“No, You Wouldn’t Survive the Apocalypse. Now Please Adjust Your Tinder Profile Accordingly”

Hey, Chad. Greetings from all of us here at the Tinder Complaint Department. We have a pressing matter we need to discuss with you.

And yes, we know “Chad” isn’t your real name. That’s okay. “Chad” is universally accepted as the name most often linked to frat guys and various other lame-asses with daddy’s money and a Percocet connection.

So, as they say, if the shoe fits.

But also, there’s multiple pictures on your profile of you and some other scrawny white dudes—legally constituting what’s referred to in our bylaws as a “gaggle”—chugging Natties and wearing an unacceptable amount of Vineyard Vines clothing. This is also very “Chad” behavior.

Anyway, it’s come to our attention that your profile includes inaccurate or misleading statements. Here at Tinder, we take the safety of our users very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that we refuse to reveal the exact location of young women to potential predators if they’re within a mile. UNLIKE SOME OTHER DATING APPS WE MIGHT MENTION.

But that’s beside the point.

As we mentioned, you’ve been accused by multiple female users for making inaccurate or misleading statements. Several official complaints allege that the opening line of your profile reads “taking applications for a survival buddy when the apocalypse comes if you ain’t willing to repopulate the earth then swift left.”

Upon further inspection, we have found the accusations to be well-founded.

As we’re sure you’re aware—given your hastily-offered consent during the legal portion of our sign-up procedures at 1:53 a.m. yesterday morning—any statements made in reference to the End of Days (hereby referred to as EOD) are taken very seriously.

Given the fact that the previous-and-now-once-again-elected President of the United States was once accused of giving a golden shower to a Russian prostitute, and our current President struggles through “Cat in the Hat,” we at Tinder believe it is our responsibility to prepare for the inevitable conclusion of this country in whatever way we can.

And ensuring that the brave young women who download our application in desperation are safe and secure in the most dire of times is the least we can do.

Given the seriousness of this offense—which might very well lead to the untimely death of more than two of our female users—we have issued a 48-hour suspension of your account.

During said suspension, you will still be able to swipe and message with matches. However, you will be unable to access any and all features linked to your Tinder Premium purchase.

Additionally, your opening line—“taking applications for a survival buddy when the apocalypse comes if you ain’t willing to repopulate the earth then swift left “—will be removed. If you attempt to make another statement even remotely similar to said opener, we will be forced to issue an additional 48-hour suspension.

We can do this all day, Chad.

We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. But we believe it’s for your own good, young man. So we suggest that you use the time wisely and go to church or read some Judith Butler.

Given the imminence (that means it’s coming real soon, Chad) of the EOD, it is imperative that all Americans prepare for their eventual reality by practicing outdoor skills or taking some swimming lessons. Once we are satisfied that you would serve as an adequate EOD survival buddy for our female users, we will allow you the opportunity to “score some strange” via our application by replacing your original opening line to your profile.

If you wish to appeal this decision, you may do so by following the directions after clicking on the “Legal Recourse” section of your profile.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely, Tinder

Genesis of an Eating Disorder

When I was nine-years-old I found out my dad wasn’t my biological father. It happened at the dinner table one night. My mom and dad called me into the dining room and sat me down and broke the news. Or maybe they asked me to stay after I said I was done eating. I’m not sure. I don’t remember the specifics. What I do remember though is that a few days before I’d said something really mean to one of my only friends at the time, Josh. And sitting at the table dinner table with my parents, that mean little comment of mine felt like an ominous bit of foreshadowing.

Josh had a biological father he’d never met either. He also had a stepdad that was his little brother and sister’s “real” dad. Josh once showed me a photo of his bio-dad. It pictured his mom and bio-dad on their wedding day. His mom, short with a huge grin and a blonde bob haircut, wore a white dress. But the thing that really caught my attention was Josh’s resemblance to his bio-dad. Seeing Josh’s biological father was like looking at a photo of Josh filtered through an old timey filter. He was tall and lanky with a white tux and the same red-orange hair as Josh. I was struck by their likeness. And I couldn’t help but wonder, even at such a young age, why I hadn’t realized before that Josh looked nothing like his stepdad.

Josh didn’t seem to get along with his stepdad. It was one of the reasons I never liked the man. There was something harsh and dismissive about him. When I try to picture him now all I can see is how differently he treated Josh from his brother and sister. I hated that. Josh was my friend, and his stepdad was mean to him. So as far as I was concerned that made him a man to be despised. That didn’t stop me though from making a rude comment to Josh unfortunately. When he told me that his dad wasn’t his biological father I dropped a comment that, though honest, was wholly unnecessary.

“Well my dad is my real dad. My family’s not weird.”

I think about that comment a lot. It was the first thought that came to mind when my mom said to me from across the dinner table “Ron isn’t your real dad.”

Things speed up in my mind from that point on. Pretty quickly my dad, Ron, adopted me and gave me his last name. Which felt odd at the time because I’d been using “Eidson” my whole life. Shortly after that I got a letter from my biological father, Carles. He included a photo of himself with a dog, a golden lab I think. And looking at that photo of Carles, huge grin and a thick head of black hair, I wondered why I’d never realized that I look almost nothing like Ron.

I didn’t know it at the time—hell, I didn’t know it until a few months ago—but sitting at that dinner table when I was nine-years-old, a seed was planted in my little brain. Overtime that seed’s roots grew to infect every corner of my mind. By now, at thirty-seven-years-old, I can’t distinguish between the thing growing in my head all these years and the content of my consciousness. It’s as much a part of me as my fingers, and it’s affected the course of my life many times over. But the one thing it affected that I didn’t notice, and never realized until a few months ago during a session with my VA-appointed therapist, was my relationship to food. And by extension, my body.

It’s a rat’s nest, one that can’t be untangled in a few words. And I don’t have the expertise to untangle it anyway. But recently I reached out to the VA and asked for some help. As of this blog post, I’ve had my first meeting with a psychologist who specializes in eating disorders. She had me recount my specific issues so she could identify the exact eating disorder I’m struggling with. But I already know which disorder I’m dealing with, so her diagnosis feels redundant.

That being said, hearing a professional say “you have bulimia” would be a tremendous source of validation. But as anyone who’s gone to therapy can confirm, knowing the source of the issue is only the first step toward recovery. This post will serve as the first of many as I recount the path that brought me to this point in time, as well as the way forward.

This isn’t something I’m necessarily comfortable with sharing, especially on a blog. But I’ve seen firsthand the power of being open about your struggles. Years ago, when I was diagnosed with PTSD as a result of my time in the Marine Corps, several friends from my time in the military reached out to say they had similar struggles, and that my willingness to say something about my own problems led to them asking for help as well. Despite the horrible state of my life at that point, knowing that I helped at least a couple buddies gave me with a lot of desperately-needed comfort. I’m hoping that this blog does the same thing.

It feels obvious to say this, but bulimia isn’t restricted to women. Men suffer too. But it can be tough to talk about, as if it’s “unmanly” to have an eating disorder. I’m hoping that my willingness to share my journey will inspire other men to acknowledge and address their own eating disorders or body image issues. I know that I would have appreciated the help.

So if you’re struggling, or you just want to read the story, go ahead and subscribe by entering your email address at the bottom of any page on my website. Thanks for following. Until next time.

Race Report: Run Wild 20 Miler

Saturday, September 20, 2023 — Barboursville, West Virginia

The trail is a beautiful single track barely wide enough for a solo runner, slicing through the forest and up and down the mountains of West Virginia. The trees—mostly green, but starting to turn red and brown and yellow—are so thick in some places that it’s like running through a green hallway with an autumn rug. It’s cool and calm and quiet.

The fog weaves between the mountains and clings to my clothes. I’m soaked in water and sweat within minutes of starting the race, but it’s no big deal. Part of the appeal with races like this is putting yourself into uncomfortable positions and seeing if you can stick with it. That’s why I’m here, to see if I can overcome some discomfort on a shorter trail run. I’m preparing for a race series of demanding trail runs next year, the New River Gorge Trifecta. It’s a series of three races, completed over the course of the year: the Cabin Fever 50k, the Falling Water 100k, and last but not least, one of the most beautiful and challenging races in the country, the Rim to River 100 Miler.

But one step at a time. And for this race, I’ve got some company. A couple runners who are just behind me, keeping the pace.

The first guy, Chit Chat, is short and slender with a bald head and graying beard. His running mate, Blue Shirt, is just as short but a bit stockier. Chit Chat talks incessantly, but he’s a nice dude. Blue Shirt is mostly quiet, except for the occasional comment, which gets Chit Chat rolling again. I’m the third in the group. I took off at a pretty quick pace—for me, anyway—in an attempt to separate myself from the other runners, 7:30 pace per mile. But apparently this is Chit Chat and Blue Shirt’s preferred pace. So for the time being, the three of us are running together.

The Run Wild 20 Miler is my first real trail race in the Appalachians. It’s mostly single track and features 2,600 feet of elevation gain and loss. Challenging but approachable. The course circles and climbs and descends a couple mountains near Barboursville, West Virginia, a village about three hours away from Morgantown, where I’m currently living and running and working on my MFA in creative nonfiction. I drove in last night, intending to car camp near the starting line. After an hour of trying to nod off in the back of my Chevy Trax, I checked into a local motel.

It ended up being for the best. During my drive over I caved and ate something like 3,000 calories of cookies and hamburgers and other garbage I shouldn’t be eating before a race. Eating stuff like this risks needing to stop during the run for extra restroom breaks. And it’s tough to get Porta-potties to the tops of mountains.

Long story short, it was nice having my own restroom when I woke up early the next morning and had my coffee.

After a couple miles, Chit Chat and Blue shirt right at my heels, I step to the side of the trail to let them pass. They’re quicker than me, they should be ahead. Plus, I’m pretty sure they’re locals. They probably run these trails all the time. And I’m not trying to win this thing. I’d be happy with a top 20 finish. So letting a couple cool and quick dudes pass me up so I can slow down and take my time and enjoy the scenery is fine by me. As he passes me, Chit Chat asks, “you sure man? We’re only running this fast because you are.” Oh, I think. I figured this was their normal speed. Maybe I should have kept up the pace. It’s too late now. And again, I’m not trying to win. “Totally fine, man, go for it,” I reply.

Three or four miles into the race and Chit Chat and Blue Shirt are ahead of me by about 50 yards. We reach the first of many intense climbs. It’s not straight up, but it’s steep enough that the trail has a bunch of switchbacks. Most trail runners will tell you to walk the inclines, and they’re right. That’s the smart move. Conserve your energy. That way, when you hit the flat terrain, you can take off. But I’ve never experienced this kind of incline. I moved to West Virginia a few months ago from eastern North Dakota. Most of my runs were on flat terrain. I want to see what I’m capable of.

Chit Chat and Blue Shirt start hiking pretty quickly after reaching the incline, taking on the hill nice and slow. I get to within 20 yards of them before I hit the incline. I stand as straight as possible, keeping my feet directly below me, and start taking short, choppy steps. The pain in my legs shifts almost completely from my thighs to my calves. I adjust and stand a little straighter, shortening my steps a bit more. The pain lessens and distributes evenly through my legs. Perfect.

This incline, though tough, is actually a bit easier than I thought it would be. I reach Chit Chat first. He sees me coming and steps aside.

“Good work, man,” he says.

“Thanks dude, you too,” I reply as I pass him.

A few more yards, still slow jogging, and I pass Blue Shirt. After about 60 yards of incline, the screaming in my legs is finally enough that I stop running and begin hiking. I bend over at the waist and open my stride as wide as it will go. I swing my arms back and forth. I read once that a significant amount of your momentum comes from your arms swaying back and forth, opposite your legs, like you’re marching in a military parade—something I know a thing or two about. Either way, I’ve made it a point to keep my arms moving ever since.

I’m trying to look up and appreciate the scenery during the hiking portion of the race, but I keep getting distracted by minor obstacles in the path ahead of me. Though we’re never more than a mile from salvation—a busy road or friendly aid station—it feels like we’re in the middle of nowhere. The trees shoot skyward and block out the tiny bits of sun that are starting to burn through the fog. I can’t hear any cars or people now, just the occasional creak of a tree against the wind and the pitter-patter of my shoes against the ground.

But again, I can’t enjoy the scenery for long. I’m learning pretty quickly that if you don’t keep your eyes on the trail directly in front of you, you’re going to get tripped up and take a header into the ground. And that’s particularly bad when you’re miles away from an aid station. I imagine tripping and hurting myself bad enough that I DNF and have to quit the race. Then I imagine having to walk myself out of the forest to let the race volunteers know I can’t finish.

No sir, not today.

I keep my eyes on the trail ahead of me, ever vigilant for the rocks and roots sticking up and trying to grab the tips of my shoes. It wouldn’t be so tough if it weren’t for the autumn rug. Thanks to the red and brown and yellow leaves, a lot of times I don’t see a root sticking up until it’s too late. Even as focused and attentive as I am, I still trip quite a bit.

Whistles and cheers and clapping are sounding off in the distance. I keep running but point my ears toward the direction of the noise to try and catch more of it, to figure out what’s going on. Just ahead of me I see another runner. I recognize the guy right away, Red Shorts. He took off at an impressive clip when the race kicked off. He was toward the front of the pack. Oh it’s probably runners ahead of me reaching the first aid station, I think. The volunteers are probably celebrating runners as they make it to the first checkpoint. It doesn’t sound that far away, and surprisingly, I caught up to Red Shorts. If I managed to catch up with him, maybe I’m catching up with the leaders? Either that or Red Shorts dropped off hard because he ran too fast too quickly.

I’ve done that before. My second or third marathon—in Fargo, North Dakota—I had finally earned some speed and gotten my pace down to 6:50-7:00 ppm. I couldn’t do it for long, but I could do it for a few miles. I took off and managed to keep it up for about an hour. Then I crashed. Hard. I was lucky to finish. Conserving your energy, keeping the excitement of the race in check, and knowing your limits is a tough lesson to learn.

As I get closer to Red Shorts, he peaks behind him, sees me, and steps to the side so I can pass.

“Good job, man,” he says.

“Thanks dude, you too,” I respond.

We’re at the top of a steep incline and I’m keeping a decent pace around 8:15 ppm. That’s actually pretty good. Then again, we’re only 4 miles into a 20 mile run, so I might be biting off more than I can chew. I slow up a bit and adjust my breathing. At around 8:30 ppm, I’m moving slow enough to take long breaths through my nose. Your breathing is so important while running. If you’re panting and gasping and otherwise breathing chaotically, you’re going to crash. It’s inevitable. But if you slow down, breathe in cadence with your steps, and stay mindful of your pace, you’ll conserve a lot more energy.

I’ve been told to avoid breathing through your mouth, and I usually do. But on that first incline, even when I had slowed to a hike, I was breathing really hard and couldn’t get enough oxygen through my nose. I started taking long, deep breathing through my mouth, alternating between that and breathing in tune with my hike cadence. Not only was I feeling better on the hike up, I recovered even quicker when I reached flat ground. Damn, I thought. I should be taking these deep breaths on the incline more often. I started using the technique throughout the race. It’s always funny when something simple, like proper breathing, takes hold and you suddenly improve much more than you thought you could. Running this race, the miles falling off and being able to steadily pass folks in front of me, has me feeling invincible.

The miles are adding up quickly. Either I’m flying through this bad boy, or I’m so focused on not tripping and banging my head against a tree trunk that I forget to check my pace. Or maybe it’s both.

I’ve been taking way more electrolytes than I normally do. It’s going to end up being close to 64 ounces by the end of the race. And that’s on top of eating regularly: 30-40 grams of carbs every half hour, so I can average 80 carbs per hour. And 20-21 miles takes me about 3 hours, conservatively. They’ve got great snacks at the aid stations, but I haven’t touched them. It took me awhile to dial in my nutrition during these long runs. The food I’m carrying in my Black Diamond pack is perfect for me. I’ve got Smucker’s PB&J’s, Nature’s Bakery Fig Bars, Bobo’s Strawberry Stuff’d Oat Bites, and Clif Bars—the white chocolate macadamia nut ones, they’re the softest and easiest to chew. And that matters when you’re running. If you’ve ever tried to chew something dry and crunchy during a long run, you know what I mean. Either way, I’ve got more than enough to eat and replenish for this run. My collapsible water bottles are the only deficiency I’m going to run into for the race. They don’t hold enough.

I usually carry 32 ounces of something—Skratch or Tailwind or Nuun—to keep my salts replenished. 32 ounces gets me through 14 miles pretty comfortably, so it’s not enough for this 20 mile race. But there’s regular aid stations, so I’m not worried. They have Gatorade, which I’ve never supplemented with during a run, but it will have to do. I’m breaking my own rule by not having tried Gatorade mix beforehand: “don’t rock the boat.” In other words, don’t try anything different on race day. Stick to the training routine. For some reason, throwing an audible on race day is tougher than you think. I’ve done it before.

Really early in my running, when I was running my first marathon—Fargo again, I’ve done it three or four times— I ended up eating a bunch of energy gels, something I’d never done before. And I didn’t start eating them until I was 19 miles in. I bonked so hard that I’m surprised I managed to finish. I’d also rolled my ankle at mile 14, But I’d told too many people I was going to finish that marathon, so there was zero chance I wasn’t crossing the finish line. Despite the pain and frequent restroom visits during the run, I managed to finish in 4:45:00 or something close to that. Two things happened when I finished that race. I told my friends I was never running that far again, and, in the back of my mind, I thought I can definitely do better.

Either way, I should know better than to rock the boat, but here I am again, anyway.

15 miles in and I’m feeling great. I’ve passed a few folks, and no one has passed me yet. This surprises me. I thought for sure I’d barely make top 20 on this race. And I was pretty confident that I’d be passed several times. But that hasn’t been the case. Moments like this are my favorite, the reason I run. Running isn’t about being the best or the fastest or having the most medals or the most followers on Instagram. Well, it’s not about that for most of us, anyway.

Running is about putting in the time and the work, consistency. It’s about challenging yourself just a little bit more every week and remaining confident that you’re on the right path. Because more often than not, you don’t know if you’re on the right path. It’s such a slow process, and you don’t see the results very often. Races like this are the rare glimpse through the ether, the opportunity to see your training pay off. For weeks I’ve ran 10-15 miles a day, hitting the road early in the morning or late in the afternoon, unsure I would be ready for the trails. I felt like I was behind everyone else. The locals are used to the elevation, the rocks and roots trying to trip them up. I’m not. I imagined myself breathing hard and heavy, trying to work my way up a massive hill, while someone born and bred in West Virginia flew past me. I just wanted to finish more than anything.

I’m flying through the course, up and down the inclines. It’s empowering. Every race official and volunteer that cheers me on and tells me I’m doing well pushes me harder. As I work my way closer to 20 miles, my speed picks up. I’m going to be in the top 20. I’m going to do better than I thought. Then I get the surprise of a lifetime.

As I’m coming up on another runner, I recognize him immediately: Tank Top. He’s slender and quick and wearing a white tank top with little blue symbols that I can’t quite make out, and he looks like someone who ran track through high school and probably got a scholarship to college. He’s a good runner, and he seems like a nice guy. He took off with the front of the crowd and disappeared at the beginning of the race almost right away. But here he is. Did he fall? Did he take off too fast and now he’s spent? I’m not sure. All I know is I’ve caught up to him. That alone is enough to motivate me. But as I’m passing him, he gives me more reason to pick up the speed: “great work man, I think you’re in fourth now.”

Oh my God, I think. Fourth? Is he serious? Am I really in fourth place? Is it possible I’ll break into top three? No way no way no way no way. I’m stunned at first and don’t know what to say. As I pass him, I say “oh thanks man, but I’d be happy just to finish.” It’s not a lie, I would be happy with just a finish. But I’m downplaying my excitement. A lot. This is one of the other things I love about running: when the adrenaline kicks in and pushes you beyond what you thought you could do. I’ve got less than four miles left. I’ve ran 16. I should be dead. Instead, I’m just getting started.

The course circles back and ends up on the trail we started on, the path to the starting line, which doubles as the finish. I’m starting to recognize my surroundings more. The narrow green hallway, the autumn rug, the place I step aside for Chit Chat and Blue Shirt. I’m close. I’m feeling good. I’m in fourth place. I can do better.

With only two miles to go, I speed up even more. I’m flying at a 7:15 ppm. I’m bounding over the rocks and roots and easily skipping over the slippery spots. Focus, I think. You don’t want to trip up now. This would be a heck of a time to get hurt and DNF. I’m running harder, I don’t see anyone in front of me. I don’t hear anyone behind me. It doesn’t matter, I keep running at my limit. I can do this. I can keep this spot. I come up to a fork in the trail, looking for the red flags marking the path. I’m 99 percent sure I should stay on the path going straight. Or should I be going right? I look to the right to make sure there aren’t any flags. No flags, we’re good. I start to turn my head to the left. SMACK. Everything goes dark.

A moment later and somehow I’m still on my feet. I thought I’d been knocked out, but it couldn’t have been more than a second or two of seeing black. And for some reason I’m still running. The left side of my head is throbbing, shooting pains wrapping around my skull and bulging behind my eyes. It was a tree branch. A stupid tree branch. You’re lucky to still be standing, I think. Keep going. You’re too close to quit now. Worry about it when you reach the end. I ignore the pain in my head and keep running.

I know exactly where I am. I’m close to the end. I’ve also gone past 20 miles, according to my Garmin. I’m starting to think I took a wrong turn. Come on show me something red, I think, hoping to catch a glimpse of a red flag to ensure I’m on the right path. Show me red show me red show me red BINGO, I yell out loud, as I see a little red flag a few yards ahead of me. I’ll be there in no time.

I turn to the right and I’m in the parking lot near the finish line. I pop out of the parking lot and in sight of the end. There’s people standing around. They look over and start cheering me on. I pick up the pace even more. As I come near the finish line, a race official asks for my bib number. 18, I tell him. He sprints over to a guy with a microphone. Coming in fourth is Matt from Morgantown, making it look EASY! I grin at the announcement. It wasn’t easy at all, but I know what he means. I pick up the speed even more, 6:50 ppm. People cheer and snap photos and I grin as I run through the finish line. Folks congratulate me and tell me I did well and slap me on the back. I just can’t believe I didn’t fall, I say to one of the race officials. I thought for sure I’d fall.

An hour has passed and a few racers have gotten back. I can’t believe I pulled this off. I’m happy. Not that I beat other people in a race, but that I proved to myself that I have what it takes to dig down and finish something difficult when it gets rough. That’s what running is about, that’s what it’s always been about.

Running these races is about getting the better of the little demons in your head, the ones that infect and distract you and tell you that you’re not working hard enough or worthy of anything. But in these moments, when I do better than I thought—than my demons thought—I prove to myself that I can stick with it, despite their insistence otherwise. I can keep the pace, I can keep going, I can survive.

I get into my Chevy Trax and back out of the parking lot. As I’m pulling away, I think about how the guy on the megaphone said I made it look easy when I finished. Does that mean I could have run hard? I wonder to myself. Next time I’ll take off at a quicker pace and put some distance between me and the other runners. Then I’ll keep my breathing in check, stay hydrated, and attack the hills. Then maybe someday soon, if I keep with my training and trust the process, I’ll end up on a podium too.

Race Report: The RAF 50k

The overlook at Coopers Rock State Park, West Virginia.

Saturday, October 7, 2023 — Coopers Rock State Park, West Virginia

It’s a dark and chilly morning when I pull into the parking lot at 6 a.m., but already the good folks and volunteers representing the Robin Ames Foundation are bustling about in preparation for the day’s events.

The 2nd annual RAF Trail Series features a 1-mile Fun Run, 5k, 10k, 25k, 50k, 50k Relay, and virtual options for most events. It’s an impressive lineup. But the draw, for me, is the fact that the races loop through the beautiful Coopers Rock State Park. The trails boast everything from single track to wide and well-maintained paths. It’s a runner’s delight, and I’m itching to get started.

I signed up for the 50k a few weeks back. I have an ambitious 2024 planned, so I need to start hitting the trails more often. I recently moved from the mostly-flat North Dakota to West Virginia, so I could start graduate school at West Virginia University. I was a bit foolhardy when I got here, thinking I could handle the trails just fine. I was humbled during my first trail race last weekend, the Run Wild 20 Miler. I got pretty beat up during the race. But along with the cuts and bruises, I discovered a newfound love for the rocks and roots and dirt of the Appalachians.

Before last weekend, I would tell anyone willing to listen that I loved running because I could checkout and process my thoughts and frustrations. Now that I’ve begun hitting the trails—an activity that requires intense focus on the path ahead of you, so you don’t trip and fall and get injured—I’ve realized I love the dirt more than the road because, instead of checking out, I have to be completely in the moment. It’s a nice change of pace, a meditation. And I’m addicted.

The 50k kicks off at 6:45 a.m., just before the sun comes up. The runners are encouraged to start the race with headlamps. I don’t need to be told twice. The trail can trip you up and eat you alive in broad daylight. So running in the dark without a light isn’t an option. We line up, click “start” on our watches, and sprint off into the night.

I keep to the front right away. My plan is to keep a quick pace, below 7:30 ppm, for the first half loop. I know I’m capable of settling into a steady pace and enduring for hours. So I figure I’ll get some miles between me and the group, settle back, and ride the pain to the end. I’ve never tried this approach before. We’ll see how it goes.

The 50k trail follows the 10k path, repeating it 5 times. Each loop is something like 6.2 miles and has about 687 feet of elevation. The main climb, the last few miles before you reach the start/finish line, has an average grade of 3.4 percent and 429 feet of gain.

Said another way, it’ll have you wondering why you didn’t just stick with the 10k by the time you finish the first loop.

The first few miles follow a well-maintained path that runs alongside the main road into the park. There’s rocks and roots and a slight incline, to be sure, but it’s nothing compared to what’s coming. I step on the gas and keep my head down, shining my light on the ground ahead of me. In the first 2-3 miles I pass a couple aid stations where friendly volunteers offer high fives and water and snacks, like bananas and oranges. Eventually the course hangs a hard left and starts a slight decline deeper into the park.

It’s a well-marked path, and I only have to backtrack once. Notably, the trail seems to never let you fully embrace a long incline or decline. It wavers back and forth mile after mile. Not a big deal now, but I’m sure I’ll be cursing to myself come mile 20.

Many sections of the path are overrun with slippery rocks and roots that seem to reach up to grab the tips of your shoes. More than once I’m dancing and bounding down declines more than running, trying to land on safe ground that won’t roll an ankle. It’s technical, challenging, and absolutely destroying the bottom of my feet. The well-earned and disgusting callouses on my feet soften as the fog and sweat dampen my socks. Before I even finish the first loop, hot spots are biting me and reminding me I should have doused them in Gold Bond before taking off. I love everything about this.

The last third of the first loop is a blow to the ego. The incline is brutal and seems to be brimming with even more rocks and roots and slippery logs covering the path. I take the jumps over the logs carefully. The last thing I need is to land on a slippery log and do a face-dive into the ground. Eventually I reach what will become my favorite section of the race, Rock City.

Out of nowhere, a sign points downward from the dirt path to a narrow passage that can best be described as a crevasse, with steep rock walls on either side. It drops 30-40 feet, widening out to 3 yards at most. It’s an entirely different world down here.

A thick layer of autumn-colored leaves blanket the ground. A few trees have managed to sprout and reach skyward, and massive rocks pile up along the path. I pass little stone hallways to my right and left and find myself wishing I wasn’t in the middle of a race, so I could explore the area. The sun slips into the depths through the tree branches, creating little slices of orange light across the ground, and the fog is still hanging in the air. It’s like I slipped off the path into a fantasy novel, and now I’m on a quest to toss a ring into the fiery depths of Mordor. It’s no more than 80 yards long, but it’s enough to distract me from the pain in my legs and keep me going.

The last one hundred yards of the first loop jacks up the intensity even more. A stone and log staircase, with a sign that says “Stairway to (Almost) Heaven” at the beginning, is the last obstacle before the start/finish line comes into view. I’m not ashamed to admit I walk up these stairs, trying to widen my stride and give the muscles in my calves a break. When I hit the top of the stairs, I bend over, take in a huge breath, and push on through the line to complete the first loop.

The area is filled with kids playing and racers stretching and volunteers cheering and all other forms of joy you might imagine at a well-organized race. It’s a heck of an event, filled with great people and in support of a good cause. Part of me wishes I had signed up for the 10k. Not just because the idea of running this loop another 4 times is daunting, but because the atmosphere is so inviting.

But, no time for that. I’ve got another 4 hours or so to go. Maybe next year I’ll take it easy and enjoy the festivities. But for now, onward and upward into the pain cave.

If you’d like to learn more about the mission of the Robin Ames Foundation, or sign up for the next race, click this link: https://www.ramesfoundation.org

Final Strava Stats:

Distance: 32.15 miles

Elevation gain: 4,728 feet

Moving time: 4:56:31

Calories burned: 4,472