Vermont 100 by Kathy Forshey-Trabert The woods are lonely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. ~ Robert Frost In the darkness, strains from 'Chariots of Fire' punctuate the cool, morning air. Suddenly the sky explodes with fireworks. Is it July 4th at the Boston Pops? No, it's 3:55 a.m. on July 19th, 2003 at Smoke Rise Farm in Woodstock, Vermont. Mike is running towards me, where I stand waiting for him in the barn. "Mom, this is so cool! There's a guy playing a grand piano over there on the porch by the house!" Tom and I are about to undertake running the Vermont 100. This is the fifth time I have found myself in such a predicament. Why am I here, when I have promised God, myself and my three wonderful children after each of the other 100's that I will never do this to myself or to them again. Now for the rest of the story... Pre-race We get to bed about 8:30. It's not even dark yet. The alarm is set for 2:15. There is no need to set it at all. I will sleep for only a few minutes between 1:00 and 1:30. When I run out of things to worry about regarding the race, I think of other things...like how we are going to get Mike back to Boston early Monday morning to catch his flight to Reno. I'm up at 2:15. Everything has been laid out neatly the night before. There is not much to do: put on body glide, get dressed, fill a water bottle. Check my list. Check it again. Check my pack. Check it again. We creep down the steep, creaky stairs from our 3rd floor garret at the bed and breakfast and meet Mike outside. It's 2:45. Mike is sitting on the porch watching bats fly around. We wonder aloud when we will ever get a life, sleep when normal people sleep and stop this nonsense? Mike knows the way to Smoke Rise Farm well by now. I am glad we drove many of the roads yesterday, familiarizing him with the route to the start and to several crew stations. We park in the grassy area and take turns spraying each other with bug spray. Ooooh! Very cold. Start - Smoke Rise Farm 3:30 a.m. In the barn, I try not to think about the race. I would fall apart. Running three WS100's plus Rio Del Lago 100 during the last three years has mentally and physically taken a toll on me. I vowed that I would never do another, yet here I am again. We see Jenny and Roland, our friends from home. We have trained a lot with them this year. I drink some coffee and eat a few bites of a dry bagel. What I really want is that double chocolate Dunkin' donut. Mike eats one for me. We have forgotten to bring the camera from the car. Mike says he'll run back to get it and tells us to wait right where we are. The loudspeaker announces that the race is starting in 5 minutes. Hurry up Mike! We walk to the barn door and search the darkness. Tom is impatient and wants to head into the crowd that is making its way towards the starting line. I'm afraid we'll all get separated. Where is Mike? We finally see him running back to us with the camera and he reports excitedly that this guy is playing "Chariots of Fire" on a grand piano! I ask him to take a picture of Tom and me but then the fireworks explode. Mike has to take a picture. We'll never make it to the start. We quickly make our way down past the farm house. We're in the back of the pack. At the bottom of the hill we encounter a large puddle of water. Tom tries to navigate around it and I tell him there is really no need to go further. I try to keep track of him. I am so afraid of having to start this race alone. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it. Then the crowd chants "10, 9 , 8..." Oh sh#t! It is already time! There is nothing that can compare to the feeling you have when you take the first few steps of such a daunting challenge. I am wearing my new WS100 singlet, with another old short sleeve cool max shirt over it. The start is cool, but not cold. Within 5 minutes both shirts are soaked with sweat and humidity. I will be wringing wet for the rest of the race. Early going We start on a narrow paved pathway. We are surrounded by 300 other runners, lighting the way with flashlights. I work hard to stay with Tom. Runners jockey for position, as if it matters when you have 100 miles to run. Everyone is chattering light-heartedly, trying to pretend that they are not scared to death. Or maybe they aren't scared to death, because they haven't run 100 miles before! Their only fear is the fear of the unknown. For me, I know what it will be like. Soon we are off the paved path and onto a dirt trail. We begin to climb. There will be 14,000 feet of uphill and 14,000 feet of downhill before this race is over. The heavy rain from yesterday has made the path muddy and slick and there are several difficult sections to navigate. Everyone slows down now, and there is a noticeable hush as we each begin to contemplate the particular hell that we will face before this day is over. We climb quite a bit before the path starts to roll. We finally reach one of the smooth back-country roads we have heard so much about. There is a faint glow of light in the sky and we try to make out the many picturesque homes we are beginning to pass, each one beautiful enough for the front cover of a home and garden magazine. Pink, light yellow, bright yellow, pale blue, gray, white - each one is prettier than the last. The houses are surrounded by beautiful lawns, picture perfect flower gardens. White lawn chairs face each other in the middle of the pretty lawns, beckoning us to sit and have a chat. I make a promise to myself that someday soon I will stop all this nonsense and enjoy tea and scones on the lawn in the afternoon. Everywhere there are lush, green trees. Ferns grow thick under the trees. Wild flowers shoot up amongst the ferns. All day we will see many apricot-colored lilies, in yards and in the wild. We wonder aloud whether people or God planted and spaced them so beautifully. At the first aid station I ask the man if I can drop my cheap flashlight there. He says he'll try to get it back to the finish. I tell him it's a donation. At the second aid station I see the same man. I remark that he has moved quickly. He says, "Oh, you'll be seeing a lot of us today." Two ponies finally catch us. There is a horse endurance ride taking place at the same time. Some will run 100 miles and some will run 50 miles. We will get ahead of the ponies many times as they occasionally take mandatory rests. Taftsville - Mile 12.2 - 6:24 a.m. We run down a hill into Taftsville. There are quite a few people standing on the corner of the highway, cheering us on. We smile and wave and say "Thank you!" We run on the highway for a minute then cross the Taftsville covered bridge. Smile for the camera. Two more horses catch us. The very big lady on one horse looks at Tom and I and says, "I wish I had YOUR bodies." The other skinny lady is smoking a cigarette. Rocket, our coal-black friend from California, is passing out water at the aid station. He wears his never-ending exuberant smile. He says something to Tom about the water just being for California runners. Tom reminds him that we are from Nevada. I look at the chart I have made of Lon Monroe's and Stan Jensen's splits and see that after 12 miles we are right on their pace. Wow! I had never dreamed of running this pace, but had made the chart just so we would have something with which to compare our efforts. We anticipate with dread the next section that looked like it was one of the better climbs of the race. We never seem to find anything too bad here. We come to a bit of trail that has some rocks and roots. It is dark under the dense canopy of trees. I haven't quite gotten the knack of it yet, after having run on so many smooth roads. I suddenly find myself on the ground. Did I actually manage to tuck and roll? I land hard on the top of my right shoulder. Of course, the sound is always embarrassing as the wind is knocked out of you. OOMPFH!! Immediately, there are several young men surrounding me, helping me up, offering to brush off the wet dirt and debris. "Oh, are you all right?!" Tom just shakes his head and continues on. Several miles later when I catch up to him he says, "Well, did you finally recover from your fall?" But what he means is, "Did you finally stop soaking up all the attention from those guys?" I have wet, smelly dirt on my legs, hip, shorts, shirt, hands. For the rest of the race, I will see this dirt in the rings of my water bottle each time I remove the top to refill water. I think how it must be really healthy to have THAT in my water. Somewhere on a pretty back country road, a man announces that we will be entering a no-pee zone soon. I never do know when we get out of it. Of course, I want to pee the whole time. Pomfret - Mile 18 - 7:44 a.m. We're still on Lon's pace! Stage Rd - Mile 27.7 9:38 a.m. We run down a long road into this aid station. We're pretty sure Mike will be here. (He passed up the first crew station, opting for a yummy breakfast at our B & B.) He sees us and takes pictures as we arrive. I'm amazed at how good I still feel. I tell him, "This is SO easy!" We're still on Lon's pace. My fingers are very swollen. Am I taking too many e-caps or not enough? I take off my outer shirt and leave it with Mike. He asks what we need. We just grab a few more e-caps to augment our supply. I ask him to put water in the basin we bought at Target yesterday. It was a good idea buying that. I'm pretty grimy from my fall and it feels so good to wash up. At the tables I grab a little pbj on my way out. Down the road, we're not sure anyone got our numbers. We panic and run back. Mike assures us he gave them our numbers. We turn around again and start running. This road is lined with crew having tail gate parties. They all tell us how good we are looking. We run fast to impress them! We smile broadly and thank them. The climb out of here is long and steep and it is the first time we will really begin to feel warm. We inch up a long, grassy slope. This is our first encounter with the 'trails' that are actually just a mowed strip in the grass, with very uneven footing underneath. We are exposed to the sun during the entire climb. We get hot and the sweat pours into our eyes. Something bites Tom. He's not sure what. When we finally reach the top and start running downhill we are immediately cool again. The temperature will top out in the low 80's during the afternoon, but there is a welcome cloud cover much of the day. Route 12 - Mile 30.8 - 10:20 a.m. At mile 30 I calculate that we're on a 21 hour pace. I tell myself it's ridiculous to think we can hang on to this pace. I'm starting to take more Advil by now, two at a time. The hard roads are really beating me up. The bones in my feet already feel like they are broken. My quads burn. It's much too early to feel this much pain but my poor old body is not used to this. I've been sick most of the year since January. In February tests showed that I had almost no iron at all in me. Most of my runs were just slow, labored walks up the hills, while I battled a hacking cough and legs numb from lack of oxygen. Between the illnesses and my intense work schedule the last couple of months, I have the least training I've ever had going into a 100 mile race. Sometimes I couldn't run for weeks at a time. Some weeks I ran just a race or a 30 mile training run on Saturday, then didn't run again for a week or two. During the month of April, which should have been my most intense month of training, I ran only 25 miles total. I tell people all through this race that I will just have to do it on memory. We are running up a fairly steep paved road into the Route 12 aid station. There are lots of cars lining the sides of the road. We turn a corner and continue heading up the road. There are so many people and cars we are confused as to where the aid station actually is. We finally find a table of food and grab a few items since we haven't seen Mike. I am concerned about missing him and Tom says we should just keep walking on up the road and we will probably find him. Soon we see him walking down the hill towards us. We continue to climb and turn again on to a steep road with a babbling brook running along side it. I point out that Vermont has 'water features' like the one Tom wants to build in our back yard. There are big flat rocks in the stream with water cascading over them as if everything was put in place perfectly by design. After a long climb we arrive at an unmanned aid station and there is no water, just a jug of very strong Succeed. I fill a bottle and take a sip! Yuk! This will make me sick. I am concerned, because it will be too long to go without water until the next aid station. Once you get dehydrated it is very difficult to recover. Then, just as we climb over the top of the hill, here comes the man we have already seen so many times, driving his green Dodge pickup. We flag him down and get water. He had tried to get to that last aid station to deliver the water, but couldn't get through a muddy section. He is approaching from the other side, doing his best to get supplies to the runners. We tell him what a great job he is doing and thank him much for coming to our rescue. Sometime soon after this I am aware that Tom is lagging behind me. I know he is starting to have stomach problems. I run conservatively but he doesn't keep up. At the manned aid stations I notice I am leaving as he is arriving. I run alone, crossing Lincoln Covered Bridge, passing Barr House and Lillian's. It is lovely country. I make a new friend along the way, a beautiful 49-year old lady who tells me she is running the Grand Slam in honor of turning 50 next month. We laughingly compare pony tails and legs. At Jenny's Farm the middle of the day sun is warm and I am falling asleep while running. I actually shut my eyes. How will I ever make it through the night? I know I don't need to worry since the pain usually does a great job of keeping me awake. Camp 10 Bear - Mile 44.2 - 1:26 p.m. As I run into Camp 10 Bear, Mike yells to me that he's taking a movie of me. Oh great! This is the first time we must weigh-in. I'm good. 136. Down just 2 lbs. This feels like a pretty major aid station, and I'm glad to see crew. Tom arrives and we both go for the orange slices with a vengeance. The sticky juice runs down our chins and hands. Mike has the wash basin out again and puts some water in it for me to slosh my hands in. I smell horrible! When Mike calls me "Mom" a lady says, "That's your MOM?!" Maybe she thought I was his grandmother. I know the run is starting to take its toll! We will run a 20 mile loop and come back here again. We will see Mike twice during that time. After leaving I discover that the lip chap fell out of my pack when I took it off to weigh. It upsets me, but only briefly. Oh well, Mike has a spare in his pack of goodies and I'll get it from him in 10 miles. After we pass through the Lincoln Covered Bridge I see a road sign "Agony Hill Drive". I eye it suspiciously. As we turn onto it I see that it will live up to its name. The day gets hotter. We pass through many mown fields, with very uneven footing and no shade. One lady seems to be at every aid station. As I arrive she informs the other workers that I will want ice in my bottle. She is getting to know me well. I put ice under my hat and down the front of my jog bra. I grab watermelon to eat while I am crossing the fields. I don't like watermelon, but it's a good way to get fluid without having to drink even more water. The ice melts and cool water runs down my face. Tracer Brook - Mile 54.9 - 3:53 p.m. I take a pretty long break here. I take time to sit in the chair we bought yesterday. Mike washes my face for me. It feels so good. The lady we saw at 10 Bear is surprised Mike is letting his mom sit down. I tell her the chair is starting to look pretty good. I realize I have been running for 12 hours now. I stay for six or seven minutes. As I leave, Tom is arriving. Cox's - Mile 60 - 5:13 p.m. Mike says Tom is about 10 minutes behind me. He told Tom at the last aid station that he would wait just 15 minutes for him here, but then he would have to leave in order to safely meet me at 10 Bear again with my lights. I pick up my spare mini-mag here from my drop bag, just in case...but it is ridiculously early. I guess we didn't have much confidence in ourselves. The aid station is actually situated after I leave Mike. I recognize the lady who was selling t-shirts yesterday and promised us margaritas at this aid station. She offers me one. "No thanks", I say, "I'll wait 'til tomorrow." A young boy fills my bottle with ice. I ask him how he got such a neat job. He beamingly replies, "I got here first!" They ask if I would like a turkey burger. No, but I do take a bit of veggie burger and start walking. It tastes very good. It settles my stomach and is a nice change from the watermelon I am sick of. There is another long, hot hill to climb. Again, it is exposed to the sun and the sweat burns my eyes. I walk steadily up the road but with little enthusiasm. I am at the lowest point of my race...although it is nothing like the lows I experience at WS. I just know I have a long way to go. My months of forced walking due to illness are paying off now. I know how to just keep moving up the hill even if it seems embarrassingly slow. Somewhere out here I come to a section I called 'Deliverance Country' when we were driving it yesterday with Mike. The homes are shabbier, some are mobile homes. The children run barefoot in the dirt. Mean- looking dogs bark. There are long lines of clothes hung out to dry. I look at the shirts and wonder if they are runner's shirts. I marvel that anyone actually has to buy t-shirts. Strange thoughts come to you sometimes. I am terrified of a big black dog, growling and snarling at me from a hillside. There is nothing to stop him from attacking me. I try not to look at him. I try not to act afraid, but I'm sure this dog is trained to protect his property and can smell my fear. I run, but not too quickly, not wanting the dog to think this is a chase. I pass a yard where two barefoot girls are running about kicking up dust. I ask them if they are having fun watching the race. "No!" one girl pouts. I am mildly surprised that she doesn't want to share this game with me. I think it would be fitting in this part of the country if I were to hear some dueling banjos. Almost immediately, I hear a guitar accompanied by loud singing. I assume the music must be coming from a radio. I round a corner and see a man sitting on his balcony, playing the guitar and singing the coolest song I've ever heard. I gladly quicken my pace to the lively beat of the music. The song makes my heart feel light. I give him a thumbs up. He smiles and acknowledges me. I am alone. I hurry on, wondering if the guy is going to come after me. I decide I smell too bad. Tom tells me the next day those guys like their women that way! Back in these deep woods I keep seeing a blue plastic tube wound back and forth amongst the trees. I don't know if its warning us to keep out of a certain area, or if it is just some sort of trash. It is not until two days later that Tom tells me that is how they collect the maple syrup. Camp 10 Bear - Mile 68.2 - 6:52 p.m. The last couple of miles into 10 Bear I'm doing math and figuring out whether or not I will attempt to go for a sub-24 hour race to earn the belt buckle. Right now I'm on a 22 hour pace. But I figure when I leave 10 Bear I will have 8 hours to do 32 miles. 15 minutes a mile. I've been on a faster pace than that so far, but I don't think I can do that after dark without a pacer. I make my decision. I will not place that much mental pressure on myself. I will purposely slow down, and settle for a 25 to 26 hour finish. That's even better than I had hoped for. A plaque will be just fine. Just to finish my 5th 100 miler will be great. Then I can retire. I prepare to tell Mike this. (I have used some strange method of calculating all this...far more complicated than necessary) Another weight check. Still 136. Darn, I kind of wanted to lose some weight today! I see Rocket again. "Will you run the last 32 for me?" "No, honey, you're looking too good!" he beams. Mike takes good care of me. "Do you want your long sleeve shirt?" "No, I'm hot." Oh well, I'll take it because it's going to get dark and I might need it before Bill's. "Mike, do you realize I'm already 6 miles past Foresthill, and I'm not even delirious?!" Mike agrees, I'm doing great. I tell him about my decision. He looks puzzled for a bit then says, "But Mom, you have NINE hours. Now get your butt out there and do it!" (Obviously my math skills are not great while running 100 miles.) I say OK (although half-heartedly) and take off again. Mike yells that he'll see me at Bill's. My heart sinks at the thought that I must go 15 miles without any more encouragement from my son. I am afraid of the ever-increasing mental effort it will take to stay strong as I grow increasingly weary and it grows dark. Out of 10 Bear, I find the hill Lon told me about. It is steep and technical, more like we're used to out west. I follow the horses up the trails. The horse carrying the big lady stops to drink out of every puddle. I finally decide to go around him. As I do, I see him gagging on the water. Do horses get sick when they run 100 miles? The rider says, "Oh, this pony is hurting." I can't help but think that the pony would be hurting far less if the fat lady would get off and lighten the pony's load as they climb the hill. The long sleeve shirt is too hot. I pull it off my arms and just let it hang around my neck. It will flop around like that until mile 90. I run as hard as I can to cover as many miles as possible before the dark sets in. I know that it is much easier to make progress in the light, and it's like putting money in the bank. I press myself even harder as dusk approaches. I hear something in the field alongside the road. In the dusk I can barely make out calves cavorting playfully. Little lambs run around baa-ing loudly. The other runners and I baa back at them. The lambs baa even louder and ran around crazily. We all laugh. It momentarily takes my mind off the fear I am fighting. It's getting darker. I tell myself to run as hard as I can. I'm feeling a growing panic. At last it is totally dark and I'm immediately dizzy the first time I stop to find my way. I remember Floyd's words when he paced me two years ago at WS, "Well, if you get dizzy when you stop, then keep running!" I heed his advice. Why did I EVER think I could do this without a pacer? I hate 100 milers. I hate the dark. I'm scared out of my wits out here alone. What an idiot! What was I thinking?! I talk out loud to myself. There are no other runners around. I wonder if the animals think I am crazy, if my talking keeps them away, or if they know how frightened and vulnerable I am. It is pitch black. What little moon there might have been is obscured by clouds and dense trees. WHAT ARE those animal sounds?! It's definitely not a frog. Sounds BIGGER. I smell so awful, no self- respecting animal would eat me. I can hardly stand myself all night. I positively stink! I am embarrassed each time I see Mike. I see a cat's eyes shining up at me from the ditch. I try to judge the distance between the eyes. I know this is not a house kitty. How big? I say, "Nice kitty!" I shine my light in his eyes. His eyes follow me. I run as fast as I can. There are a lot of glow sticks. In between are the confidence markers (small yellow paper plates with a smiley face, actually a 'C'), but I usually see them only by accident when my light happens to glance off one of them. Occasionally I run for awhile without seeing a glow stick and get worried, but almost immediately afterwards I see one. When we are on the roads, it doesn't matter, because you really can't get lost. On the trails and in the grass, it's a different story. I have quite a bit of confusion out there. It seems like they just making us go around in circles on some of the hills. On the roads, I don't even bother to aim my flashlight. My headlamp band is too loose and the lamp continually flops back on my head. I give up trying to straighten it. The roads are so smooth you can just run without a light. If there IS a bump, I know I will be sorry! The roads are some sort of hard-packed granite, much harder than anything I have ever run on. The pain in my feet is excruciating. I ration the Advil. I've taken more than usual today. I don't want to cause myself any problems. I promise myself that I can have one at mile 96. Yesterday Tom tied a string around my little flashlight so I can just let it hang when I get supplies at an aid station. I wrap it around my wrist several times. Every time I get out my gel flask, I get all tangled up. This is really a stupid annoyance all night. I can't see the yellow pie plates with arrows in the dark. Even when I find them I have to shine my light right up on them to see the direction of the black arrow. When they point to a trail heading up I reply, "Of course, what else!" I see a glow stick far up on the side of a grassy hill and head up towards it. When I get there I can find no path or see any other markers or glow sticks. I look back down to where I had started. I see other glow sticks head off from there. I run back down the hill and take the other route. Then I get uncomfortable. I turn around and shine my flashlight, and just happen to see a pie plate with an arrow pointing back in the direction I have just come from. Now I am really turned around. But it makes no sense, so I continue on. Over a little hill I see a glow stick, but I'm not sure if I'm even going in the right direction. I'm wasting precious time, but I wait a minute or two for some girls who I know weren't far behind me. They assure me I am going in the right direction, although they say they have been confused too. Some comfort that is! Bill's - Mile 83.4 - 11:00 p.m. On my way to this aid station I am very excited about seeing Mike again and I remind myself to be sure to ask about Tom. How far was he behind me at 10 Bear? I arrive and ask Mike how Tom is. Mike's reply is a sweet, "Look who's here." I turn and see Tom standing there. "Ohhhhhhhhhh, no!" I cry. Tom says, "It's ok. I'm ok. I just wanted to see you break 24 hours." Mike tells me Tom was getting too sick with the same stomach problems he had at WS three weeks ago, but that he is fine now. Tom joined Mike at Camp 10 Bear at mile 68. I weigh again. Mike has to help me onto the scales this time. I still have no confidence. They tell me it's a piece of cake. I am still clinging to that extra hour Mike had told me about. I remind them that I still have nearly 17 miles to go and that the last 3.9 miles is the toughest. I've already been running for 19 hours. I tell them I've heard over and over again that it will take me 1½ hours to do that last section. Another runner hears me and says, "Not the way you're running!" I have been peeing so much (and not very straight) that I have burned a big welt on the inside top of my right leg. The elastic in my shorts is rubbing it very painfully. I clean up with wipes and smear on body glide. I very reluctantly leave the friendly comfort and safety of the aid station. Five minutes later I'm peeing again and it burns just as much as before. This will only get worse until the end of the race. The next section is a long, lonely 5.2 miles up to Blood Hill. My shoulders are burning with pain. I dig deep into them with my fingers, giving myself a massage to ease the pain. My feet are blistered and aching, but I tell myself to just suck up the pain. It's the dark, fear and loneliness that I hate the most. Blood Hill - Mile 88.6 I am so relieved to see lights and people again. I ask for chicken soup with a little ice to cool it so I can sip it quickly. I see a young man sitting in a chair, wrapped in a blanket, shaking uncontrollably. His pacer tells me the runner is dropping. I wonder why she is telling me. She asks if she can run with me to the next aid station. I tell her she can WALK with me. The tough uphill has really slowed me down. She decides to find a quicker way. Jennyville - Mile 90 - 00:47 a.m. I ask Mike and Tom timidly, "Do you think I can do it?" My voice is light and shaky. They say, "Oh yeah, you're DOING it." Mike says loudly, "MOM RULES!" I leave the aid station at a fast run. There are a lot of cars following us and shining their lights on the road. These are crews leaving the aid station. I pray that the cars will keep coming and light my way. I run and run and run. I keep thinking I'll see Tom and Mike but I never do. Later, still running fast down the road I see the green Dodge pickup again. I'm all alone, with no other runners around me now. (They tell me the next morning that they were very worried, seeing me out here. They didn't think I should be alone. I agree with them.) When I catch people on the road, they look astonished that I can run so fast this late in the race. The younger men, especially, are envious, seeing that I am their mother's age. Many of them are just walking it in now. They have totally blown up and can only shuffle along painfully. I can run on the roads. Sometimes in the dark I can't tell if the road is level or uphill. I decide to just keep running until I can't run anymore. No point conserving now. I surprise myself by running a lot of uphill. The trails are a totally different story. Very soon I reach the next unmanned station. The miles are flying by during this 6 mile section to where I'll see Mike and Tom again. I pass up the two unmanned aid stations. I usually nearly miss them anyway. They are just a table sitting near a glow stick. They mostly only have water. I have enough, they are so close together. Just go! No time to waste. I don't know the names of the stations, or how my pace compares to my chart anymore. It doesn't matter. Just keep running blindly. I hate the mental agony after this. What if I miss the sub-24 hour goal by a few minutes? I am so afraid of the dark. I tell myself, "The faster you run, the sooner you'll finish, and the sooner you'll be out of these scary dark woods." I am soooooo lonely out here. I envy the people with pacers, chatting happily together. I can almost hear my drill sergeant from last year, Jenny, yelling at me, "You're tough! You can do this!" She taught me a lot about toughness when she paced me last year at WS. I repeat it over and over to myself out loud. I even smile sometimes, knowing that I AM tough. I wonder where Jenny is. Of course, she has finished long ago and is sleeping soundly. South Woodstock - Mile 96.1 - 2:08 a.m. I decide I want a half Gatorade/half water mix to complete the race. It tasted good when Jenny gave it to me last year near the end of WS. Mike runs back to the car and gets the Gatorade. We mix up two bottles. Tom and Mike tell me I've got this race in the bag. Almost 2 hours remain and just 3.9 miles to go and I'll break 24 hours. I am finally confident and I take off in a hurry, smiling. I don't care how much this hurts or how long it seems to take. I really don't care. A quarter mile down the road I pour out most of the second bottle of Gatorade. Too heavy. Who cares if I get dehydrated now. It ends up not tasting that good anyway and I don't drink much at all. This hill lives up to its reputation. Just up and up and up, seemingly forever. It's some of the hardest terrain of the whole race. I come to a place where I have to climb up over some fairly large rocks. My legs don't work. My knees aren't strong enough to lift me. I think about how shitty it would be if I can't make it past this. I use my hands to drag myself up. I finally make it over the rocks and continue up the hill. I am overcome with emotion. A sob escapes from my throat. I really am going to do it! Buckle! I then immediately begin to worry if I am going too slowly. I finally reach the crest of the hill and start down. Someone in front of me yells 'Yahoo!" I figure we're nearing the finish. A guy is climbing up the hill towards me. He tells me I have about 15 minutes to go. "No way!" I tell myself. But sure as anything, the path heads back up again. I had heard voices and thought we were near the end. I've read articles about this endless part. So it is not upsetting, but I sure thought I was closer. I must climb and climb and several runners pass me. At last the trail heads back down again, winding around and around. The trail is the steepest downhill we have seen all day. There are rocks and an occasional fallen tree to climb over. I cannot run at all. My quads are on fire. I know the bones in my feet will surely fall apart but I am smiling with confidence in between grimaces of pain. "Training is highly overrated," I laughingly tell myself. I have missed a sub-23 hour finish (which I had thought ten minutes ago I would make), but who cares. I will have a great finish time under 24 hours. Several groups of runners pass, but I don't mind. They run, whooping and hollering. I just inch down the mountainside. Smoke Rise Farm - Mile 100 - 3:18 a.m. At last, I turn a corner and see some clear plastic milk jugs with lights inside. I KNOW this is it. I turn another corner, and there is the finish shoot, just like a ski slope, lined on both sides with milk- jug lights as if it were Christmas...right down to the barn. I can barely run, but there are a lot of people watching. My heart is pounding just as it did nearly 24 hours earlier, but with joy and excitement this time. I try to run a little. This is so awesome! The man at the bottom yells out, "What's your number?" I reply, too softly, "100". He can't hear me. Louder, "WHAT'S YOUR NUMBER?" And my reply is also louder, this time with confidence and pride, "100!" Mike yells, "MOM!" I run through the flat bottom to the finish. I am smiling and happy as I cross the finish line and fall into Tom's arms. He hands me off to Mike so he can take our picture. Mike holds me up. "I did it!" "You were awesome!" 23 hours and 19 minutes. Wow! I buckled. Unlike my finishes at WS the last 3 years I don't cry. I just smile happily. Tom and Mike ask me what I want. I have been eyeing a folding chair longingly. "I want to sit down, now! In that chair!" I sit. I am happy. Post-race Tom and Mike ask if I am cold. I tell them I'm hot. They say it's cold. Soon I let them get me my AR50 fleece jacket. I ask for 2 Gaviscon. I feel fine, but I know that I will be nauseous soon if I don't get warm and eat something. We go inside and they get me some Top Ramen noodles. I sit again and eat them very slowly. Roland sees us. He had set his alarm, hoping to see Tom and I finish. He tells me, "Jenny will be very proud of your time." I thank him. It means a lot. I ask him how she did. He says, "She beat you." (Jenny is 2nd female, 9th overall. I am the oldest female finisher, but finish 26th out of 52 females.) I take another cup of noodles for the trip home. Walking to the car I shiver uncontrollably. It IS cold out here. Mike turns on the heater in the car and I happily watch the dark countryside all the way back to Woodstock. We remark how awesome it is that we get to go back and sleep before the awards ceremony and that it is still DARK! We try not to wake up the other people at the B & B. I am very proud that I'm returning in the dark! I get into the shower and fall asleep standing in the warm water. We crawl into bed about 5:00 a.m.. I shiver and shake with exhaustion. I finally fall asleep for about 2 ½ hours. Wake up happy. We go to breakfast and the awards assembly. When they call my name and my finishing time I am so glad I didn't give in to the temptation to just settle for a finisher's plaque. Sunday Afternoon We drive back to town and decide to do a little sightseeing. We walk to the town square (about 2 blocks away from our bed and breakfast). I can hardly make it. It is much warmer and sunny today. I get to the park and tell Tom and Mike that I just have to sit down my heart is pounding so hard. I hold on to the court house step and ever so slowly lower myself. Mike tells me later that a young lady eating an ice cream cone looks at me with wonder, thinking "My God, I hope I never get THAT old!" He smiles, knowing she is clueless about what we have just done. Vermont 100 Memories