11 Species of Pine: My 2019 Mountains-to-Sea Trail (MST) 50K Race Report

Prologue. 

My 2019 race season began on Sunday, 7 April, with a humid and pollen-hued, yet charming, 50K on bitchy single-track, in central North Carolina.  I hung out with my best friend from college, drank local beer, ate BBQ pork, told stories, solved problems, resolved issues, ran my plan, and enjoyed a welcome respite from the uncertainties, pains, imminent life-moves, and day-to-day stressors of my regular existence as a stultified drone steeping in the gut of Vermont State government. Part of the civic microbiome. Having an effect at some level, I suppose, but to what end?  Teleology.  A mystery.

The Trip.

I was waylaid for a time in Burlington due to a dead battery on the aircraft which caused me to arrive late to DC and miss my outbound Dulles flight to NC. So, I rebooked and burned some five hours traipsing around Terminal C delighting in all of the vendors, but most especially the nice Somali woman in the hijab selling MAGA hats. The irony, of course, was so very sad, yet delicious, like licking a rusty rail spike.  

Jonathan Justus Ward, my autodidact-genius-fixer-luthier-raconteur-Philosopher friend picked me up in Raleigh on Thursday afternoon. Jon drives a windowless white working van, something you’d expect to see on Law and Order: Serial Killer Archetype.  Except that for Jon, he drives it because he legitimately needs it. He has a large shelfscape of hand tools and requires the floor space to accommodate his 125 lb Cane Corso (Sicilian Mastiff) companion, Tugboat.  Tugger is an absolute unit. This breed specialized in bear-coursing, apparently.  The perfect engine of home protection, rough play, earnest affection, and stout loyalty, Tug is also a powerful draw for the ladies, which we would see in action soon.  

The Preamble Days.

Thursday was a day to grab some post-flight local beer at the City Tap, in Pittsboro. My heathen friend insisted upon drinking  Yuengling out of a long neck because it gives him, delusionally, what I call “denim cred.”  God forbid he’d want a refreshing and strong IPA or a mind-alteringly luscious Trappist-style concoction. I was embarrassed for him, but love him like a brother.  After some brews and a rejuvenating chin-wag we retired to the “Snake Farm,” Jon’s amped up barn-residence-workshop just north of town.

On Friday we travelled 50 miles for breakfast to a building that co-hosted both an exemplar NC greasy spoon joint replete with drawls, grits, and lack of rye toast, and an antique Harley Davidson museum.  I knew I needed to fortify myself with many calories before heading to the museum where I would have to use at least 3000 of them attempting to assimilate the dense and pathologically specific Harley lore with which JJW would soon bless me. I learned about Shovelheads, Panheads, spring-enhanced lumbar support saddles, complex and variable cam-valve-gasket mechanisms, and endemic, systemic and tragic oil leakage. I understand Hegel better than I understand that stuff.  And I don’t understand Hegel.  The rest of the day dissolved into evening after a long river walk, checking out other Chatham County high spots, and then enjoying a fortifying Chinese buffet in Durham, which featured surprisingly excellent sushi, and delicate ginger-braised bok choy. We discussed the issue of human trafficking.

Jon told me about a classic car show on Saturday he wanted to check out.  I thought it could be interesting, hoping to see a 1932 Stutz Town Car for some Dirk Pitt nostalgia, or, a 1975 AMC Pacer so I could vomit bile.  It was not to be. No classic antiques described and venerated by their gray and wizened 80-year old owner-restorers, as we had supposed.  Rather, we became absolutely immersed within Carolina Latino Lowrider culture.  So damned fascinating.  The vehicles were immaculately detailed, impeccably painted, and attended by men who had a clear and unassailable pride in their collective craftsmanship.  We engaged and they talked us through the aesthetics of wheel diameter, chrome selection, color gloss techniques, those uber-bouncy wheel-individuated hydraulic lift contraptions, and shifter mechanics. And the guys we talked to had those meticulous micro-groomed beards and moustaches, the baggy chinos, the classic vaguely Sinatra-esque brimmed lids, the mirrored shades, and the collared shirts buttoned up to the neck.  The whole enchilada.  We watched as an apparently famous model (possibly Elizabeth Ruiz) from Low Rider Magazine made the rounds and had her photo taken whilst sitting within or splayed out upon the various sleds.  As we strolled through the displays, Tugboat did his duty and brought forth the attentions of a fetching young Latina who couldn’t get enough of him, or Jon, it seemed. She was thicc, as it were.  What this 25ish woman could want from a surly 60 year old, shaved-head, phosphorescent white, overall-wearing, erudite, Buffalo-born redneck is a topic for fevered speculation.  Well done, Tugboat. As we left, Jon suggested purchasing a fedora, to celebrate his machismo.  This led to a colorful exchange regarding the intrinsic inconsistency and incoherence of “cultural appropriation,” especially in a democracy so rich in its immigrant history.  We laughed at the Far Left for wasting its time on insignificant and precious preachy boutique flame-points such as this,  derided the Far Right for embracing ignorant, thick-browed, troglodytic puppet masters, and took our leave, knowing that we are perfect. Tomorrow, the race.

The Race.

The Mountains to Sea Trail runs from the mountains in western NC, 1175 miles to the Atlantic on the eastern coast of the state.  The 50K race, directed by Durham’s Bull City Running Company, is an out and back on a 15.5 mile segment of the thing, along the shore of Falls Lake.  I did very little research on this race apart from reading the few race reports I could find, and scanning Ultrasignup for “typical” finishing times for past racers.  Winners usually came in at 4:05-4:15, and a fit 50 yo guy who’d raced it multiple times had done well there and come in in the high 4s.  So, I figured I could maybe get in with a 4:55-5:20.  That felt about right.  I suspected it would be on the slower side, for a few reasons: (1) my first race of the season last year, the TARC Spring Classic 50K, kicked my ass. I bonked hard at 12 miles and finished with a 5:27, and it hurt; (2)  training in the Vermont winter, I had run no trails at all since late October; and (3)  I was not accustomed to the weather which was sure to be hot and humid.  But to be honest I had no idea how it would play out.  Some race days are good, some bad, and some just okay. 

In my mind, I was thinking that a sub-5:00 would be reasonable if I was feeling good.  I thought an initial split of 2:20 followed by a return of a 2:40 would get it done.  There were three clear speed demons at the starting flags when we began.  Two of them wore Elon University cross country runner singlets and had about 1% bodyfat. One of those guys was Nick Ciolkowski, the eventual winner who blazed in at 4:01.  The race began and we took off across a field to get to the single track.  Once there we stayed on trail the whole time apart from three short road sections of about 1/5 mile each.  It was challenging trail with no steep hills, mostly consistent undulations, and precious few flat spots.  But the roots and rocks were such that it was difficult to get into a consistent flow, always adjusting pace, footfall, and body angle to navigate the terrain.  Nothing like the more rugged New England trails, but not buttery, either.

Still, I was running well, and not breathing hard.  I passed five or six people within the first few miles and then found what seemed like a sustainable pace at around the mid-9s.  I felt some heat and the humidity was there. It felt different, but not uncomfortable.  On I went.  One guy, Stu, a mechanical engineer from Greensboro, hung behind me the whole time.  So, I started chatting with him.  Nice fella running his first ultra. He had only ever done a marathon. We talked about his training program leading up to the race which entailed a long run of 24 miles on relatively low-volume weeks. I suspected he may fade late-race, but we kept one another company through most of the outbound leg.  My breathing was easy, I could have pushed it, but chose not to.  I was on pace for a 2:20 split, and was optimistic that I’d have some fire for a good push coming back, thinking I’d have a shot at a 4:45 or so.  We got to the turnaround and Stu and I were #8 and #7, respectively.  I stopped very briefly to get some water in the hand-held, transitioned smoothly and was on my way.  Stu stopped for half a minute to drink.  With a 2:21 split, I was feeling great.
  
That lasted all of 2 damned miles.  I ran a speedy mile 16 and 17, and then the wall presented itself in stark, dark relief.  I wasn’t sure what the issue was and still am not.  My water felt sufficient though I hadn’t peed at all during the race. I began my calorie intake at 15 mi with Gu, then Tailwind at 18 mi, which is what usually works to get me through glycogen depletion and then into dribble-in-the-carbs maintenance mode.  Anyway, I suspect it was the humidity which had a greater effect than maybe I'd felt earlier.  My mile pace dropped by about a minute, and I couldn’t do a thing about it.  I stopped to take some salt at around 19, and Stu passed me with an enthusiastic high five.  Twelve miles to go and I was losing my mojo.  Still I resolved, bore down, and continued on with consistency.  Slow, but deliberate. I took a hard and inelegant spill at 23 miles, and landed in a puddle for a nice mudwash. I got up, soon caught Stu and he was fading fast.  I wished him well and took off, passed a minute later by Deborah Guthmann, the lady who would come in F1. 

Later, at around 25 miles I saw a young guy walking, head down, shuffling and tripping a bit.  He was one of those speedy Elon guys who had apparently crashed hard.  I was concerned and stopped to check out his situation.  He was in bad shape, and very dehydrated, but coherent and aware.  I forced him to take some of my water, knowing there was an aid station about a mile up the trail.  I continued on when I felt the guy was ok, and let the aid station know that they had to water this guy thoroughly when he came through.  The last 6 miles of the race were hard and slow.  My pace was declining and I had this weird sensation of being off balance and leaning to my left to compensate.  That was a first and a bit disconcerting.  My left shoulder hit trees and branches and it was pissing me off.  I may have been dehydrated, too.  I had lost time for various reasons on the return so my 4:45 dream had gone the way of the dodo, but I still thought I had a shot at a sub-5:00.  I pushed as hard as I could and just missed the mark, finishing at 5:00:29 to the cowbell cacophony.  Damn.  Still I’ll take it.  When the race results posted, I saw that I was #1/8 AG and #7/77 OA.  I have nothing to complain about.

The race over, I ate some BBQ, waited for my new buddy Stu to finish, congratulated him, and off I shuffled to the truck, greeted by wet face licks from Tugboat.  From there, we went to a restaurant where, recognizing the protein imperative, I gorged like a madman on wings and shrimp tacos. We got back to the barn, I showered, and passed out directly.  Jon dropped me off the following morning at the flughaven and I flew back to Vermont without event.  It was cold, windy, and rainy upon arrival, signalling an adventure ended. It was on to the next.