sit down!!”

“No sir, there are chairs 2.5 miles down the trail.”

“There’s also beer 2.5 miles down the trail!” another volunteer, visibly drunk, chimed in. And just like that, I was off! 

Again it was power hiking, light short stepped running but now I was over the wall. I couldn’t wait to hit Monkey Butt, the name for the final climb, and show this trail what i had left. I met Jacob, another fellow camper, while I was floating over the final stretch. I probably looked like a pale and sunburnt reflection of the radiant runner he camped with the night before, but he wished me luck as I powered up the final hills. When I heard the music echoing through the trees coming from the finishing tent, I took off. Pain no longer existed because I was there. Adrenaline drove me over the finish line and into the sun, where I lay down and baked like a lizard, grinning still, from ear to ear.

My first trail race was one of the hardest physical endeavors I have faced, but I was astonished as I watched so many others battle their hardest mental endeavors. I realized the Yeti mentality on that trail. As Tammie hiked her way through an excruciating marathon and Jacob picked his way over the climbs and rocks of a grueling and unforgiving half, they found their yeti’s. Their inner monsters that live alone in those woods. And when no one else can see that they could do it, they did. We all let out our inner Yeti’s and we all came away with trail victories.