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.