By: Stephanie Reynolds
“There isn’t anyone left on the trail besides the lady who was just hiking, right?” the gentleman engraving finishers’ coins asked the race timer.
“No, there’s one more—The Pirate.”
“Yeah, that’s my wife,” The Wonder Sweetie said to the two gentlemen manning the finish line at this week’s trail race. He was patiently waiting for me to limp my way to the end of a very long day and had overheard their conversation. The two men, flustered to be “caught,” started apologizing for the “pirate” comment, but he assured them that it was fine, that he referred to me that way too, and I wouldn’t be offended.
He was right; I chuckled when he told me this story. I truly don’t mind—pirates are epic and, except for the fact that I would rather have a toothache than be on a boat in the ocean AND my mama raised me right, I could see me considering that line of work in my younger years.
So, I was a pirate in name only this past Saturday’s race. The temps were perfect, in the low 70s. The sun was shining, the humidity was low(ish), and there was a gentle breeze. After the 50k the previous Saturday, this 25k race promised to be a cruise, a fun jaunt in the woods. I knew I could do 25k easily on flats—that is often my training run—and these hills should just be a smidgeon harder, right?
No. This was a race I was woefully, laughably unprepared for, but I didn’t know it. At the time, it sounded like fun: “Hey! I like trails, and 25k will be half of the 50k I am doing the previous week, so I’ll be fine!” Oh poor, sweet, naïve 1-month-ago-me. How precious is your enthusiasm for things you have no reasonable confidence in doing!
Seriously, what was I thinking? Probably something like “OOOH! I wonder what goodies will be in the race swag bag?” and definitely not “Steph, will you be recovered from the 50k?”
For So. Many. Hours on that beautiful day I picked my way over fallen trees and down gullies, gazed into deep, leg-breaking crevices in the sides of what are adorably considered “mountains” in Alabama and tried not to DNF (The short form of “did not finish”).
Last month I told you how a different trail walked me back gently, sweetly to my childhood and rest. This trail was a punishingly different story. Without proper training, fueling, earbuds, and other racers (when you’re at the back of the pack, you get the whole mountain to yourself), the trail was a gut-check for my body and a proving ground for my soul.
Where is the line between “fabulously hard” and “physically impossible”? (FYI, on Saturday, it was about mile 8). What do you do when you cross that line halfway up a rocky slope with no one around for miles and a growing realization that you actually might not finish?
Step, step, breathe. Step, step, drink. Step, step, pray.
When you have already seen one much younger, healthier racer get injured yet still had to hobble down a hill to get to a gravel road where his crewman could pick him up?
Step, step, breathe. Step, step, drink. Step, st—whoa, that’s a slick spot!
When you are coughing with every breath for no reason.
Step, step drink. Step, step, pray.
When your ambition wrote a check that your body couldn’t hope to cash?
Step, step, dri—Great. I’m out of water. OK then, step, step, pray.
When you’re thoroughly tapped out and it takes a whole minute to go 5 steps?
Step. Step. Pray.
And then do it again, because your body is wearing thin, but your spirit is growing stronger.
And again, because there is a beautiful little white moth with the most perfect orange dot on each of its wings put there just for you.
And again, because it’s just 4 more miles…2.5 more miles…1.7 more miles.
And again, because you have gotten to the end of ambition, strength, self, and even hope, and found that keeping your mind on things above makes you strong when you are broken.
And again, because you now know that you don’t have to play safe, you can be outrageously, prayerfully bold because there is never-ending strength for you when your own runs out.
And again, because the flint grey sea of rock will give way to an ocean of grass and a finish line, and The Pirate will finally be able to dock her ship and go home.
By: Stephanie Reynolds, Athens-Limestone Tourism Association
