Emily Meehan at the 2014 Wachusett Mountain Race.
I am not an “athlete.” I realize this is not a surprise given where I place at each race; however I am referring not to a physical state but rather a mental state. I mean that something inside that makes some people willing to run (or jump, swim, pedal, etc.) until they have absolutely nothing left to give. An athlete will run until they puke, or cross the finish line just before they pass out from exertion. I am no wimp, and I have the bruises and scars to prove it, but I am not an athlete. I have no desire to punish myself all the way to the finish.
Runners talk about “blowing themselves up.” I have no frame of reference with which to prevent this, because as far as I can tell I have never come close. “Talking pace” is my kind of pace and if I am going to vomit it had better be in the privacy of my own home. For the last year I have just been happy to make it to the finish line, and for the most part that is still true, but now I want to be able to cross with no regrets.
Perhaps I have lost my mind due to the thin mountain air, but after Pack Monadnock I decided to use the rest of the series to experiment with my limits—both what they are and how far I am willing to push them. If Sleepy Hollow was about battling demons and Pack Mondanock was about endurance then the Wachusett Mountain Race was going to be about pushing limits. I wanted to cross the finish line confident that I had not held back.
In preparation for Wachusett I went to the website to read the course description and it read kind of like this: “First you run up, and then you run down.” There were no meandering, mile-by-mile directions like there had been for Pack Monadnock, and the reason for that is simple: There was nothing meandering about this climb. Though it never reached the widow-making steepness of the last 1.3 miles at Pack Monadnock, it was unapologetically up for the first half. To say I had to climb to the turnaround point is no exaggeration. My strategy at Pack Monadnock—to run/walk climbs and run fast on flats—was not going to work here. The only thing to do was to run as much as I could to get to the top and then let it rip all the way down. This may sound easy since gravity is on your side going down, but having fallen more than a few times I have a tendency to hold back on descents.
Right from the start we were climbing. I made it about a mile before I needed to take a walk break. This was about the time my ears started to pop and it coincided with my first real view. As I power-hiked up, huffing and puffing, I looked to my right and tried to take in the beauty of tree-covered mountains touching the clouds, but all I really wanted to take in was a deep breath.
Using intervals I covered the next mile or so before almost entirely throwing in the towel on running and resorting to mostly power-hiking. As hard as the climb was, I was actually pleasantly surprised to see the turnaround so “soon” and found the energy to start to run (albeit slowly) the last little bit up and around the tower that was the turnaround point. As I did, a fellow runner named Tim who was already on his way down gave me a high five and told me to come get him. As I came down, a woman I did not know but had laughed with at some point along the way up told me that she was trying to catch me. I smiled and told her that was okay because I was trying to outrun her.
That was just what I needed—a deer to chase and a mountain lion to outrun. I knew it was all downhill from here and it was time to push it to the finish. The race was on!
The descent was pretty steep, but it was also paved, so with a healthy dose of fear of road rash and busted teeth I opened it up and let it rip. Despite it being downhill, I was still pushing pretty hard and I started to get a cramp, so I had to rein it in a little bit, but after a short time I was able to get my breathing under control and speed up again. Besides one other person keeping pace with me, I was alone for quite a while with no one in sight in front or behind me but I tried to pretend that there was a mountain lion just behind me and I kept moving forward.
At about mile four we turned into the woods and onto a gravel road and now there were other runners in sight. The way was mostly clear with some rocky and potentially trippy portions but since I am used to trails it felt like pavement (says the girl who has fallen on gravel quite a few times) so I did not let that slow me down. I had not seen the woman who was chasing me since the turnaround, so I felt like a relatively safe deer and decided that I was the mountain lion. Like the most unstealthy mountain lion ever, sweating and breathing hard, I pressed hard to pass the four or so people in front of me and kept pressing until they were out of sight.
At this point the way had been pretty flat for a while and looked to be staying that way, and I was pretty much alone again. Without gravity on my side or anyone breathing down my neck it was a few minutes before I realized that I was falling into a more comfortable pace and I had to give myself a stern talking to. There were no more big climbs and I had to have been almost five miles in on a six mile course. There was no reason to hold back. This was a race and I was being chased! As I ran the next mile mostly alone I would have to give myself this talk a few more times. Then suddenly, after about the third talking to, I emerged from tree cover and I could hear the finish line ahead. I was ecstatic and ready to give it my all to the finish.
Leaving the woods I came upon another runner. As I ran up to her she asked if we could talk and I said sure, since I was breathing fine and feeling great. She explained to me that she was not doing well with all of the dips and ditches and that while she usually just compensated by picking her feet up higher she was still having trouble. I was glad to go ahead of her and let her know what was coming up—warning her of ditches and puddles. However, as we went along the space between us was growing fast and it was becoming harder to communicate.
At this point I could see the finish line and I was not sure what to do. I had pushed so hard for so long and wanted to race down to the finish, but I knew there was someone behind me that might need help. Looking ahead I saw a race volunteer and the way looked pretty smooth other than some puddles on either side, so I hollered back to stick to the middle and decided to go for it.
As I passed the volunteer and turned the corner for the last little descent to the finish I saw ahead of me three large bumps (they looked like speed bumps and were most likely culverts covered in dirt.) I immediately thought of my fellow runner and felt sick. I knew that would be difficult for her to navigate and I did not know what to do. Should I turn around and go back? Should I finish and then go back? Are you even allowed to do that? It all happened very fast and before I knew it I was crossing the finish in just over 1:12—three minutes under my goal time.
This should have been a great moment. I came to Wachusett to push my limits and I had done that. I had run my best race, but in running my best race I was not sure I had been my best person. Given time to think about it I know that I was not “obligated” to help—but I could have. So despite having crossed the finish line proud of my effort and proud of my time unfortunately I cannot say that I crossed without any regrets.
Waschusett was marked well enough to navigate without trouble. There were fewer volunteers than in other races, which combined with the fact that there were no mile markers made it difficult to know where you were on the course. This made it difficult to decide how hard to push, particularly on the climb. Thankfully the volunteers at miles one and four told us where we were so I had some gauge, at least.
Next up is the Ascutney Mountain Run—another climb only race. Yuck. Hopefully I will be able to push myself even without the promise of a downhill and I will cross the finish line both proud of my time and myself.