Start to Jewell Hill Road (15.3 mi)
I started in the second-to-last wave with a mere 5 runners. There wasn't the usual hectic energy at the starting line - it was calm, uncluttered, and we all had time (and space) to get ourselves ready and shake out any lingering nervousness. It was partly-cloudy, cool, and dry - about as perfect as could be.
The race starts on top of an old ski hill in southern New Hampshire and serves up 10 miles of rocky, rooty, rollicking New England ridge running right off the bat. I settled into a groove with a couple of other guys as we danced between dark, mossy pine and spruce stands and wide open granite outcroppings with panoramic views of peak fall color.
For the full duration of the race, we'd be following the Midstate Trail, marked with yellow painted blazes and the occasional reflective yellow triangle. In the first 10 miles, you're often following a ridge line, but whenever there's ambiguity, you can find little painted triangles on the rocks pointing you in the right direction. I didn't find it hard to stay on trail in these early miles.
Mount Watatic, the final peak before the first aid station, was about as technical as anything I'd run in Boulder. The trail was steeply held together by a webbing of tree roots, interspersed with the occasional boulder or scree field, and I found myself ping-ponging from tree trunk to tree trunk to keep myself upright.
After the first aid station, the trail got a bit sparse as it traversed some old logging cuts, but as always, we just needed to look around enough to spot a yellow blaze. A few blocks after a little town on a lakeshore, we climbed up and over Mount Hunger. Not sure where the name came from, but it was appropriately ominous, as we had to traverse more than a few rock ledges and clamber over plenty of old cobblestone fences.
Jewell Hill Road to Wachussett Dental (23.5 mi)
I rolled through this aid station quickly and pulled ahead of everyone else on yet another hummocky logging road that had long since been reclaimed by saplings. Every trail section had a different riff on what I'd call "New England cobble". This one was studded with lots of rounded, well-worn rocks the size of your fist, hidden under a blanket of dry leaves. Not enough to twist an ankle, but enough to slow you down a bit.
After the first climb, the course hitches a ride on a country road for a couple of miles before crossing under an iconic graffitied railroad bridge. There was quite a lot of traffic on the road and I spent some mental effort keeping myself safely on the left side, in view of oncoming traffic. As I climbed a steep incline through a rural neighborhood, I got the spidey sense that I was off course. I pulled up my phone and opened the tracking app for the race, and found that...it wouldn't display the course, because I didn't have cell service (what!?). I called my wife and she confirmed I was somewhere around a mile off course, and should have taken a hard left after the railroad tracks. After jamming back down the hill, I saw a course arrow pointing the way - but it was on the right side of the road, almost certainly blocked by all of the traffic when I ran under the bridge.
Onward and upward, up and over more centuries-old cobblestone fences. Most of the climbs happen in short 200-300 foot bursts, but there's enough of them, peppered with plenty of obstacles, that they started to wear me down. I also started feeling queasy, but kept hydrating in the hopes that it'd pass.
Wachussett Dental to Wachussett Mountain (29 mi)
I always hit the lowest of the lows around mile 30, but this was hard. I could tell I had long since passed the point of no return with my stomach, so I rolled out of the aid station as quickly as I could. After all, this was the prelude to the big climb up Wachussett Mountain, how hard could it be?
Hard! After a couple of pleasant miles on sandy creekside trails, the course climbed steeply up rock steps and along granite outcroppings. I barfed a few times before the first climb and immediately felt the fog lift. I've realized that this is just going to happen every other race, and I just need to deal with it as best I can. Unfortunately, it still robbed me of energy so I traversed the technical parts of this stretch like an old man, gingerly meandering along. I could see the ski trails of Wachussett Mountain across the valley just as night fell.
Wachussett Mountain to Old Colony Road (37.5 mi)
Dropping felt like the natural choice. My stomach is a mess and I'm shivering in the dark, it's taken me 7 hours to get here, so sub-24 hours is not really an option nay more, and I've got the biggest climb of the race staring me down. So I parked myself in a chair, drank a couple of cokes while eating a can of ravioli, and left before I had a chance to come up with some other weak excuse. If I couldn't get over this minor setback, what was I doing out here?
I really enjoyed the climb up Wachussett. It's not especially steep or technical, but it felt nice to get at least one massive, unrelenting climb under my belt. I was not prepared for the descent off the backside, hopping down 3-4 foot rock ledges, using my hands for stability, in the dark. In short order, the trail flattened out and I was able to find my running legs, just in time for a long stretch of dirt road through a dark oak forest. Every once in a while, I'd look back and see another headlamp join the conga-line.
Old Colony Road to Barre Falls Dam (45 mi)
This is where I started passing runners from the earlier waves in earnest. I don't have much of a recollection of what happened on this stretch of trail. I was still clawing my way out of the calorie deficit from before Wachussett Mountain, and most of mental energy was focused on navigating the rocks and roots in the dark. There was a full moon, but it was completely obscured by the dense forest. The brush and forest canopy formed such a tight tunnel around the trail that it was hard to decipher the topography.
You start to feel like every mile you run is a mile you carry on your back. The weight of it all starts to snowball. It's mental exhaustion. Whenever it would get hard - once an hour, once a mile, once a minute - I'd palm the button on a bracelet my daughter made for me. I'm not sure what that was doing; whether I was reminding myself that somehow, I'd let her down if I didn't finish, or whether it was purely just something to do to get my mind out of a tailspin. But it worked really well as I moved through the middle hours of the night, alone in the woods, getting hooted at by angry owls.
Barre Falls Dam to Long Pond Boat Ramp (51.5 mi)
Barre Falls Dam was cold. Really cold. Crisp air from up the river valley was cutting through the aid station. Dew was starting to coat the long grass. I did my best to eat some avocado but decided my time was better spent powering through more gels while ticking the miles off. I threw on my warm pullover and ambled out cross the top of the dam, continuing to pick off runners from the earlier waves. The trail was flat-ish, meandering along a marshy shoreline, but sharp, hairpin turns and plenty of roots kept my pace in check. At some point, we hit a gravel road and I was able to open things up for a few miles before we briefly turned back on to a rocky, rooty, and mud-pit strewn stretch of double track. In the distance, I could see a blue-green glow filtering through the trees and swore I could hear an EDM festival.
Long Pond Boat Ramp to Camp Marshall (58.5 mi)
It's hard to understate the rush of running downhill into a flood-lit aid station in the middle of the woods while a DJ is blasting Avicii. I plopped myself down in some muddy grass and ate a can of ravioli, sipped some coffee, and took care of some incredibly raw underarm chafing. I should have changed my shirt back at Wachussett Mountain; the salt crust on my shirt had been grinding my skin for the past 20 miles.
This section was the ultimate wandering-the-mysterious-woods-at-night experience. At times, the path from blaze to blaze was completely indecipherable among the blanket of leaves and mounds in the forest floor. Sometimes, the trail quickly dove 20 feet, doglegged around a dead log, and then climbed abruptly over a cobble of rocks. Other times, you'd see a blaze in the distance and carry on the well-worn trail, only to realize you should have turned left 200 feet ago, onto the trail that looked like it was an unused game trail. There wasn't any getting lost, there was just a lot of slow how exactly do I move through this landscape.
We briefly crossed through a small town perched on a hill in the wee hours of the morning. It's a bit surreal to pass by homes in the dead of night in the middle of a race.
Camp Marshall to Moose Hill Road (63.5 mi)
This was where the rubber was starting to hit the road. There were a few guys completely thrashed and demolishing burritos, hoping to get their energy back, there were two runners with stabilizing wraps on their ankles and knees - not all that surprising given the trail surface - and everyone else was getting that 2 am glaze over their eyes.
I filled my bottles and got out of that catastrophe as fast as I could. After the late afternoon's hydration miss, I was back on the horse, putting back a double-strength Skratch High Carb and eating a couple of Maurtens through each section.
After a quick up-and-over on some double track, we steeply ascended alongside a rural neighborhood before taking a long, steady downhill along a creek. Thick, humid air, full of pine and moss, was a welcome refuge from the occasionally whipping wind on the hilltops. On the final climb up Moose Hill, I basked in a panoramic view of the city lights of southern Massachusetts, far off in the distance.
Moose Hill Road to Four Chimneys (71 mi)
I can't tell if it was the time of day, or the fatigue, but this section felt much harder than I anticipated. After ambling out along an earthen dam lit by whimsical pumpkin luminaries, the trail got gnarly, quickly. Sharp drops and descents. Mud. Stretches of trail overrun by what could only be called "root cribbing". Overgrown sticker bushes. All within occasional sight of suburban tracts.
At some point, we abruptly punched out into a parking lot for what looked like a cider house, and then ran through a proper downtown with restaurants and more than a few farm equipment dealers. At 3:30 am. Which is a wonderfully peaceful time to shuffle down the road.
The course rejoined a soft, gently rolling stretch of trail through some pine stands where I was able to keep up a decent running pace.
In another few miles, we hopped back on some rural neighborhood roads. A few houses had signs encouraging us along. It seemed like every other house and farm was adorned with fall (not even strictly Halloween) lights.
Four Chimneys to Fay Mountain Farms (74 mi)
I ate a handful of candy on my way up the climb out of the aid station. This next section was a true gimme, almost entirely on rural double track, then rural gravel road, and then pavement. I started ascending the winding climb up and over Fay Mountain, through a hillside graveyard, just as twilight started to trickle in.
Fay Mountain Farms to Chase Corp (82 mi)
The late-race hunger appeared with a vengeance, so I powered through a few cups of tater tots and ketchup before running out onto the road. This section was 80% road, and I was eager to open things up. I kept on passing folks from earlier waves as the course angled gently downhill through towns, across highway overpasses, and finally up through winding neighborhoods until it reached an old mining hill.
The road transitioned to an old, cobbled mining road, which narrow through some thickets down to a single track trail, dumping steeply down a ravine alongside waterfalls, which kept the rocks and roots slick with mist. In any other state of being, this would have been refreshing. This far into the race, it was pure, wincing pain. I'm sure if it continued for a few hundred more feet of descent, my quads would have adjusted, but it slayed me hard enough that when I hit the soft, flat trails below, I had to walk for a few paces every now and then to regain focus.
Running through the outskirts of these towns started to elicit a dopamine response, the same you get smelling campfire smoke at a mountainous 100 miler. You know you're close to your aid station friends who will feed you and worry about you. The friends at Chase Corp had pancakes, and you could smell the griddle a few blocks away. Dang.
Chase Corp to Whittier Farms (87.5 mi)
I had pancakes. Bacon wrapped with pancake, drizzled with syrup. Pancake with butter and syrup. Pancake in the hand as I walked out of the aid station under the interstate overpass.
The road skirted a steep hillside, first passing a few houses, then a few farms. The morning sun was shining through golden and red leaves and I could feel the downhill calling out to me to keep trying to open up my stride. My Achilles tendons were feeling tingly from all of the road running, but I figured at this point in the race I had little to lose if I pushed the pace a bit more.
Near the end of the section, the road turned into a wide, rocky jeep track that ascended through some old, mossy woods. In short order it punched back out onto a one-lane road, next to what I could only describe as a stately manor lording over rolling acres of corn atop a hill. The road - as was expected, by now - steeply dropped down into a small town, below.
Whittier Farms to Douglas Road (93 mi)
This was just close enough to smell the barn, but not close enough to throw caution to the wind. And yea, there were barns, and there was a very strong, very cold wind cutting straight through the gap in the ridgeline where the aid station was perched. Spitting rain added to the sensory overload.
I ate a miniature pumpkin pie, baked by the kind folks at Whittier Farms, and I shuffled off down the road. The myriad road miles had cooked me, but I was content to shuffle.
The course turned abruptly onto some doubletrack through a golden canopy of oak trees and I figured we had finally entered Douglas State Forest. No more pavement. I managed to go off course twice in the next half a mile. It took me almost 90 miles to realize that using golden blazes to mark trees that have golden leaves in fall is a recipe for disaster. At least when your eyes are weary from trying to manage the rocks, and roots, and occasional pothole.
Douglas Road to Trunkline Trail (96.5 mi)
A lot of folks ran straight through the last formal aid station. I did not. I took a few minutes to eat some cookies while filling my bottles. It only took about 10 minutes for me to catch everyone back up. This penultimate stretch included a lot of rock hopping through gulley trails. The trail would steeply launch up and down shallow crevices between earthen mounds, and clearly acts as a creek during rainstorms. The landscape was a mix of scrubby little oaks and tufted mounds of grass. Mounds of white rock were covered with red lichen. Fractals of mounds abound all around.
At some point, the trail enters taller, older growth. The tree canopy starts to reach great heights, with massive oak branches arcing up to form a golden cathedral. The trail takes on a more looping, swooping character. You find yourself in a silty, pillowy bottom land. And then...
...you turn 90 degrees starboard and see an endless and perfectly straight stretch of gravel sandwiched between two marshes. The rail trail. I told myself that I was going to often believe I was near the end, but would never reach the end, and in doing so, I kept the most consistent pace I'd kept the entire race. I think.
Trunkline Trail to Finish (101 mi)
There are no easy trail miles at this race. After scrambling up a stubby, rather densely-bouldered climb, I unceremoniously slapped the top of the tri-state marker. This little rock monument sits at the intersection of the corners of Connecticut and Rhode Island with the broad southern edge of Massachusetts. I wasn't sure if there was some sort of need to physically interact with it, like rounding the bases, but I wasn't leaving it to chance. You feel bad for the other states because while straddling the border, you can clearly tell that Connecticut has the best pizza and beer. Sorry.
As I was lumbering across the top of the final little mountain, the wind started to pick up, and the trees started to creak. This is peak deadfall season, when wind and wet soils cull the forest. That added a bit of urgency. After an abrupt, hilariously technical boulder-strewn descent, I had one last little up-and-over before a final gentle, sandy downhill. I could hear the wind carrying the finish line announcements over the ridge. A jolly man came running up the trail with a cowbell. Okay, we're about there.
The DJ was hosting a finish line party at the beach. In the wind and rain. With hot chocolate, beer, and food trucks.
24:18:57, good enough for 8th out of 162 starters. It's the first 100 miler I've finished in years. It's easy to forget that just finishing one of these takes an enormous amount of willpower, even when you're doing well. Yes, there's physical effort, but if you don't want it, you won't get it. I haven't wanted it enough, for a while. Now I do.
