Friday, December 14, 2018

The Comeback: a meditation in sun and woods


I looked down at my watch. “8:10!” I said to myself, in disbelief. “Hey, Tim! You’re on 8:10 pace! At mile 95!” We were running down Britton Peak, heading for Oberg, the last aid station before the final grueling stretch of the Superior 100 on Minnesota’s North Shore. “It feels good,” Tim said over his shoulder, as we continued to dodge and jump among the large silvery rocks. He was his usual understated self, but I could feel his exuberant joy.

In this, his second Superior 100 race, Tim had hit a dip earlier on due to heat and fatigue, and had spent some time with his second pacer, Alli, working himself out of the trough. Having emerged from that dark tunnel with renewed optimism and purpose, he was now leading me (his game #3 pacer) through an express tour of the Superior Hiking Trail. Branches and roots crunched under our feet; the bright leaves flashed by. I feel like I’m on the Cyclone, I thought, remembering my 91-year-old father’s tales of riding the iconic Coney Island roller coaster in the 1930s. Other hundred-milers and fifty-mile racers looked at us with puzzled faces as we zipped past. “What’s up with that guy?” I could hear them saying in their heads. “He’s happy,” I offered.

There was a surpassing amount of unbridled happiness on the trail that entire weekend, as runners from near and far descended on this scenic jewel along Lake Superior, within waving distance of Canada, in pursuit of hundred-mile, fifty-mile, or marathon glory. The rocky, rooted, steep Superior Hiking Trail (or SHT when it’s at home, as the British say) offers runners a chance to explore the infinite variety of the northern woods, boasting a near-obscene amount of calendar-ready vistas that reward the quad-scorching climbs. Put on by John and Cheri Storkamp of Rocksteady Running, it is one part relentless trail challenge, one part epic outdoor festival, and one part old-fashioned family hootenanny. So many literally set their calendars around it year on year; the twisting trail has become a lodestar on the running journey.

My Friday began, as it always did, about a third of the way along the course, at Tettegouche Aid Station, captained by the ever-genial Peter and Maura Schnorbach. The trees were turning, ever so slightly, and the narrow glade surrounding the central food table was filled with eager families and ecstatically optimistic dogs. The woods fanned out on either side—dense, unending, and unyielding. Headlamps would go on in a few hours; key decisions would be made. Yet here, in the golden afternoon light, in the warm embrace of friends, all was safe. Pots of soup simmered on our little camp stove, and gels, gummy candies, and orange slices were arrayed like colored jewels. As aid station helpers, we milled about, omnipresent camp counselors/restaurant servers/cheerleaders/ministering angels, not resting until all of our runners’ needs were met.

The leaders swept through first, barely grabbing a gel, their pit crews surrounding them in a precisely choreographed display of efficiency and support. Neal Collick and Mallory Richard, who would both go on to smash previous records in their stunning victories, were notable for their intense focus, but also their palpable happiness, their genuine joy in being immersed in this moment on this trail. Working at an aid station at a familiar race is kind of like being the bride or groom at a huge wedding; you’re so busy, you don’t even have time to greet everyone properly.

Tim came through, a bit hot in the sun but full of hope and purpose, surrounded by loved ones. Such a contrast from last year, I marveled, when he had battled so many challenges early on. I gave him a hug and told him I planned to see him the following morning for our party at mile 85. He agreed, and bounded off. 

And so it continued as the shadows lengthened and the day progressed. The runners continued their carefully choreographed conversation with the woods, renegotiating every mile who would lead and who would temporarily submit. I watched all of it as I sliced bananas and handed out candied ginger (hooray for candied ginger!), and came up with my own definitions of success.

Victory, I decided, went to those who were able to most strongly and actively be present in each moment as it passed. Outside of the solid foundation of training that all Superior runners bring to the race, there is so little that one can control on the day itself. The wind, the light, the deep mud, the steep rocks, the errant branches or blazing heat…all lie in wait, judging no one, encompassing all. Those who ride the crest, immersed in each second, end up with the happiest adventures.

The night fell, the moon rose and then the sun. The 100-milers beat on, boats against the current, as my beloved Fitzgerald wrote, and the 50 milers took off at 5 a.m. Neil and the rest of the early-victors 100-mile posse were already done, having crossed the finished line in the dawn quiet of the pool area, in what Grandmasters winner Doug Kleemeier called “the peaceful, special time” before the crowds arrived. The marathoners, fresh and cheerful as a posse of young mountain goats, sprinted off at 9 a.m.

I arrived at Temperance to start my pacing shift with Tim. He’d had a great run with Dan, his speedy first pacer, and, according to next pacer Alli, “we had a little break, but now we’re great!” She was calm, composed, a former pro soccer player and now head goalkeeping coach for the University of Minnesota women’s team. She could, I reasoned, handle drive, determination, and drama in equal measure; whatever her assessment was of the last five hours, I knew not to question it. “Ready to go, Timmy?” I asked cheerfully. “I feel amazing!” he said, and took off. This, I now realize, was the theme for the entire last marathon of the race.

Over the silver rocks, down the roots, through the woods fractured by yellow sunlight, we went, picking up speed like a downtown train. I tripped after Carlton Peak and broke my finger, but I couldn’t worry about it, or I’d miss my stop on the Express. “I think I’m negative splitting this,” Tim said, laughing. “What happened?” I asked, trying not to suck wind too overtly. “Well, I was in a bad place, and Robyn Reed told me to eat a ton, so I did, and then I just reset my head.” “That Dr. Reed,” I marveled. “She knows what’s up.”

And just like that, we were at Oberg. I love Oberg…it is such a bustle of activity, it’s the last stop before the finish line, and it’s run by my dear friend Kurt Decker and the fine folks of TC Running Company. There, Tim met his love Elena, who would accompany him to the finish. “Drink that Coke,” I advised her as we did the handoff. “Someone’s feeling chipper.” 

I hung around Oberg a bit, watching the 50 milers charging through. We’d been fortunate enough to see many 50-miler friends en route; they, along with the blazing Colin Hagan and Emily Wanless (the men’s and women’s winners) would all turn in wonderful times.  The top marathoners, including winners Shane Steele and Emma Spoon, were also finished--exultant, spent, treasuring their fresh recollections of the race.

As the golden hour approached, I met Tim’s brother Jon and his girlfriend Kelly (the peerless Team Tim crew chiefs), to head to the edge of the road where the runners would emerge for their final stretch. It is here, at this still point where the last vestiges of SHT dirt meet the long asphalt drive around Caribou Highlands Lodge, that the runners finally know— they know, in every fiber of their exhausted bodies—that they will complete this thing, that the end is waiting for them like an unwrapped gift.

“Can I run the road with you?” I asked Tim. He and Elena could finish the final stretch alone, together, but I wanted to share just this last piece, to celebrate the enormous contrast between this year and last year. We didn’t talk much, but we all smiled, and Jon and Kelly filmed it while they drove alongside, like a happy pace car. As Tim and Elena headed for the last turn into the pool area, I pulled off, taking a short cut through the happy throngs to the finish.

Surrounded by family and friends, laughing in disbelief, Tim finished, having strung each moment together to build a chain of equal parts jubilation and challenge. “Nice comeback,” I said under my breath, as I watched him from afar.  “I want to get my star!” he announced soon after finishing. Standing a bit apart from the crowds, I watched as he, along with all of the other finishers, stepped up to claim what was theirs: the star, the medal, the moment, the day.

It was real, it was here, and it was glorious.

Amy Beth Clark is a mom of three, writer, runner, and peanut butter aficionado who lives in Maple Grove, Minnesota. She loves pacing friends in ultras while wearing her trademark sparkly skirts.