Battling the hills—and the mud—at the Sleepy Hollow Mountain Race.
Editor’s note: One day last year, as Emily Meehan was trying to read the paper while nursing her two-week-old infant and keeping an eye on her three other kids, an article in the local paper caught her eye. It was about a trail running group for beginners led by ultrarunner Kristina Folcik-Welts. Emily had run on occasion before having kids, and she dreamed of someday running a half marathon, but she never thought she’d be one of the crazy runners she saw hopping rock to rock in trail running magazines. Yet four weeks after spotting the article, she was training for the Vulcan’s Fury trail race, and this year she is running the USATF-New England Mountain Running Circuit and writing about the experience for Far North. Here’s her report from the first race, the Sleepy Hollow Mountain Race.
I hate being afraid. Unfortunately, I am a lot of the time. If you can’t think of what could possibly go wrong in a situation, just check with me—I’ll let you know. Take trail running, for example. You could fall, lose your way, get eaten by a bear or stalked by a mountain lion, be crushed by a falling tree limb or struck by lightning, or even . . .come in last place.
Fear is a visceral thing. Like a python closing in on its prey you can feel it sneaking up and wrapping itself around you. Sometimes it is subtle, just tight enough to make it hard for you to move, and other times wrapped so tightly that you can’t even breathe. I love trail running, but there is this sneaky python that keeps trying to squeeze the life out of me and get me to stop. So far it has been unsuccessful in paralyzing me, but it sure is holding me back.
These thoughts were running through my mind as I was training for the Sleepy Hollow Mountain Race. Two days before the race I was struck by the thought that fear is robbing me of joy. All the apprehension and second-guessing does not get me to the finish line any faster; it just steals the fun on the way there. I made a decision that I would not let my fear hold me back from doing my best and having fun. Like any time I make a declaration, it was not long before this was put to the test. The night before the race my friend and running buddy called to tell me she was sick and could not make it to the race. But the strangest thing happened: I was not disappointed. I knew that this was right. I needed to do this by myself. The timing was perfect.
When I got to Sleepy Hollow the next morning, husband and youngest child in tow, I was sick to my stomach with nerves and near tears. Everyone around me looked either perfectly at ease or like a warrior preparing for battle. I was neither. The python was squeezing tight. Simply trying to decide where to pin my number (seriously: stomach or leg?) seemed like a decision of epic proportions. It was wet and cold and raining on and off. Don’t get me started on the decision of how many layers to wear. I knew I was supposed to be warming up, but honestly I felt so foolish that I just did a quick trot and promptly returned to hiding in a dark corner with my husband. Eventually I did come out of hiding long enough to chat with a few lovely people and, as always, that settled the nerves enough to survive until we lined up at the start.
We started the race in a meadow that can only be compared to a soaking wet sponge. With each step my foot was sucked down into a grassy marsh and cold water poured into my shoe. It was on this sponge that we started the first big climb. As expected it was steep and long. What was less expected was that the sponge turned into something like quicksand. The mud was wet and deep and sometimes up to my calves, and it wanted very much to pull my shoes off. It was not long before I was walking and playing a lovely game of pick your poison. As my friend Mindy says when trail running through the messy stuff, “Choose your own path and suffer your own consequences,” and I did.
The consequences were usually a lot of mud in my shoes and perpetually wet feet. When I finally reached the top I was disappointed, though not terribly surprised, to see that the downhill was just as wet and muddy, which made the descent more of a controlled slide than a run or even a walk. Thankfully, a fellow runner, Tiffany, and I struck up a conversation and stuck together for the first loop of the race, sometimes running, sometimes trudging, and occasionally sliding.
This companionship was particularly appreciated during the second and most terrible climb of the day, which seemed to go on forever. Up we trudged through the quicksand and over the sponge, my feet freezing and sometimes sliding out from under me. We didn’t speak. We simply huffed and groaned and grunted our way up and up and up. But knowing we were suffering together was such an encouragement.
What was worse than the climb was the fact that I had no idea where I was on the course. I mean, I knew I was on the right track—the course was exceptionally well marked with friendly and encouraging people at every intersection, which I loved—but I did not know how much more to expect. I knew just enough to get the python squeezing again. I knew that I had been out there for a long time and that although there were three loops I was still not even done with the first. How many more miles? How many more climbs? What have I gotten myself into?
As we came to the top of the second climb and started to descend I saw a beautiful sight—a sign that read “Mile 3.” Hallelujah! We were halfway through the race! I felt the python loosen its grip a bit. I might have even smiled a little. As we slid down around a muddy corner an angel disguised as a volunteer pointed to the left and told us we were entering Loop Two. As we turned into it we were granted another gift. Like manna from heaven the ground was becoming more solid and much more runnable for a novice like me. It was not without some complications—patches of deep mud and standing water or thin layers of ice-like mud—but I could finally move. Now I was really smiling and it was not long before another angel informed me that there was only one climb left. Sweet Jesus! Now we had only three miles of runnable ground and one climb to go.
We were really moving now and I was feeling great. About half way through Loop 2 Tiffany told me to go on ahead and she would catch up. I said okay and really let myself go as I ran down the hill in front of me while dodging puddles and roots and mud holes. I was loving life and feeling great—and just like that it hit me. Maybe fear is not holding on to me. Maybe instead, I am holding on to fear, and if that is the case, I just need to let it go. Now perhaps I have watched Frozen with my kids one too many times, but I decided to do just that, to let it go. I cruised down the hill and soon came out where Loop 2 heads into Loop 3. This just happens to also be where the finish is, so as I cruised by I got to see my husband and my baby, which is always a nice treat.
As I passed by what would soon be my finish I suddenly came up on a woman named Laurel, one I had not seen for miles at this point. She turned to me and said, “Where did you come from? You just came out of nowhere!” I seriously almost started to cry. No one has ever said that about me. I am always slow-and-steady-finishes-the-race. She was so kind and genuinely happy for me and she moved over so I could pass.
Just before turning onto the third and final climb, some steep and slippery singletrack, I came upon a woman named Diane—who is a champion going up the hills, by the way—and she said much the same thing. She left me behind for most of the climb but I eventually caught up to her and she too moved over and let me by. I ran, slid, and hopped down the singletrack and soon I was back in the spongy meadow knowing all the major climbs were officially behind me. Almost giddy at the thought, I gave it all I had and squished and squashed my way towards the finish as fast as I could. Because of where Loop 2 and 3 had overlapped, I knew I was getting close and would be at the finish before long.
Soon I passed a volunteer, who told me there was only a quarter mile left and that I was looking strong. I felt strong! As I came up the final stretch I smiled for my last photo op and ran up the last little incline before cruising in over the finish line at 1:40:52.
Sleepy Hollow was a challenging, muddy, wet mess. It was also well organized, well marked, and well staffed. The people running the show and running the race were helpful and kind and encouraging. All in all, it was a good, solid trail race. To me, however, it will be remembered as the first time I have ever crossed a finish line totally happy. My goal was to be under 1:45, and I did that, but truthfully I was happy before I even knew my time. After all, I might not be able to outrun a mountain lion, but just maybe I can outrun my fear.