ABOUT ME:
I’m an ultrarunner of 15 years, certified running coach, writer, and race director living in the state that claimed the best nickname. My brainchild was a race in the Deep South with 110 starters and only 35 finishers—but don’t worry—the runs aren’t all like that one! I've brought a bunch of people into the sport, I have an FKT, and 6 ultra podium finishes. I definitely look at maps in my spare time, but I don’t admit this during first impressions.
Here’s one of my running accounts:
I ran some hilly trails with 3 other ladies last winter. It was awesome. Raining and 40 degrees says it all. Plentiful Mud. Roaring waterfalls. Slippery downhills. Thorny bushes that sauté your ankles right where your pants end because that’s how this decade’s fashion treats its victims.
My friends departed after 5 miles, and I trudged on for more distance (not because that’s hardcore, but because they had run like 300 miles the day before.)
I didn’t want to just cover these last obligatory miles, I wanted to throw some adventure in there. Some pizzazz. I found a way to cross the swift, bustling, take-your-uncle-out-at-the-knees cascade of deeper than usual water. I climbed an insanely muddy and steep ascent that probably wasn’t even a trail and maneuvered my way onto the forbidden dam/spillway area. Catching a new glimpse of the waterfall from directly above of it, I snapped some photos, read the “keep off the dam” signs, and departed the grassy partition. In that order. I discovered the top of another steep, straight down waterfall and stood in the edge, thankful it wasn’t an icy ledge today despite its home on the dark side of the cold forest.
I climbed back up loose boulders stacked uncertainly in the construction-colored mud and headed back on the trail, with 5 pound dirt clods flinging off my soles.
Having found a way to get to the nearest road and avoid another mile of impossible mud, I flew down the gradual descent with cars whizzing last me probably wondering what in the world a crazy lady like me was doing covered in mud and sprinting through the January rain.
Weaving back to the park, I passed an ice arena where adult hockey players were exiting the facility after their game. And it was the perfect timing. My nose began to bleed-a result of the dryness of winter and high levels of particles hanging out in the air this week. The Accuweather app described the reason for my diagnosis with seemingly harmless words that belonged in children’s poetry: “Dust and Dander Levels Extreme.” Oh, so that explains my face gushing with blood. Got it. Nosebleed forecasting warrants awareness.
Nevertheless, the victory was mine as I owned the situation and ran past the players of a violent sport. As the uninjured hockey players dispersed from a mild, routine, bloodless game, I had clearly been high-sticking it in the woods.
I came to the end of my parade route and wrapped up the completed long run, shoving a cheap, brown, sodium-flavored fast food napkin up my tired nose.
Score:
ME: 1 HOCKEY DUDES: 0
No overtime.
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