I had just two goals for the Whiteface Uphill Foot Race. Firstly, I hoped to finish it. Secondly, I didn’t want to be the last one across the finish line.
One might think that my goal should have been set higher but believe me, my two goals were already putting me beyond my comfort zone. The Whiteface Mountain uphill foot race is a 3,500 foot climb up the scenic Whiteface Mountain Veterans Memorial Highway to the top of New York’s 5th highest peak. The brochures stated that one gets a 360 degree panoramic view of the Adirondacks, New England and Canada from the top. (That’s if you make it, I thought)
As I looked around at the other 100 or so runners, I felt intimidated (which is not unusual for me). I suppose my speed and endurance would be better suited to a 5K race. For some reason I tend to shy away from those easier runs. It takes me a half hour or so to feel “in the flow” and by the time I am in the flow the 5K would be done. I like to push myself but then I sometimes wonder why I push too hard.
Most of the competitors were up and down the road in a sprint preparing for the start. After a few minutes of stretching I placed myself off to the corner and sat on a rock. I felt so terribly out of place; I felt terribly alone. I had to remind myself of other things that I had done in my life when I had felt the same way. “This is my race, and no one else’s” was the words I kept saying over and over.
I remembered the Prospect Mountain uphill run I had done the previous year. Same feeling now, just a longer steeper hill. There too, I sat on a rock and watched fellow competitors sprint back and forth back and forth before the race. Only difference was that at the Prospect uphill there seemed to be more “average runners” and less “super human beings” as I see today. I recalled an injury prior to the start of the Prospect run. The guy was in a mad dash back and forth at the starting line. Suddenly he tripped, fell, hit his head and was carted off in an ambulance.
The weather was perfect for a long grind straight uphill. The morning started off a bit cool and required a long sleeve shirt over my sleeveless. Wrapped around my waist was my thrift store Patagonia rain jacket. In the side pocket I stashed a lightweight cap and gloves. I realized it could be cold and rainy (or even a bit of snow) up top. I also knew I would be dripping in sweat when (and if) I reached the top. I wore my favorite fanny pack which also held a bicycle water bottle. The race info sheet explained there would be water stations every 1 1/2 mile. I still wanted the option of a few sips of water on demand.
Just a few minutes before the scheduled start time everyone positioned themselves. I put myself at the rear, as I didn’t want to get in anyone’s way and I wouldn’t be humiliated as dozens of racers past me one by one.
At last another older, overweight (like myself) runner showed up, smiled and positioned himself next to me as if to say “hey we are in the same boat”. He told me had done the race every year since it’s onset. He also told me his goal was just to finish it. I told him that was also mine. As the starting gun went off I was quickly left behind. As always, my strategy was to go as slow and effortless as possible without coming to a standstill or going backwards. Even my starting buddy was a few hundred feet ahead of me within minutes.
I was left way behind the last runner. Left alone to my aching calves, sweat drenched body and mind filled with , you guess it, doubts. I found myself looking down a the pavement just a few feet in front of me. For some time I refused to allow myself to look up and around me at the spectacular scenery. I realized I needed to savor the moment. How often, I thought, would I get to do run (or slog, slow jog) like this without a flow of cars. Probably never again. I looked up, around and cracked a smile.
I could see the road snake its way up the hill. Far in the distance I could see packs of runners. there were no other runners anywhere near me. I turned around once or twice in hopes that someone’s grandma might be slowing coming up behind me. The only sight now as of an ambulance not too far behind. The ambulance became an annoyance to me I wished they would back off far enough so they would not be in my sight. I would imagine they had concerns about me and I should have been grateful knowing that if I passed out they would be right there.
Alas, I reached the first water station. Great, I thought, I am exhausted and have done a full 1 1/2 miles. Please somebody get me outta here. Suddenly I realized my buddy from the starting block was just about to leave the water station. I was elated to know we were in close proximity. The volunteers at the water station started to shout out words of encouragement. “You are looking great” one stated, “no I definitely am not” was my immediate thought.
A wonderful thing happened within the next couple of minutes. I caught up with race start buddy. We chatted for a few minutes and suddenly he slipped behind me. I found myself turning around a few times shortly thereafter to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. Maybe I would finish the race and maybe I would not be the very last one. A sudden surge of encouragement was upon me. I wasn’t sure if walking would be easier and faster than my sloooow jog pace. I attempted to walk for a bit, but realized my jogging (as slow as it was) worked better for me.
By water station #2 (about three miles into the run) I met up with a pack of runner/walkers. they decided walking worked better for them. I stuck to my slow jog and for quite some time we were at equal pace. I was overjoyed with the ability to see others on either side of me, my one buddy still behind me. I could see the road continuing to snake its way uphill into the clouds. It was a beautiful yet creepy site. At this point it was hard to tell what lay ahead. One thing was for certain, it was all uphill.
These types of runs offer plenty of time for reflection and for the inner battle of can, cannot do thoughts. I always tend to stray off from time to time to happy moments with my kids, of exotic travels and of what it would feel like at the finish line. I thought I had this run under control. I hadn’t stopped once, even at the water stops I would jog for a moment in place. I knew (just like my first Marathon) that if I stopped I would never start again.
The last half mile or so was the toughest thing I have ever done in my life. For a short time period I hated absolutely everything about this day and about this run and about any reason why I thought I could, or should do such an event. A handful of spectators were lined up during this last section I actually enjoyed and appreciated their comments (similar to those offered at the first water station). This time, I knew I was close. I knew I would do it even if I crawled. I didn’t care how I looked; I realized I was at the end of the 100 or so runners but I was ahead of everyone else that didn’t show up for the event. I was there.
Some tears of joy flowed at the finish, there were snacks and drinks abound. I finally stopped to savor the moment, take in the views (since the fog had just cleared) and to cheer on my buddy from the starting point. My two goals were achieved. I finished the run and I was not the last across the finish line.
As most of the runners boarded shuttle vehicles for the ride back down, I turned around, kicked it into low gear and ran the 8 miles back to my starting point.